The Way and the Distance I Created

Fastball’s The Way was one of my brother’s favorite songs in middle school. I’ve known that for decades, but I’ve never known why. And the truth is embarrassingly simple: I never asked. Not because the answer didn’t matter, but because I didn’t think to care.

That’s the part I keep returning to. The song isn’t the mystery. I am.

Growing up, I moved through the world with a kind of self‑contained gravity. Everything orbited me—my interests, my anxieties, my ambitions. I didn’t look outward often, and when I did, it was only far enough to see how someone else’s life intersected with mine. My brother wasn’t a person with depth or contradictions or private curiosities; he was just there. A presence, not a story.

I didn’t ask what he liked or why. I didn’t ask what he feared or hoped. I didn’t ask who he was becoming. I didn’t ask anything.

And because I didn’t ask, I didn’t know.

Since our mother’s death, we’ve tried to close that gap. Grief has a way of forcing conversations that should have happened years earlier. We’ve talked more honestly, more directly, more intentionally. We’ve tried to understand each other in ways we never bothered to when we were younger. It hasn’t been perfect, but it’s been real. And it’s made me aware of just how much I missed.

But The Way is still one of those songs that can come on unexpectedly and send my mind down a track that feels destined to derail. It’s not about the song’s meaning or its tone. It’s about the sudden reminder of how little I knew about the person who loved it. How easily I assumed that his inner world was simple because I never took the time to see its complexity. How thoroughly I let my own self‑absorption define the limits of our relationship.

It’s strange to realize that you grew up beside someone and still carry an incomplete version of who they were. Stranger still to recognize that the incompleteness wasn’t inevitable—it was chosen, even if unconsciously. It was built out of inattention, out of the belief that my perspective was the default and everything else was background noise.

I can’t go back and ask the questions I never asked. I can’t reconstruct the parts of him I never bothered to learn. I can only acknowledge the gap and the role I played in creating it. I can only keep trying, now, to understand him as a full person rather than the outline I once carried.

The Way remains the reminder. A three‑minute song that can still pull me into the uncomfortable truth that the distance between us wasn’t fate—it was me. And the things I didn’t see then are the things I’m trying, slowly, deliberately, to see now.

Minnesota Forge? Worst team name since “Wild”

 The Stillness of a Mascot: On the Minnesota Forge and the Echo of a Beacon

There’s something unsettling about a mascot that doesn’t move.

Not unsettling in a horror‑movie way — more in the way a quiet room unsettles you after you’ve been living in noise. When Minnesota announced their new pro volleyball team name, Forge, I felt that familiar tug in my chest. Not excitement. Not disappointment. Something in between. Something I’ve felt before.

Because I grew up cheering for a Beacon.

A beacon is a symbol. A light. A guide. It doesn’t run downfield or leap for a kill. It doesn’t have claws or wings or a stinger. It doesn’t intimidate anyone. It just… stands there. Glowing. Waiting for someone else to move.

And now here comes Forge, another stationary object — a tool used to make other things, but not something you can imagine sprinting out of a tunnel with smoke machines and pyrotechnics. A forge doesn’t attack. It doesn’t defend. It doesn’t rally. It burns. It shapes. It creates.

It’s powerful, but not in the way sports usually define power.

The emotional conflict of cheering for something that doesn’t cheer back

Sports culture trains us to expect mascots that feel alive. Animals. Forces of nature. Human archetypes. Something with teeth or speed or fury. Something that can be personified.

But a forge?

But a beacon?

You can’t chant for a forge. You can’t imagine a forge “taking the court.” You can’t picture a forge celebrating a point. It’s a piece of infrastructure. A tool. A place where other things happen.

And yet — that’s exactly why the name sticks with me.

There’s a quiet dignity in a mascot that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. A forge doesn’t need to move to matter. A beacon doesn’t need to roar to be seen. They’re both symbols of creation and guidance, not aggression. They’re about shaping the world rather than conquering it.

But that doesn’t mean they’re easy to cheer for.

