"I Bid You All a Very Fond Farewell"

Just replace Bilbo with me up there.

Like my good friend Bilbo Baggins, I face some new chapters full of adventures. Although I'm not sure how I feel about fire-breathing dragons swooping low over my head, I'm quite ready for some new things. So, these are my last words for my comrades.

Well, guys, it's been fun. We've made some brilliant memories, and all of you have been decent enough. Alex, you've created some great films--now I'll be known far and wide as Greg...or maybe Kuge. Dre's perched and been flabbergasted enough for several people. Overall, I can just say that it's been fun. But I'm not going to let this post get sappy.
I've found that the years get better and better.
Freshman year was unfortunate in every way possible.
Sophomore year just shouldn't have happened.
Junior year was fun, but we didn't have to see that.
Senior year is fabulous.
My greatest memories are from these past ten months--or however long a school year is. From Hamlet skits, to watching five seasons of LOST in two months, to watching a thousand episodes of 30 Rock, to growing out the sideburns, to fashioning the greatest Senior Rock in existence, and to all the other great experiences, this year has been...something else.

The Master and the Apprentice

Richard Wright - I'm sure that some of his students have different feelings towards him, but Richard Wright has been one of my best instructors in all my high school days. From day one of his class, he instills some manner of trepidation in you, but you soon discover that he has a keen desire to see his students succeed, a heavily qualified background, and a warm sense of humor. He has taught me how to manage my time by what I need to do personally and what I can easily leave by the proverbial wayside. Also, he's reminded me that everything can't be all business; sometimes, I have to just crack a few jokes.
Bonjour Kayla!

Pam Tomerlin - Working with her these past two years has been a wonderful experience. Especially this past year, she has allowed me to exercise some of my own visions. Although we haven't always agreed, she has believed in me--and that is a trait which I must emulate.

Karen Higgins - A day in her classroom: NO REALLY!!!! IT WASN'T LEE HARVEY OSWALD!!! CONSPIRACIES! Also, did you know I went to Gettysburg one time.

Julie Pittman - Respect is demanded (and I believe required) towards teachers. Students have much to learn from their teachers and should submit to that authority. Few teachers, however, show his or her students the same respect. Julie Pittman treats her pupils as adults. Sure, she correctly expects that her students submit to her authority, do their assignments, and generally just be reasonable human beings, but Mrs. Pittman has a certain passion for the job. She has to have some. I've never had a teacher more qualified: Mrs. Pittman has extensive education and considerable experience teaching. The fact that she condescended to leave college professorship and become a high school teacher shows me her faithfulness to me and to my peers. And this is her greatest lesson to me that in my life to come I would do things that I enjoy, that are fulfilling--no matter what they are.

Who am I?

A long time ago, in a county far, far in the boonies...
(not really that far)

This is Supposed to be Scrolling
Episode MCCLVIII
Rutherford County has been invaded by an unstoppable force of Germans. Germans from West Virginia. This combination has created a hybrid that cannot be defeated. In order to ensure victory, they have a secret weapon: CALEB WILKIE.
Taking up residence in the Lake Lure area, they remain out of sight of the innocent town folk of Rutherfordton. Wilkie, being sent to school at RS Central, has infiltrated the ranks of the students. If he is not discovered soon, many lives could be at risk. Armed with an aggressive dedication to nerd knowledge, inconceivable talent in Halo, and an endless amount of useless knowledge, he could threaten the peace of the entire galaxy...

I do hope you enjoyed my tribute to one of the greatest series in film. I remain an established Star Wars fan to this day--and I do believe I always will be.

