It woke me this morning, then before I knew it, it was falling away. It shines brightest just before it leaves. I want to pull it back up, but I’m stuck here behind my window, knowing I won’t even go out to chase it. It will be back tomorrow, but I’ll be less likely to see it. Everyday it leaves me. Everyday I’m less likely to see it.

It’s been the most incredible couple of days. I flushed my life and only the best things remain. I got my head back into the game and got my goals back on track. I got my priorities in order and my strategy in shape. My creative mind is flourishing and my true friendships are prospering. I’m back, baby, and I know what I want.

So far today, five different groups have come to look at my condo. The last—a young, good-looking couple—was ready to put a contract on the place this very day! (This happened only moments ago, and the outcome is still to be seen.)

It’s funny how God works. Two months ago, I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do. I couldn’t get a job, so I decided to sell my condo. For two whole months, I didn’t receive a single offer. Just last week, I decided to forget about selling my condo & concentrate, again, on finding a job. So what does God do? He sells my condo! Maybe. It’s like a whirlwind. I’ve been pushed and pulled in every sort of direction. The thing I least expect seems to happen all the time. I must admit, it’s breath-taking to finally see the escape I’ve been seeking for the past nine months.

It’s so close now, I can taste it. The freedom. The freedom from bills. The freedom from credit cards. The freedom to pursue any path I wish. The freedom to go back to school. The freedom to get training. The freedom to write. The freedom to start over again.

This freedom is not the only thing this New Year is bringing me. A renewal of friendships and a reminder of past creative joys is also its gift.

Yesterday, I had in-depth interaction with two faraway friends: Kelly and Jessica. I won’t go into specifics, but I will say that contact with them both reminded me of greater things. Kelly has brought me face-to-face with God, and Jessica sparked many wonderful memories of college, which in turn, reminded me of the projects and motivations of my undergraduate years. Jessica, alone, conjured up memories of great friendships, cool classes, and fantastic independent projects (M, Heroine). I never would have guessed that these two individuals would bring me back to the place I know I should be. I’m here now, and it seems like God is resuming our journey.

I’m ready.

Though I pretend it doesn’t exist (as to not stifle my creativity), I fully acknowledge that there is a readership to my online journal. I will now take the time to caution you, the reader, to not consider what you read in this journal as fact or even sincerity. The purpose of my journal is my own business and my use of it changes from day to day.

Sometimes you will read an account of the actual events in my life. Sometimes you will read fiction. Sometimes you will not read what I purposely exclude. Sometimes you will read only the accounts I focus on for purposes only I know.

In May 2001, I began writing creative stories again. I was so out of practice, however, that I decided to exercise my creative brain by writing daily journal entries. I flexed my writing style and stretched my lexicon. I learned to consider the characters, plot, and settings in my own life, to inspire the creative, fictitious lives I was creating.

Later, as I grew more comfortable with my voice and style, I began to focus on character, conflict and romance. In my journal, I paid more attention to (and even exaggerated) those aspects of my own life. I live my life to see with my own eyes what my characters see; and hear, feel, taste and say what they do. I am, in essence, the character I am currently writing. I do not deny, however, that some of these new traits have worn off on me and are now part of the person I truly am—for better or worse.

As you can ascertain from my journal, I’ve been stuck for the longest time on writing the most unlikely, but amazing, love story imaginable. It’s the story of two lovers who meet in the most unusual way. But, unfortunately, I cannot think of how their story ends. I can work on my dialog or on my description, but until I figure out who the characters are and their story, I’m not going to get anywhere. When I experience the awkward twists and turns that make an unlikely relationship work, I will know how to write it. The task of writing the unlikely love story is the same as living it. And that’s where I am today.

I’ve got the minor characters. I’ve got the setting. I’ve got a loose plot. But who are the main characters? Who are the lovers in my Dark Suburbia?

As I answer the question that haunts me most, maybe you are asking yourself, “Then who is Michael?” I’ll give you the answer, but it’s not very sexy or exciting…

Michael is an unemployed single man. He writes and reads and watches movies and plays games and occasionally does web work and goes out with his friends and laughs and jokes around and—at the end of the day—returns home to an empty condo and falls asleep on his bedroom floor. What Michael wants is very simple. He wants to marry a nice Christian woman. He doesn’t care where he lives (city, suburb, country). He simply wants to live a quiet life with the woman of his dreams. He wants to serve God through creative outlets. He wants to write novels and make films and record music and draw illustrations. He wants to be God’s storyteller.

Picking up chicks at bars, clubs and restaurants is all fun and exciting, but Michael wants the real deal. He goes places and does things for the sake of story, but the most interesting story to him is the story of his life, as recorded by his God and Master in Heaven. The plot, characters and setting of that story is a continuing and ever-changing mystery to Michael. He doesn’t try to flip to the next chapter to see what’s coming up next, though he wants to. He has faith in the writer to tie up all loose ends and provide him with the happiest ending imaginable. He is the prince looking for his princess; He is the lonely sheep looking for his flock.

That’s me, and Dark Suburbia is my story. Sometimes the characters and events of each story are the same. Sometimes they’re not. Sometimes you will know me and my friends. Sometimes you will simply know characters. NEVER will you know some people, nor the truest thoughts of my mind. This is a public journal, after all, and not my actual life.

Veronica and J.J. hosted a New Year’s Eve pre-dinner at their home in Arlington. It was the first stop of the evening. We had an enjoyable dinner & conversation. Those that came were Jonathan, Cheryl, Michelle, Joel, Sergio, Janna and myself (as well as the Janes’).