There’s a tension there — the desire for something visceral, something that leaps off the court, versus the respect for something foundational, something that represents work, craft, and purpose.

Forge sits right in that tension. 

The industrial heart vs. the emotional instinct

Volleyball, especially at the pro level, leans toward names that feel kinetic: Vibe, Mojo, Thrill, Rise. Even Supernovas — cosmic motion. Everything is about energy, momentum, velocity.

Forge is the opposite.

Forge is stillness.

Forge is heat without motion.

Forge is creation without spectacle.

It’s a name that feels like it belongs in a workshop, not an arena. 

And yet, maybe that’s the point.

Maybe Minnesota wanted something that doesn’t chase the trend. Something that doesn’t try to sound fast or loud or explosive. Something that says: We build. We craft. We shape. We make.

It’s not a cheer‑friendly identity, but it’s a meaningful one

The echo of the Beacon

I didn’t expect a pro volleyball team name to drag me back to high school, but here we are. The Beacon was always a strange mascot — noble, symbolic, but emotionally distant. You couldn’t anthropomorphize it. You couldn’t imagine it doing anything. It was a metaphor wearing a jersey.

Forge feels like that same metaphor, just made of steel instead of light.

Both names ask you to cheer for a concept rather than a creature.

Both names ask you to find pride in symbolism rather than spectacle.

Both names ask you to embrace stillness in a world obsessed with motion.

And maybe that’s why I’m conflicted.

Because I know what it feels like to stand in the bleachers and try to summon enthusiasm for something that doesn’t move. Something that doesn’t fight. Something that doesn’t roar. Something that just is.

But I also know the strange beauty of it — the way a symbol can become a rallying point precisely because it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

Maybe Forge works because it doesn’t try to be what it isn’t

Forge isn’t a mascot you cheer for.

It’s a mascot you cheer from.

It’s the foundation.

The workshop.

The place where effort becomes outcome.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe Minnesota doesn’t need a creature or a force of nature. Maybe they need a reminder that greatness is built, not conjured. Maybe they need a name that reflects the work behind the win, not the win itself.

I have consistently thought that Minnesota Wild is the worst 90s attempt at being something while also being nothing. It’s 90s marketing at its worst. And then this happened. Roughly 25 years later and with the same underwhelming energy. 

Maybe Forge is a beacon — just made of metal instead of light.

Spider-Man Brand New Day Review

Spider‑Man: Brand New Day is the kind of movie that lures you in with the promise of superhero fun, then casually drops emotional anvils on your head while you’re busy admiring the action sequences. 

I walked in expecting a good time. I walked out having cried twice — and not even at the parts you’d expect. No, my emotional collapse was triggered by a memory of Aunt May and a fake‑out ending. I’m doing great.

Male loneliness, portrayed with uncomfortable accuracy

The film treats Peter’s loneliness with a level of subtlety that feels almost rude. It’s not melodramatic — it’s the quiet, everyday isolation men carry around like it’s part of the uniform. The movie doesn’t preach about it; it just shows it. And because my attention tends to lock onto tiny emotional details whether I want it to or not, those moments hit with surgical precision.

Sadie Sink’s character: empathetic, powerful, and politically loaded

Her introduction is one of the film’s strongest choices. She’s immediately compelling — not because the movie tells you she is, but because she’s written with real depth. She feels like the perfect foundation for the modern X‑Men era, where mutant identity isn’t just metaphor, it’s commentary. And her connection with Peter through the Aunt May memory? That was cry number one. Full emotional collapse. Grief comes in weird ways and when you often don’t expect it. Yes, I miss my mom. Thanks for asking.

The Punisher ethos: regret. 

The movie’s nod to the Punisher’s worldview is sharp and understated. It shows how the “obvious solution” — the decisive, violent one — often becomes the regret you drag behind you for the rest of your life. It’s a critique of the fantasy that one bold action can fix everything. Instead, the film reminds you that shortcuts come with consequences, and those consequences linger.

Consent addressed. 

Peter remembers MJ. She doesn’t. And instead of trying to force a connection or reclaim what he lost, he accepts it. 