Barring the drama, the above prologue is true. In 2006, I moved, along with my family, to North Carolina. My permanent residence started August of that year, and soon afterward, I began attending RS Central. Like my most people, I can claim that my four years at high school have changed me dramatically. In a very cliche fashion, this term of my life has shaped me into who I am. It has made me come into my own. It has made me find myself.
Pick one of these, and we'll continue.
However, you describe it, the above statements are true. But how? For example, in high school my taste in music and fashion has matured, I have honed my writing and speaking skills, I have become confident in my own self (that was vague), I have fallen in love, I have grown my sideburns and I have shaved them, I have created a great yearbook, I have published articles in the school paper, I have written a book (for better or worse), and I have created many friendships that simply did not exist in my younger days.
All the above can be condensed into blah, blah, blah...blah, blah.
But all of these have been critical in the creation of the Caleb Joseph Wilkie that exists right now and is writing this blog. Some of the events are more important than others. Some have been temporary, while others will never leave me until my last days.
The characters that helped me along the way are far greater than I will ever be. I am eternally thankful to my family (you can read anything specific in previous posts) and comrades (you know who you are). Assuredly, the greatest vehicle in changing me was my girlfriend Jennifer, but you, dear reader, have little business in knowing much about that.
When I pause and begin to reminisce. I begin to feel like Jean Val Jean. A character in my favorite musical Les Miserables (and quite possibly one of the most compelling stories ever created), Jean Val Jean rises from sinner to saint. He experiences a life of heartache and loss that could never be envied by any sane person. But during one song in the musical called "Who Am I?" Jean faces a great decision. It merely is who am I?
I feel that high school has taken me far on this road of discovery. This journey of who I am. But much of the task is yet to be done.
So, if you please, I'm off to answer this magnificent riddle...

Poem in Your Pocket!

Today is National "Poem in Your Pocket" Day!
In honor of this glorious day, I give to you....

What To Do About Sharks
by Vivian Shipley

1.
If a hammerhead or a great white makes
waves during your workshop or poetry reading,
don't flap your elbows or slap at it with rolled
manuscripts. Sharks thrive on visual stimulation.
2.
Blow out candles. Ease away from the podium,
and wait at least ten minutes before going
for a light switch. Join hands to keep karma
with the other poets. It's okay to recite
poems you memorized in fifth grade,
Joyce Kilmer, in desperation, even Longfellow.
3.
Rule of thumb: it's a shark not a dolphin
if it is slamming about the room, hugging,
blowing air kisses. Performers, sharks
are almost all instinct and no brain. Without
a sense of occasion, they'll crash any gig,
underwater or not, from Madagascar to Malibu.
4.
Being eyed by a shark can be exasperating,
but don't rush or shift from foot to foot
to induce motion sickness. Sharks are immune.
They are, however, dyslexic. Flash cover quotes,
prize-winning poems directly in front of both eyes.
Better yet—stop reading. Pull your new hardback
from a knapsack, and if the shark noses you
with repeated sharp jabs, hit it on the snout.
5.
If all else fails, sharks have a keen sense
of hearing. Sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic
at the top of your lungs. Sharks have short
attention spans, get bored, leave if there is
no open mike. So, swing into another verse:
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

Absolutely the most phenomenal poem ever written! And why do you ask?
Well, it's simple really.
It's got sharks in it.

The Big Day(s)

To cite clichés and quotes, life can be many things:
A box of chocolates.
A roller coaster.
A journey.
An adventure.
I could keep on going, but I’ll spare you.
I’m 18 now, and I’ve already experienced many events that have lingered in my mind to this day. Some of these have had a great impact on me, while others are just vivid memories.

Sink or Swim
My grandmother used to run this retirement home in Venice.
…Venice, Florida. I wish it had been Venice, Italy. In any case, there was a pool in the back, and this event occurred when my family went down to visit. This was in the 90s so I was just a tyke back then. For some reason, while everyone was splashing and swimming, I decide it would be great idea to jump in—the deep end. What I remember most is that I looked back in forth, wondering—what? I suppose whether this was a good idea or not. The other image that I remember clearly is the view from underwater. I couldn’t swim, but I don’t remember panic—just that view of the water and all the bubbles rising to the surface. As this blog is being written by someone alive and well, you can assume that I was saved. In fact I was rescued by my oldest brother Brock. Who knows why? I’m the one who always wrecked his LEGO creations.
Thanks, Brock!

Virtual Affection
This next event may make my mother cringe.
During one visit to Georgia to visit family, my brothers and I experienced a “real” video game for the first time. Keep in mind that I’m ten(ish) and I’ve never owned a video game since our SEGA Genesis broke years ago. My cousin owned this game called Total Annihilation: Kingdoms. It was an RTS (for the illiterate out there that is a “Real-Time Strategy” game which is generally one of those video games where the player controls a bunch of guys and they all kill a bunch of the other team’s troops). This planted the seed for my video game love—ahem, my video game passion. What started it all was when my mother in search of this fantastic game for her own sons discovered another RTS: Stronghold. Ever since then, I was hooked. Stronghold remains as one of the best games I’ve ever played even though it’s ancient, the graphics are dreadful, and the sequels all were embarrassing. After that, it was Halo which captivated me; then it was all downhill from there.

