I have one detail about my wedding that is completely non-negotiable. Everything else; food, decorations, location, guests, cake, you name it, I don't really care about. I mean, obviously when the time eventually arrives, I'll care to an extent. But I don't waste my time thinking about these things. On the day I get married, which is still several years down the road, the only thing that will matter to me is my wife's eyes. We could stand on a dumpster and have the ceremony officiated by Dennis Rodman, and I'd be perfectly content as long as I could take her hand, stare into her eyes, and let everything else just fade into the distance. Call me cliché, but it's the truth. Yes, I want to have a beautiful day to rejoice and celebrate with friends and family; I'm not some masochist who longs for a lousy wedding. However, the simple reality is that as long as I'm standing across from the person I love, I'll be perfectly fine with how the rest of the day turns out.

However, there is one other thing about the day that I have planned. It's something I came up with about eight years ago, and I can't wait for the day that I get to turn to my fiancée and tell her my plan. It's perfect, because it's so inherently basic and sentimental; it will allow people to see themselves in our shoes and relate to the joy of having a best friend who will match you step for step. 

I've never told anyone what I'm referring to, and so I'm certainly not going to start today. But I promise you, when the times comes, I'll refer back here and show you all exactly what I meant. In the mean time, I'll just have to keep working on that other little detail. I'm confident that with patience and open eyes, it'll eventually figure itself out.

So apparently Xanga now offers the ability to change the URL of your page, for a small fee. I considered it for a little while today; I could go to something more logical like "bengarmoe.xanga.com" and make this page more accessible. The name "disunderstanded" came from one of those stupid ideas you get in middle school. I was tired of my old screen name (pinhead724; ask me the story) and wanted something more creative. So, in my infinite wisdom, I came up with a word that represented the word "misunderstood," except the word itself was misunderstood. I attached it to AIM, MySpace, and my friend Xanga right here, and it stuck. As Facebook and Twitter rolled around, I became more comfortable just using my name, and so "disunderstanded" began to fade into the sunset. 

But in the end, I think it's better than this blog stay largely undiscovered. It's logical to keep it connected to my past, because it contains more than six years of me and my most diverse thoughts, rants and emotions. It's better that its daily traffic consist of random visitors who stray onto my main page after finding an old entry through Google from when I used to tag my entries in order to make them more likely to get noticed. It's just me and my thoughts here, and I like that; it lets me talk about life, my job, love, women, sports, politics, and whatever else I feel like discussing. It exists, and I don't hide it, but only a select few realize that I still spend many an evening using this space to offload whatever may be on my mind. Much of it is private; I finished a lengthy private entry not 10 minutes ago that addresses a few different situations right now that just shouldn't be discussed on a public forum. I use it both as a journal and a blog, and I'm comfortable with the balance I'm able to strike. It's a healthy nostalgia, and it helps me keep life in perspective when I may be frustrated or annoyed (which I will admit to being a bit tonight, for a host of random and unconnected reasons). 

The simple truth is that I appreciate the offer, Xanga, but I'm good. I may be a little older and a lot wiser, but there's a part of me that's still disunderstanded, and I'd prefer to keep it that way.

I've told no one the full story of what happened in Colorado. Granted, there's been bits and pieces that I've divulged; tiny slivers of a complete anthem that I just can't quite come to terms with, but never the whole thing. Tonight will be no different; the complete story will stay within my own mind, saving itself for that time in the distant future when I finally feel comfortable sharing the inner turmoil I experienced during those eight days. I will, however, share something tonight for the first time. 