No manipulation, no destiny talk, no dramatic speeches. Just respect. It’s one of the most mature portrayals of consent in the genre, and it fits seamlessly into the film’s larger themes of responsibility and emotional honesty.

Government overreach: Damage Control doing what bureaucracies do best

The Department of Damage Control is basically government overreach with branding. It’s close enough to real‑world agencies — DOGE included — that the commentary lands without the movie needing to shout. It’s a reminder that institutions expand, power creeps, and “public safety” can become a very flexible phrase. 

And about that ending…

There’s a moment where the movie pretends it’s over — and it’s not. That fake‑out hit me with such emotional whiplash that it triggered cry number two. I genuinely thought the story had ended on a gut punch, and when it didn’t, I had to pretend I wasn’t wiping my face. Very dignified.

Brand New Day tackles massive social issues — loneliness, regret, consent, political identity, government power — without ever turning into a lecture. It’s fun, sharp, emotionally resonant, and far smarter than it pretends to be. I give it a 5 out of 5, no hesitation. You should see it as soon as possible, and honestly, more than once. The depth becomes clearer with every viewing, especially if you’re someone who catches the small details… or cries at fake endings.

Go until you break

I have a memory that I'm not sure is real. Back in middle school, I remember reading a short story in class and having to analyze it.

It was basically the story of a pioneer mother who gets bitten by a poisonous snake. She realizes that she is likely to die, so for the rest of the day, she works to set her kids up with everything they need.

She chops firewood, harvests things, and does a bunch of other outdoorsy, frontier stuff that my brain didn't retain. But she works so hard, she literally sweats the venom out of her system and survives.

I have forgotten many of the details, but the vibe has remained. You can survive if you make yourself ridiculously busy. That working hard can fix things that are seemingly out of your control.

Both of my parents worked incredibly hard. Work/life balance was not a concept that was on their schedule.

I haven't found this story, but I also haven't looked. I figure the reality would ruin the memory. Perhaps.

It's been a core memory, which is a new concept for me.

But this memory has likely had an overly powerful influence in my life. I'm not sure if it's due to my upbringing, social pressure, or just my own quirks, but I have believed this vague concept way more than I probably should.

Today I finally broke. I cried. Some muscles actually unclenched. I've been trying to work through it. Take on more and more so eventually my body just sweats out the pain, the emotion, the “poison”.

I finally slept in a way that felt restful. It was just a couple of hours. But some muscles relaxed.

I finally cried. It took some dumb Instagram reels and getting in my feels. But it felt good. It was needed. There was the issue of what made me cry, which sent other chaos plates spinning. But the release, the outlet, was good.

I've been waiting for a break for two weeks. I've been holding it together at work, at several workplaces. I've been making good proactive steps professionally. I have been absolutely in emotional chaos and yet holding it together at work.

This core memory of a story that I might not even remember correctly has been both a blessing and a curse:

I'm not sure if it helped or hurt my functioning this past month. 

But it was there. And oddly sticks with me. 

It’s a hot summer

 This is the Nebraska summer heat. I remember it wasn’t here last year. 

Maybe I just blocked it out. Maybe I was out of town on the right days but this dry hair dryer heat, this relentless hot air everywhere. 

It’s not a dry desert heat. It’s not a moist heat like Louisiana it’s a suffocating boring as hell heat.

I remember having a school called off in kindergarten at first grade because this heat was so oppressive and the school didn’t have AC and it was dangerous for the kids to wait outside for the bus even in the early morning. 

I had more school called off in Nebraska in two years than I did in the first six years of snow days in Minnesota. 

It’s an exhausting heat in a different way than a wet heat or a desert heat or even I’m Minnesota heat it’s dry. 

It pulls the moisture out of you. You can’t drink enough water to save your life. 

It’s relentless.

But the relentless feeling is something I’m used to - something that I have accepted. 

Depression is relentless, depression does not give any quarter it just keeps coming and coming and coming. 

Anxiety is relentless it doesn’t care what kind of day you have, it doesn’t care if you’re doing the right thing and finally going to the doctor for the first time and more years than you should probably admit. 