Rescued by the Dark Knight
In all the comic books there’s always that helpless citizen saved by the caped hero. As this noble warrior dashes away the saved watches with wide eyes, a thunderstruck stupor, and a stuttered thanks. Well, I have my own story about that.
Away back in 2000-something or other between my seventh and eighth grade years the summer blockbusters were about to get obliterated by a remake: Batman Begins.
Now, now, I have always been a dedicated fan of the Dark Knight. So when I heard that this movie was coming out I was just giddy. After seeing the film (which I add is quite a great movie), myself with my siblings, who are all loyalists of the Caped Crusader, discussed it. All of us agreed it was quite good. Admittedly, I believe the sequel was better, but hey Batman Begins takes the spotlight in my lifetime. Why? Because after seeing that movie I had the first inspiration for a story. I don’t know what actually compelled me to start writing, but write I did. Ever since then it’s kind of been my passion. One day, maybe it’ll be my career.
Fat chance, Wilkie.

Oh, we’ll see about that.

Caleb Wilkie's Day Off

I’ve always thought skipping school is a great idea. School policy is that the student who misses more than two days of class has to make up those days. Personally, I think that this policy is foolish. The student is only injuring themselves (if there is injury at all—most likely there isn’t) when they skip school. What ever happened to personal accountability?
That’s my view on that.
Knowing now that I am all for skipping school, what would I do with my free day?
Well I’d probably wake up pretty early because I always tend to do that. Two cups of coffee most likely in front of the computer or outside on the porch would get me going. After a morning of writing, I would get together with some of my friends and go rock climbing because I rarely get to do this during the school year. After a day of bouldering, we would come back home and watch a movie and eat a fantastic meal.
An observer might think us humble I suppose. Rock climbing doesn’t require fashionable attire—unless of course the observer is from the climbing world. Climbers as a stereotype are nice and hospitable. When two groups meet at a rock, members from both discuss their skill level, they borrow crash pads, and encourage whoever is up on the boulder. For the extended excursion, climbers share meals with strangers or set up tents in the same vicinity. It’s a neighborhood of amiability that exists out there in the woods. I would cite nature itself for such behavior; people united to experience the wilderness find solace in human company. Most climbers are mindful of the environment. They all wear the normal brands: Patagonia, The North Face, Black Diamond, etcetera…
If I was out with my climbing companions we would blend into the small groups at the boulders. Someone is lugging a crash pad. We all have water bottles, chalk bags, and climbing shoes and we pet our neighbor’s dog when it intrudes on our excursion.
Few things make me feel more free than climbing. It’s a challenging activity, but I boulder which is the most leisurely of rock climbing styles. Still, bouldering presents me with plenty of problems to master. By the end of the day I wouldn’t regret a minute outside in the mountain hollers.
Perhaps the only regrettable party would be my Calculus class. With me gone, there would be few indeed who would ever answer questions. Poor souls.

Krazy Krauts

Fifty years ago, a determined family of four brave souls arrived in Chicago to begin their new lives in America. They were searching for the American Dream. Sure, the great immigrations of the last century were long gone, but the American Dream has this fantastic quality of never dying. With the drive to discover the freedom and greatness of America, these courageous few turned their backs on the affairs of the past.
And they knew the past all too well.
Alfred, the patriarch of this brigade, knew only to well the shadow of their old home. Germany was a wasteland, not only physically, but psychologically as well. Alfred had grown up in the same area as his wife Gisela in the Black Forest. A child when World War II engulfed civilization, and a mere boy when Hitler summoned the youths of Deutschland to do his bidding. Alfred was forced to join the army. Unwilling, however, to shed blood, Alfred waited for the proper moment. When the detachment arrived in the Black Forest, he fled into the hills, knowing the country far better than his pursuers. In the woods, he discovered many others sheltered there, hiding from the terrors of the Nazi. Alfred made do as best he could, but he could not hide forever.
The soldiers found him. Predictably, they were enraged by such insubordination and decided that the boy along with the others from the woods be executed. Alfred was set upon his knees and there he awaited the final shot.
But then they came. In all the glory of propaganda posters, the American air machine roared overhead. They rained tons of bombs down on the camp, sending the Germans scampering to their shelters.
Alfred got up. He ran like never before, and in his own words: "I staid hidden this time."