I was shocked to see Janna come in. I haven’t seen her since Adam and Deanne’s wedding a few years ago. (I am, of course, talking about Philly Janna—not Brooklyn Janna.) We were able to talk for a while. She is still involved in church work in a very tough neighborhood in Philadelphia. My natural tendency is to worry for her—she being a pretty white suburban woman living in a lower-class minority part of the city—but to her credit she presses on and continues to serve God in a very difficult place. She told me about some of the conflicts she’s run into. I’m glad I had this chance to cross her path, because now she’s definitely in my prayers.

After a very delicious dinner prepared by Veronica, Jonathan and Cheryl left to go to a party in Georgetown (but they would later meet up with us at the Black Cat). Janna had to go see her parents & could not hang out with us. The rest of us piled into the Janes’ SUV and headed to D.C. Before we got to the Black Cat, we picked up another passenger—a friend of J.J.’s and member of the band Good Charlotte.

When we got to the Black Cat, we had to wait at the back of a long line in the freezing cold. This was definitely the low part of the evening (which really wasn’t that bad). As soon as we got in, I quickly made my way to the bar and ordered a cider. By then, it was ten minutes to midnight. Deanne and Adam arrived & also went to the bar. John was already there, and Jonathan and Cheryl soon arrived. So, there we were, the bunch of us huddled to one side of the Red Room. Midnight struck, and we wished each other a happy new year.

There was no countdown where we were (in the Red Room). Upstairs, there was a huge ballroom with a live swing band. I can only assume the turn of the year was more exciting up there. There were also two other sections of the Black Cat: the dinning/cafe area, which we never went into; and a small dance room, in which we finished off our evening.

Because we arrived at the Black Cat so close to midnight, I was unable to accomplish my goal. I, indeed, had one goal for the evening: find someone to kiss at midnight. There was no time for me to scout out the area and schmooze with any ladies. Later in the evening, I concluded there weren’t many single women there anyway, so I wasn’t too disappointed.

After several drinks, we decided to go upstairs. Steady streams of people were exiting the venue, so we figured it wasn’t too crowded in the main room anymore. When we got up there, about half our posse went and sat down in the back. The rest of us stood up near the dance floor. It turns out Cheryl and I were the only ones trying to get our friends onto the dance floor. I was a bit hyper and couldn’t stand around or—heaven forbid—sit down over at the tables. I kept walking around and up & down the stairs to the other rooms below. Meanwhile, I ended up consuming seven ciders and a few sodas.

Eventually, the more subdued half of our entourage decided to leave and go home. Veronica, who had been up for over 24 hours, had already fallen asleep beside one of the tables. Michelle, Joel and I decided to stay longer & get a ride home with the Neubauer’s. Once Veronica, J.J. and Sergio (and that Good Charlotte dude?) left, the rest of us decided to go to the dance room downstairs beside the Red Room. The hope was that they were playing music other than big band swing. They were, but honestly it wasn’t much better.

Cheryl and I went into the dance room, sat down at a small table, and watched a sparse group of dancers strut their stuff to some very bad quasi-retro dance music. We waited for everyone else to come in and join us, but they never did. With a huff, we both went back into the Red Room and found them all there. Finally, we were able to convince John to go in, then told everyone else that John wanted them to go dancing with him. It was quite a chore, but finally, we got everyone onto the dance floor. And that’s where the real fun was.

Honestly, I only lasted about half a song before I gave up trying to dance. My feet were barely underneath me & all I could manage was a slightly rhythmic jig. Adam, however, was the man with the master plan, as two strangers came up to him at different times and started dancing with him—both a girl and a guy. It was pretty damn funny.

Danced out, I sat at the bar in the dance room (there’s a bar in every room—two, if you’re lucky). I was content to sip down some Cokes, while watching a couple of girls do their thing on the dance floor. Maybe I would have asked that one with the striped shirt to dance, but I didn’t think I could mange it—alcohol or no alcohol. “Besides,” I thought, “I’m sick of having to initiate things. Girls need to get with the program and start approaching me and asking me out! This is bull chips. From now on, I’m going to be the Passive Playa’—the guy who enters a room and just looks cool and has women flock to him.”

Yeah, right.

But seriously, it was the funniest thing… Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters) was there last night, and chicks were all over him. “That’s my problem,” I said to myself, “I need to be good looking and in a popular band.

…

I’ll get right on that.”

It was around three or four in the morning & the place was closing up. When the lights came on in the dance room, we all decided it was time to leave. We exited the building & were knee-deep in ass-freezing cold. (Wait—would that still be knee-deep?) Anyway, it was damn cold and we ran down a couple blocks to the car and all crammed in tight. Joel didn’t bring his coat, so he was basically a popsicle—a popsicle that had to urinate really badly. (That’s the thing about having to rush home to use the bathroom—you will undoubtedly hit every single stop light between where you are and your destination.) “I’m going on the street beside my truck,” he said, and I echoed his sentiments.

I can’t remember what time it was when Adam and Deanne dropped us off at our cars, or what time it was when I eventually got home. All I know is that I eventually got into my bathroom and the tremendous relief I felt after that almost made me pass out right then and there.

With a quick jaunt to my bedroom, I fell upon the floor—on my folded blankets and pillows—and fell swiftly to sleep. The last thing I remember thinking was, “Damn, tomorrow’s a holiday. I hope that doesn’t mean Ritz Camera is closed.”