So your blood pressure is through the roof so they now want you to do blood pressure tracking for the next two weeks. 

Your blood pressure is fine when you’re not at the doctor you’re not having to face the fact that you haven’t done a good job of taking care of your body when you’re not having to face the fact that they might know you’re not a good student. 

Suicidal ideation is relentless. It doesn’t stop even when you’re having a good day even when you think that you’ve managed your symptoms you’ve worked on your anxiety. 

You’ve taken steps to minimize the impact that your depression has on you. It’s always just there. 

Everybody else misses a red light and I think man that’s a bummer. For some reason. There’s a tiny little voice inside of my head. That’s says, That’s a bummer. probably should kill yourself. 

That’s not a thing that makes sense and it knows that it doesn’t make sense. 

It’s just playing the numbers game. It’s gonna pop up time and time again and just say maybe this is an option or have you tried this and it never stops cause you know eventually maybe, maybe you will maybe you’ll try - maybe you’ll give in so the heat right now is relentless heat index of 105 to 110. 

As fate would have it the AC in my truck broke last week it finally gave out has been given out for about two years, but it finally gave up the ghost cause it was working real hard and I don’t have the money to fix it. 

So I put my windows down and I live in a town where I drive stoplight to stoplight night exit the exit. 

I don’t have crosswinds every time I hit a red light. I sit there in the relentless heat made the relentless depression with anxiety relentlessly building up in that relentless voice. 

It just says here’s the exit if you want, you could do it if you want, here are five different ways you could. 

so the heat sucks and the relentlessness of it is exhausting and I am drinking more water than I ever have in my life just to stay none pruned, but the relentlessness of the heat has nothing and the battle I fight every day inside my head. 

So I’ll take heat index of 105 and 110. I’ll take drinking a half gallon of water just to be able to pee because the other relentlessness in my life - the other relentless forces - haven’t got me yet and neither will the heat.

An Emotional Vomit - a childish vent

It sucks when you have a solution to a problem, but you can’t actually use it because of life. Or in this case. Death. 

I am on the verge of a spiral; I am maybe in the lowest place I have been in a couple of years. 

I know I need to call someone. I know I need to talk. 

But the only person I want to call is my mom and I can’t call my mom because she’s dead dead so I’m supposed to call the spirits. 

I am supposed to ask God for help. 

I’m supposed to trust in a higher power.

 I am supposed to go back to the same dry well that didn’t save her life.

 I am supposed to trust these imaginary beings. 

These Santa Claus motherfuckers who didn’t show up - who didn’t even allow me to offer my soul for her. 

What kind of shit is that, Satan? 

Literally trading souls is like your main thing, you were just out of the office for all of Summer 2023? Should I have brought a fiddle?!

None of you imaginary motherfuckers, showed up and saved her, but someone has the gall to tell me to ask God for advice. 

And I use the word motherfuckers literally. How is an entire worldwide organization going to say that father, the son and the spirit are one and then one fathered the other. Literally mother fucking in a spiritual sense. Right? 

You think I still trust him? Or you think I still trust in it? 

Every time I have gotten on my knees and begged for someone else’s saving or for someone else not to die - I got nothing. 

Somehow people still think that this is the one thing you say “Just ask God, pray to God”

Every time, I pray to God the line has gone unanswered. 

It tells me I’m either blocked or there’s no one home. 

God is at best an absentee landlord. 

Jesus is the original Nepo Baby, a special child - One who got saddled with way too much responsibility. 

It doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it.

It got told: 

“You gotta go down there and save everyone’s lives from eternal damnation. I also didn’t give you a whole lot of training, so my bad.”

Thanks Jehovah. 

And I’m now here again in a spot where we think well just trust God, trust God's plan.

I don’t trust that motherfucker at all. 

I don’t even trust people. 

I don’t even trust that he exists. 

Let us be honest every time I’ve needed him he’s shown up absent. 