I made the decision to come home on Sunday, May 30th, 2010. I had arrived in Colorado exactly seven days prior, absolutely on fire. I had a drive and passion for the work I was about to dedicate my summer to, and there was absolutely nothing that could bring me down. I was utterly terrified, and I loved it. I began to settle in, and as I did, my excitement began to fall away in favor of weakness and fear. At the end of those seven days, I was completely broken down to a level of confusion I had never even come close to experiencing. I was thousands of miles from home, living with complete strangers, and I could barely maintain composure long enough to get through meals. Everything I pride myself on; patience, strength, passion, a lack of fear, all disappeared faster than I thought was even possible. It was the strangest bipolar roller coaster ride I've ever experienced, because between the lows of feeling lost, I experienced the rush of congregating and joining voices with a hundred peers who shared a love for one another that was entirely irrational and centered upon something much greater than individual glory. The weather of Colorado seemed almost to mock the irony; multiple days contained snowflakes at breakfast and sun-drenched afternoons. I was the Rocky Mountains; unable to determine what season it was and whether I was supposed to burn bright or fizzle in the cold. 

That Sunday afternoon, I packed my things, bought my plane ticket, and began to quietly say goodbye to a small circle of individuals who provided unconditional love and support throughout my entire journey. My roommates each embraced me, but no longer attempted to convince me to change my decision; they had made their pitch the night before, and understood now that I needed to go home. My friend, the quiet girl in the crowd who often goes overlooked, wrapped her arms around me and allowed me to sob into her shoulder for what may have been hours. My would-be-partner offered a prayer of sadness at having to continue on without having me as a teammate. My trainer, the role model, embraced me with the love of a brother and made me swear to him that I wouldn't call myself a quitter or a failure. A casual friend overheard the news and happened to find me strumming my guitar that afternoon, quietly staying out of the way until I could slip out the back door the next morning; he didn't ask questions or offer his opinion, but just told me how thankful he was that I was able to spend a week with everyone and how hard he would be praying for me. 

The next morning, I stared out the window as we taxied away from the Denver Airport. Tears just wouldn't stop coming, no matter how hard I tried to conceal them. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and stared straight ahead, willing the back of the seat in front of me to magically become a book of answers. If it was a movie, there would be some sort of indie-reflective soundtrack in the background, but it was real life, and so all electronic devices had to be stowed away for takeoff. The only sounds were the rumble of the jet engines and the gentle chatter of a full plane. 

I finally managed to clear my eyes as the stewardess came around to take drink orders. I looked up at the last possible second, mumbled a request for an apple juice, and went back to staring into space. I wanted nothing more than to just be home, in the arms of my mom and dad. I wanted so badly to see my brothers, to hug my dogs and just let myself collapse into the support system that I've become so familiar with. But at that moment, all I had was a cramped middle seat and a few lousy movies on my laptop. I finally gave up on attempts at distraction and just leaned my head back against the seat, eyes wide open but fixating on nothing. The individual to my right on the aisle got up to use the restroom, and I barely registered their absence. 

However, a few seconds later, the same stewardess crouched down in the aisle and tapped my shoulder. I turned my head and prepared to pick up whatever piece of trash I had accidentally dropped, but she stopped me. "Hold on, sweetie" she said, with the affection and grace that only a mother can possess. 

"I have no idea what you're going through, but I promise you that it's going to be alright." 

Those were her words. She said them, smiled, and returned to her job. It was the briefest of moments; fast enough that I've occasionally wondered if I didn't just drift to sleep and invent the entire thing. But you know what? It doesn't really matter if it happened or not (which I'm almost positive it did). In the end, whether it was a real person or my own mind, the simple truth is the same.

She was right.

It's 4 AM, I've got one of those coughs that you can't clear from your throat, and my nine-year-old German Shepherd won't stop passing gas. It's a strange evening (morning?) to say the least. So far, I really like my new job; we'll see if that trend continues once we have real guests. The band is, as usual, both a source of love and frustration. Transfer applications are slowly getting accomplished, but the tedious nature of that task doesn't exactly promote rapid completion. A lot of things are up in the air, and that's alright; some parts of life are just naturally uncertain, and there's no reason to be afraid of a few twists and turns. I've got a ton of laundry to do. 