With such a story of real courage and sheer spunk, how could I dare not take interest in my heritage? Although Alfred is my mother's father, my own father one time told me that "our family is so German, it's sick." In many ways, we are a stereotypical European family. Fellowship in family and friends, the magnificence of food, and the discipline of hard word are critical components of our lives. Above all others, we hold to this maxim of Ben Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to prosper." Even now, I'm looking at a series of steins all in a line in our dining room. Beneath them are two ornaments straight from Germany. One says, "Gott schutze unser Haus." God bless our house. Faith brings us together often. My mother and father were the first pious Christians in our family, and, through their testimony, most of my extended family now firmly holds to the Truth.
So, what about me? Where am I in all of these Deutsche Rowdytum? That's easy! I'm proud of my heritage. I love being German, and I love my family much. Almost daily I hear about the complaints of my peers. I just don't understand how not to get along with my family. They are my best of friends, and, until recently, nothing was more important to me than them.

So, putting an end to this absurdly lengthy post:
Mutti, Vatti! Ich liebe dich!

Pretzel Twister, thanks for rock'n'roll music, The Simpsons, and all the belly laughs.

John! Thank you for cooking better than anyone has a right to cook. And for getting me eaten alive by Sea Chiggers.

Jake, you allow me to vent all my pent up video game insanity. Thanks for being my comrade and chainsawing the bejeezus out of some Locust.

Furball! O'Nelle! JDAWG! And the many, many other titles that you have. Here's to you being a light in a dark world and an encouragement to all who see you. And thanks for that Tyler guy.

Speaking of, Tyler. You, my friend, I have only to thank for the hours of LEGO Batman and LEGO Star Wars. There is no comparison, and I'll never forget swimsuit stormtrooper.

The Rock in a Hard Place, Brock, you are THE MAN. You are a mastermind, and a powerful ally. May the Force be with you. Always.

And lastly I save for you, Jennifer Brooke Hall.
I love you, and thanks for the hat.

The Brave Little Watch

So, I’m made out of plastic and some rubber. I got a computer chip in me—I think, but I’ll keep on calling it a brain. My body is roughly a circle with two flimsy legs, but usually these are connected at the ends so I make an oval. That’s because you put your wrist in there and carry me around. It’s really a great deal for me. Traveling is free as long as I tell you the time, which may confuse you because of my martial language.
Anyways, let me tell you about the guy whose arm is usually punched through me. He’s alright I suppose. A couple of times he took me hiking. That wasn’t bad, but then he was slamming against rocks and the like. I don’t see why he can’t just stay on the flipping ground. Oh, no, no, he’s got to go climb on some stupid rocks instead.
BEEP!
Oh, sorry, that’s my hour alarm. Usually I don’t have it activated, but this girl keeps on pressing the buttons.
BEEP!
There she goes again—
BEEP!
It’s my—
BEEP!
Light—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Ah! Cut it out why don’t you! She just can’t help it sometimes. These two hang out with each other a lot, and between his crushing me and her poking me, it’s a hard life.
I don’t like the water much. Sometimes I get left out in the rain, but most of the time I’m pretty safe. I got a little tolerance for water, but it can get inside of me and mess with my head a little. Water can make me a little tipsy.
During the night, I sleep next to this cell phone. He’s cool and all, but a little too refined for me. He’s flashy and dressed up nice every day which is good for him, but I’m sticking with the rugged look. The most annoying thing about him is in the morning—every morning at 5:30 or 6:30 or some other hellish hour, he starts whistling some weird tune of his.
He’s a morning person.
But anyways, he wakes up everybody, including the wallet over there. He usually shuts up after about thirty seconds. It doesn’t matter though. No more sleep for me because when Glance over there starts his singing, everybody gets up and starts the day.
So, basically for me, I just hope I can get through a day without too much poking.
And, with any luck, the cat won’t sit on me.
No promises though.

Shall I Write a Sonnet?

Shall I write a sonnet?

And to you a summer’s day compare.

For me you have caught in a net

So that I with none do you share.

In your glorious eyes

Is God-given beauty so divine.

That when you pass, the flower sighs

Their brilliance is none like thine.