So, maybe my faith isn’t strong enough maybe if I just tried harder, the Easter bunny would be real -the tooth fairy would show up - the God that loves you would exist…

Believe whatever you wanna believe. 

I don’t have any belief left. 

*he says while hoping the thing he hates he believes in will answer* 

The Wolf Within

In a quiet village at the edge of a deep forest lived a young man named Corin. Most days he was steady, thoughtful, and kind. He worked hard, spoke gently, and kept his promises. But once each month, when the moon grew full and bright, Corin felt a stirring inside him — a restless, aching pull he could not explain.

His hands trembled.

His thoughts raced.

His heart beat like a drum calling him somewhere he could not name.

The elders whispered that this was the Wolf Week, a time when even the calmest villagers felt a wildness rise in their blood — a longing for closeness, for touch, for something warm to quiet the cold inside. Some tried to outrun it. Some tried to drown it. Some tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Corin tried all three.

One Wolf Week, desperate to escape the feeling, he ran into the forest. But the trees only echoed his heartbeat back to him. Another month, he tried to bury the feeling in work, but his tools slipped from his hands. Another, he tried to ignore it, but the longing grew teeth.

Finally, Corin went to the oldest woman in the village — Mira, the storyteller — and asked her how to tame the wolf.

Mira shook her head.

“You cannot tame what is natural,” she said. “But you can learn to guide it.”

“How?” Corin asked.

“By remembering that the wolf is not here to destroy you,” she said. “It is here to remind you that you are alive. The danger is not the wolf itself — it is letting the wolf choose your path.”

Corin listened.

So the next Wolf Week, when the longing rose, he did not run. He did not drown it. He did not pretend it wasn’t there. He simply sat with it. He walked the village paths. He breathed. He let the feeling pass through him like a storm that knew how to leave on its own.

And when the moon waned, Corin found that he was still himself — steady, thoughtful, kind — but wiser. He had learned that desire is not a curse, nor a command. It is a visitor. And visitors can be welcomed without being obeyed.

From that day on, whenever the Wolf Week came, Corin nodded to the feeling, honored it, and kept his hands on the reins of his own life.

And the villagers said:

“The man who knows his wolf is safer than the man who denies it.”

In a quiet village at the edge of a deep forest lived a young man named Corin. Most days he was steady, thoughtful, and kind. He worked hard, spoke gently, and kept his promises. But once each month, when the moon grew full and bright, Corin felt a stirring inside him — a restless, aching pull he could not explain.

His hands trembled.

His thoughts raced.

His heart beat like a drum calling him somewhere he could not name.

The elders whispered that this was the Wolf Week, a time when even the calmest villagers felt a wildness rise in their blood — a longing for closeness, for touch, for something warm to quiet the cold inside. Some tried to outrun it. Some tried to drown it. Some tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Corin tried all three

One Wolf Week, desperate to escape the feeling, he ran into the forest. But the trees only echoed his heartbeat back to him. Another month, he tried to bury the feeling in work, but his tools slipped from his hands. Another, he tried to ignore it, but the longing grew teeth.

Finally, Corin went to the oldest woman in the village — Mira, the storyteller — and asked her how to tame the wolf.

Mira shook her head.

“You cannot tame what is natural,” she said. “But you can learn to guide it.”

“How?” Corin asked.

“By remembering that the wolf is not here to destroy you,” she said. “It is here to remind you that you are alive. The danger is not the wolf itself — it is letting the wolf choose your path.”

Corin listened.

So the next Wolf Week, when the longing rose, he did not run. He did not drown it. He did not pretend it wasn’t there. He simply sat with it. He walked the village paths. He breathed. He let the feeling pass through him like a storm that knew how to leave on its own.

And when the moon waned, Corin found that he was still himself — steady, thoughtful, kind — but wiser. He had learned that desire is not a curse, nor a command. It is a visitor. And visitors can be welcomed without being obeyed.

From that day on, whenever the Wolf Week came, Corin nodded to the feeling, honored it, and kept his hands on the reins of his own life.

And the villagers said:

“The man who knows his wolf is safer than the man who denies it.”