It's interesting to write that paragraph, because that used to be what I had Xanga for; mundane, generic entries that occasionally contained a quirky anecdote or random opinion. To be frank (and not Ben), I've got approximately a million things I could write about tonight. On a different evening when it wasn't now creeping towards 4:30 AM, I might tackle a few topics and churn out one of those absurdly long, rambling entries that handle like a roller coaster without the height requirements (but quite possibly with the post-ride vomiting). But it's alright. I'm content tonight to leave a lot of things unsaid. 

Patience, my friends. Patience. It'll take you places.

Dear 2010,

To be perfectly honest, I have no idea where the hell you went. Everyone tells me that years fly by as you get older, and I'm quickly learning that they aren't kidding. When we first met, I was pretty lost. Looking back on my entry from December 31st, 2009, I'm pleased to say that I've come a long way. The mountain I scaled in 2009 is now a distant peak, barely visible on the road behind me. For me to wax poetic on wasted opportunities of the past 12 months would be unnecessary; such conclusions arrive naturally along with the inevitable passage of time. But there have been more mountains; perhaps it is fitting that the largest mountain of this year was presented in the grand shadow of some of the most awe-inspiring mountains that planet Earth has to offer. 

I lost my grandfather this year. As we drove home three days ago from our annual trek to the midwest, I couldn't help but cry. We mourned his passing exactly one year after my great-grandmother (his mother) was buried. My Grammee meant more to me than I could possibly put into words, and my Papa was the brightest spot of our often-painful family gatherings. He was larger than life and yet so kind; a gentle, humble man who loved his daughters and their families as if we were his own children. Three weeks before his death, my mom, my two brothers and myself flew to Wisconsin for what we knew was our farewell. On the morning we left to return home, he was too weak to rise from his bed and embrace us one last time. To see a man once so powerful, and to find him in a state so weakened, I couldn't bring myself to dwell for more than a few short seconds. There is no feeling in life more painful than to look into a man's eyes and know this is the last living moment he will ever share with you. As his memorial service came to a close through the words of "I Know That My Redeemer Lives," I felt a level of personal sorrow I honestly didn't believe was possible. I apologize if that sounds overly melodramatic - I don't mean to make my struggle sound any less than that of another who loses a loved one. But for me, a 21 year old with a heart that is easily scratched, I could not help but to break down and allow myself to mourn for such a loss. 

Christmas didn't feel right this year. Zach and I discussed it on the way home; our traditional family gift exchange should only happen in one place, and that is Grammee's living room. To hold it anywhere else seems almost sacrilegious. We discussed memories of my grandparent's old home in New Berlin, Wisconsin. Their house was a thing of wonder to young boys for one simple reason: the basement. Seemingly endless toys, numerous couches with materials for fort construction, and a "bar" filled to the brim with sodas and snacks that we became skilled at consuming conspicuously. (We were aided, of course, by our non-so-strict grandmother). I had no idea what we had and how quickly it could disappear; the pool, the basement, the yard, and everything that made those two-week summer trips so grand. 

I'm rambling, and I apologize. I'm working on a separate entry that properly eulogizes my incredible grandfather, but I couldn't help but offer a small dose of sentimentality. This has been a bumpy year. A close friend of the family continues to battle cancer in an inspirational way, but it's always a fight. Close friends lost friends, our family struggled at points, and nothing seemed to come easy. I'll be more than happy to file away 2010 as a year largely worth forgetting. 

But I do look forward to the promise of a new year, and the hollow but promising concept of turning the page, clearing the easel, etc. (Choose your own cliché here if you wish). My education is looking bright and promising, my love for music continues to grow and blossom, and my amazing group of friends never ceases to astound me with their love and loyalty. (Although this individual will likely never see this, I'm thankful for a late addition this past year that added a bit of a spark to the colder months and hopefully will grow into a fire, if you will). As much as they were difficult and not particularly pleasant, the lessons from 2010 were plentiful. As I conclude my reflection, I'm especially grateful for the closeness of a family and the value of friends who stick by your side through all circumstances. I don't ever pretend to know most or any of the answers, but I'm looking forward to another year of trying to find at least a few more. 

Happy New Year all. Here's to another one.