Oh object of my desire

Forgive me always, oh please

When my foolery has earned your ire.

A gentle kiss and you my heart seize

So let us forget this simple verse

And let us our love rehearse.

Cheese

The sun glodes golden silver in the night.

Like a tangerine flying in the sky, it tastes so good and sweet.

From this broken egg bubbles slurpy chicken noodle soup,

That heralds the morning cuckledom faithfully from my voice.

Down into the cosmament it flies.

Down, down, down to the moon.

Where the Swiss cheese gloops to the trees.

From those emeroon boughs taken is the forbidden fruit.

Like Scotland’s green islands, it glistens.

And from there, I yodel all the way home.

By The Book

See that no one repays anyone evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to everyone. Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Do no quench the Spirit. Do no despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast what is good. Abstain from every form of evil.

I Thessalonians 5:15-22

Naturally, this whole passage is worthy of remembrance (as is the whole Good Book), but I'll focus on this part, the most famous part, "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."

Everyone experiences times of difficulty in life--it's a known fact. The amount of parables warning of life's travails and warding us away from pitfalls is innumerable. Sometimes these events manifest only as a bad day or a flat tire, but others are much more serious, possibly even fatal. No one experiencing these things can be expected to be unaffected, but there are some who rise above the situations of life. There are those who are consistently joyful. Rejoice does not necessarily coincide with enjoyment; instead, to rejoice is a far greater thing. Joy is a difficult emotion on which to tack a definition, but it amounts to contentment and walks hand-in-hand with love, peace, and hope. I try to watch myself. It is easy to forget prosperous times when confronted with calamity. I have no choice though; God's Word is God's Word. In the end though, joy has a wonderful habit of infecting everyone it touches.

Prayer. Often this tool is laid aside for the darkest of times. Too often we are content with supplication only after all of our efforts have been in vain. This system is all-together foolish. Prayer is an instrument of incredible power, true, and should be summoned when terrible events occur. However, if God is faithful to help in the great things, how much more so will he use His divine power in the small troubles of life? I pray before every test and quiz at school. I pray before exams, traveling, exercise, and whenever it hits me. Of course, I'm far from a saint. I forget to pray all the time. But when I talk to family, my girlfriend, my friends and I hear of the simplest difficulty, all I have to do is pray for God's grace to be poured out on that person.

And after all of these things you cannot help but give thanks. A Christian has no other (faithful) option but to acclaim the works of the Creator at all times. Thank Him for all the mysteries he concocts because, as it says in Genesis 50:20, "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good, to accomplish what is now being done: the saving of many lives."

By the way, "Abstaining from every form of evil" is always a good word by which to live.

Listen Up Young'n's

As one great philosopher wrote: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!"

Our teachers devote their lives to education--to educating you. Most have far more knowledge than any teenager at any school. They at least have their bachelor's, and passed any examination required to be employed. Such attributes naturally deserve some respect, but teachers also deserve the respect of their students because they are set over them. As a student, you may find them disagreeable at times, but that is no excuse for aggravation. Of course, this does not excuse teachers from earning their respect. There is no reason for incompetence in education; every teacher must maintain a standard of quality some other careers do not require. I guarantee that if you respect your teachers your learning will become much more beneficial.

The Minor Characters

A long time ago, in a galaxy
far, far away…

Well, actually, it was West Virginia which is only a couple hundred miles. To me, it seems like an eternity ago.
When I was living there, my brothers and I attended a martial arts class hosted by our YMCA. We were taught by a very distinguished sensei and his friend. Our sensei, Sensei Humphreys was a level five black belt and, therefore, was disciplined, tough, and adept in several forms of karate. Learning from him was, without a doubt, a tremendous blessing. My two brothers and I reached green belt through his tutelage, but our course was suddenly ended when Sensei Humphreys had knee surgery.
Of course the greatest impact sensei had on my life was Ryokoshinkan (or however the heck you spell it), a martial art form he developed mixing basic teachings of several karate styles. He taught me confidence and responsibility and succeeded in keeping three teenage boys entertained two nights a week. There were times I lost interest in karate, but I never lost my respect for my teacher. Sensei Humphreys is tough, disciplined, and patient—all good characteristics for any teacher.

That's all the minor characters for now.
Would all the minor characters please stand up?

THE TOP TEN LIST (for the ideal wife)

1. Faith
I am a person who values faith. In the Bible (the precise reference eludes me, so I will refer to Paul's excuse: "somewhere it is written...") the text says that it is sinful for a believer to be unequally yoked to an unbeliever. For me, this leaves no other option but that the ideal wife be a believer.
2. Honesty
Trust is an integral part of any relationship, romantic or otherwise. When each member of the relationship can place trust on the other(s), it strengthens bonds and also builds a very complex structure: honesty. Honesty and trust thrive together; therefore, it is wise to have a wife that is honest. The ideal spouse will be bound to truth even when that truth is undesirable.
3. Patience
No one is perfect. Not event he old folks call the "good, ole days" perfect and especially not the people in those old days. Looking at the past, it can be assumed that both gross and slight mistakes will be made in the future. We all need a mate that has patience when these occurs, who is diligent in forgiveness.
4. Loving
Affection is the basis for romance (allow me to simplify it this once). The loving wife will, without a doubt, have all of the needed qualities for the ideal wife.
5. Humorous
Comic relief is something not only for literature. Life that is devoted wholly to sobermindedness will be drab and will deplete energy from both parties. Besides, they say that laughter is the best medicine. It worked in Zombieland.
6. Unique/extraordinary
My personal belief is that there is no normalicy in society. People are so unique that we can only state several unifying features even in a group of friends. This group will always have traits that set a certain member apart from his comrades. Diversity is important in spouses. An age-old principle says that opposites attract even in mating. Where this may not be true, the opposite is also false. The ideal wife will not be exactly like her husband. She will assuredly have similar interests, but not the exact same interests. Otherwise, she would, in affect, bring nothing to the relationship.
7. Tolerant
This trait goes along with patience. Tolerance is no excuse to ignore the wrongdoings or infedilities of the husband. But tolerance to an extent promotes harmony.
8. Joyful
Joy and enjoy do not coincide universally. Where it is nice to enjoy an experience because it gives us direct pleasure, joy is an elusive contentment with one's circumstances. Martyrs find joy in their dying breath as they give up their lives for their beliefs. Joy is essential to the ideal wife. A joyful mate will find contentment even in the recession of circumstances, strengthening her spouse dutifully.
9. Devoted
I believe that a quick glance at the above list would expand this word adequately. The ideal wife will always be faithful to her husband.
10. Respectful of tradition
This last part is my own idea. I do honor tradition, but I am not bound to it. Just as it is important to "respect your elders," it's also a decent principle to respect traditions. If a certain archetype that your parents advocate is distasteful to you, by all means, throw it away. However, understand the reasoning behind the tradition before doing so.

Note: Something I've learned over the course of my life is that the so-called "ideal" mate is not always the one that is most similar to you.

Fighting With My Parents

I don't argue with my parents. Spiritual and political discussions are just that: discussions. Especially between my father and I, we are very nearly in complete accord constantly. Most of the times that I find myself on the opposite side, my father can generally persuade me to his side. I can't help that he is always right.
So, arguments...I've never raised my voice at my parents. The idea of yelling at them is foreign and awful to me. They trust me with the use of my time, my car, my social life, and much more.The closest thing that I could write on this blog would be my mother's intermittent intrusions. Now, let me be clear, she is more than justified when she does so. They usually revolve around my failure to "help out" around the house. My mother is a machine. She works night shift, comes home, sleeps, wakes up, does it again--for generally a stretch of five days. Then she has several days of free time. What does she do with herself? She works at home.
My mother expects the same from me when I return from work or school. It's not unreasonable, but I don't feel the urge to do so. That's my folly in reality. I just need to get off my lazy butt and get to work.

The Sun's Love

A little piece of dreadfully serious, melodramatic poetry I concocted. Read, if you are brave enough for the emotion.

The Sun's Love

The sun comes out.

Sooner, sooner, may she come.

Awash in her light, I have no doubt.

She belongs to me, and not to some.

She is my life and love.

I cannot do without.

Her caress is the wings of a dove.

The sun, she sends my fears in rout.

She brings life to the rose.

New life is in her furnace warm.

With her, I no longer have woes.

Remove from me all my thorns.

To the West, flees my sun.

But in the night, I await upon time.

I am the sun's love.

And she is mine.

A Top Ten...perhaps?