I've written about this song before; "Skyline Drive" by Mae. It's a perfect song. So I figure, as I listen to it, I'll try and describe to you the movie that plays in my head.

"There's an anxious anticipation in his voice as the suggestion is made. "Should we just go for a drive?" It's a Tuesday night; nothing special about it. A nasty, bitter-cold winter Tuesday with too much fog to really be viable for anything besides mindless pursuits situated indoors. She is, to summarize, mesmerizing. Jeans, so plain and unremarkable that they may as well be spun from gold; button-up shirt that doesn't quite cover every bit of her upper hip. Blonde hair, parted only slightly. Eyes wide through her old glasses, because the contacts were just too much work for a cold winter Tuesday. He's everything remarkable in comparison; the portrait of your standard kid who tries too hard. American Eagle jeans, sweater-vest plucked from the discount bin; he had to use the Internet to even figure out what to match it with. He's in love; she's just lost. 

"So, should we just go for a drive?" he implores again. There's something special about a late-night drive down the highway. Or at least that's what the movies say, and he figures that nothing else has worked, so why not try a few clichés? She looks at him funny, tilting her head slightly so her messy bangs drift over her eye. She's indecisive. Looking around the room, she bites her lip, and he tries not to stare with desperation. It doesn't work. "Alright, why not?" she finally says, largely ambivalent to the entire evening. His hearts leaps, and his smile betrays the reality behind it. "It's just a drive, you goof" she laughs, clearly enjoying his seemingly random excitement. "It's not like we're running away together or anything."

Crash. That's the melodramatic sound he hears inside his own mind when those words escape her lips. What should he say? "Is that such a crazy idea?" No. He grabs his tongue with moments to spare. There's too much at stake to play his hand just yet. See, that's the reality of his mind. To him, she is a puzzle. The desired outcome is achievable, as long as he develops and executes the perfect plan. Everything he so desperately seeks can be achieved once he creates the perfect moment; a moment where she can gaze into the sky and then turn her head around to gaze into his eyes, and make the perfect connection. He knows; it sounds just as pathetic in his head as it looks on paper. But when he stares in her eyes, it seems like there's no other option."

My previous entry came true, just not quite the way I expected.

Look, I'm not going to lie here; I'm incredibly disappointed. It's been a really long time since I've felt that strongly about someone, and now the harsh reality of life and distance is that I'm expected simply to move on. I don't sugarcoat anything here, and I'm not going to start now. Am I supposed to be angry, mad, upset? Maybe, but I'm not. When someone is honest and straightforward with me (even after a delay), I can't help but forgive and move on. It's just the way I'm wired, and this is no exception. I gained a great friend and someone who came through for me during a time where I desperately needed someone to sit quietly and listen to me pour my heart out, and to me there's really no higher quality I search for than someone who is instantly loyal. I think that in itself is what makes this so difficult. 

But life trudges on, and so do I. The boy of two or three years ago would sit and mope, writing sad words and letting endless hours pass with nothing but silence and wasted thoughts. The new man is still guilty to a degree of such pursuits, but only in the sense of allowing a life experience to run its course before moving on. There's no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed of disappointment and mild frustration at the lack of a positive outcome. But to overreact in a flurry of self-pity would be exactly the course of action most simple and least desirable (a less-than satisfying contradiction). To look into those eyes and see nothing but eyes staring back into mine; now that is a heartstring tug that I will never forget. Love is so much about taking chances; that's why it infuriates and upsets me when people so doggedly search for their "match" and their "type." Your type, my foolish friend, is someone who loves you. Race, religion, creed, history, family, they need not matter in the ultimate search for a simple truth. Love is about acceptance. I deeply and passionately love my best friend Matt, and for good reason; from our first meeting to this very day, he has done nothing but accept me for who I am, and I have done the same. Is that love, purely platonic, so different from the love of those who spend 50 years happily married? No, it really isn't. I'm a sarcastic intellectual who votes liberal and spares no one when on a witty tirade. Matt is a straightforward, teddybear-esque man who loves without hesitation (and votes conservative). Our running joke from approximately day two of our friendship is that our years of successful companionship are based solely upon him playing the drums and me playing the guitar. In reality, it is something much deeper and yet something remarkably superflous. We accept each other, and we use that overarching truth as a building block to resolve any conflict that we may come across.

I do wonder on a daily basis where my other half happens to be. Not too many years ago, I thought I was dating her. Now I'm fairly confident I haven't met her yet. (If you start singing Michael Bublé, I will find you and inflict great pain). I enjoy the search, because I refuse to limit myself to those people who seem to be the "right fit." Of course I have traits and characteristics that I look for or prefer; every human being does. But I remain open to the possibility that the woman God will eventually place in my life may be completely unrecognizable to the broad sketch (pun intended) I've drawn in my mind. I said it once already, and I could not possibly say it enough times. Above all else, love is about acceptance.

Lots of words need to be written, but not tonight. Too tired. Here's hoping that when I look back on this entry, I'm smiling at what I know now that I didn't on this night of boredom and wishful thinking. Only time will tell.

Screw it. I've typed and re-typed the beginning of this entry multiple times, and I'm done trying to be clever or witty tonight. I don't miss church. It's been four months, and I love not having to wake up on Sundays and fake my way through another service. I'm done pretending that I don't think the entire enterprise is a giant mass of naivete where I scratch your judgmental back and you scratch mine. Your condescending looks and hushed tones don't bother me any longer, because I've reached a peaceful distance where I can spot perspective and sanity while so many are mired in a blind march towards a god they have created in their own mind. The God I serve and will serve until I die does not deride me as some attention-grubbing whore who is so desperate for conflict and attention that I manufacture my words in order to achieve such ends. Upon the cross was a symbol of unconditional love, beyond all measure; love for the gay and the abortionists just the same as the tea party and the Southern Baptists. You claim to be a beacon of Christ's love and yet you fall in line behind a man who attributed September 11th to the homosexuals and the feminists and the ACLU. You actually sit there and dare suggest that the God of love and mercy is punishing the people of Haiti for their ways. You disgust me. People always say that America needs to call on God. No. America needs to stop calling upon the false god created by Newt Gingrich and James Dobson in order to get Republicans elected; America needs to stop calling upon the false god created by the extremists and the crusaders who are so desperate to spread Christianity that they be damned if Christ bothers to come along for the ride.

UNCONDITIONAL. Learn the meaning of the word. Live it, breathe it, and refuse to allow human prejudice to stand in the way of showing the love of a real and active God who can be described in no better way than UNCONDITIONAL.

I haven't been in this terrible of a mood in a really long time. It drives me insane to see you still working there despite being a liar and a coward. It drives me crazy to see you say things about me having no clue what you even mean because you're so desperate to classify me into some sort of box that will make sense. It drives me crazy to hear your half-ass apologies that only happen in order to get me off your back. It drives me crazy to know that I'm pretty positive I can't make the decision I was so sure was the right thing to do. It drives me crazy to see you happy. I won't mean this tomorrow, but tonight I'm vindictive and upset and on the verge of breaking down because I'm so sick of people creating a picture in their mind of who I am and refusing to accept when the facts might contradict their version of reality. I still lay awake at night thinking about Estes Park and what went wrong. I still don't understand why you even bother taking the time to talk to me when it's so incredibly obvious that you just spend your time judging inside your head. I miss you, desperately. You're still the only person who took me as I was and let me stay there, and I regret not grabbing hold of you when I had the chance. I think you're terrible at your job, I think you're a stuck-up asshole with half a brain, and I think you're the most beautiful person I've met in my entire life. I think you're an ignorant fool, I think you're still desperate for people to believe you're an adult, and I think you might literally be the perfect girl.

I need something to show me why it's even worth bothering anymore. I miss the people, but I don't miss the judgment; the gossip, and so much else. The ground is shifting, and I don't have somewhere to stand right now.