I know that everyone--and I mean everyone--must be tired of hearing it. But...be your own person.That's really what struggle I wish to conquer. Because becoming one's self truly is a great trial, and requires diligent insight, care, and desire to accomplish. I only think recently that I have reached the point where I am nearly comfortable with just being odd. There is no such thing as normalcy in this world; all people are weird in their own right (which of course means that oddity is normality...how's that for a slice of fried gold?)

As a Christian, I am a strong believer that the World is vile and corrupt, full of sin and tribulation. High school really was my first experience of this. I think that (for the most part) I have conquered the World for the time being. But I do know that it is a struggle that will never depart from me. I just pray that I will be given the grace I need to meet it.

Okay, enough of that! Leave on a lighter note:

I want to... Sing like Freddie Mercury,

Do as many pushups as Jean-Claude Van Damme,

Pull off royal blue, knee-length socks like Brian,

Be a superhero,

Operate Twitter,

Climb boulders like Chris Sharma,

Eat what Bear Grylls eats,

Own a Mac like the cool kids (and Miss Pittman),

And wear a red leather jacket the rest of my life...

Top that, Dre (self-claimed extraordinaire)

Dad's Bucket of Joy

“Good cigar, good beer, good fellowship, equals good life.”
Yes, that was my father. It was several years ago when we were sitting on the front porch, and he was passing on his genuine wisdom upon his youngest son. He told me to write it done—and I did.
All this talk of cigars and beer from who many would consider a very faithful minister and wise advisor. And, apparently, his life revolves around drinking and smoking, plus, he wants to thrust those habits onto his own son. Maybe it is all child abuse. Or maybe it is wisdom after all.
My father has never been an advocate for absentminded frivolity or gluttony. What he was trying to tell me those years ago on that tranquil evening was simply this: enjoy life.
Warning signals may have already flagged me down. Is it not an awful idea to tell a teenager to enjoy life? My father’s advice has provided me with an enriched life.
Too often, we are drawn in by our busy schedules that we forget to enjoy our lives. We tie our world together by our next meeting or by our next paycheck. We are so desperate to succeed that we, in fact, fail. Success is not measured in the money we make or the prestige we reap, but in the happiness we find in ourselves and the joy we create in others. I hope to rest peacefully in my grave when me epitaph is inscribed, “He found joy in his life, and, in others, brought forth joy.”

Diary of a Cool Kid

Diary of a Cool Kid
I
I’m from the West Side.
No, really, I was born on the west side of St. Louis, Missouri. My father was attending seminary at the time—Covenant Theological Seminary to be precise. It was 1992, March 21. My family lived in St. Louis for another two years as my father completed schooling and graduated with a Master of Divinity.
Very soon there afterward, the Wilkies arrived in the new house in Evansville, Indiana. That’s situated in southern part of the state which, even though it’s still above the Mason-Dixon Line, is never claimed by its central and northern counterparts.
I was young then; preschool was my social empire.
The house was two stories and was planted squarely upon the basement which sported the boy’s den. Lair. Cage. Any of those words would do. In any case, Brock, Jacob, and I were given nearly free reign over that territory. It was a colony that even sported salutary neglect. What parent would want to go down there anyways? I’m sure my mother appreciated scooting away to her twelve hour shifts at the emergency room. My sisters lived in the upper world—on the surface if you will.
Who knows horrible acts three very adolescent boys performed in the underworld?
II
When I tell people how many times my family has uprooted and moved to a new location, I usually get a sympathetic nod, or “that must have been tough.” In reality, the move from Evansville wasn’t marked by any sorrow. Excitement accompanied, instead. Charleston, West Virginia (Nope, I’ve never journeyed to Charleston, South Carolina. I hope it’s better than its hillbilly equivalent) was a new place for adventure for a boy about to enter Kindergarten.
We lived on a manse. For those who don’t know what that is, a manse can also be called a parsonage; it’s a house built on church property to house its pastor. Because my dad was the newly ordained pastor, we made ourselves cozy in our new abode.
Again, those family members who possessed both a y-chromosome and no maturity were sent to the den. I can recall untold hours and hours standing at the table we had set up down there playing with my forever-favorite childhood toy: LEGO. I had a particularly nasty habit too. Brock, my oldest brother, was a master engineer of LEGO blocks. He wasn’t even in middle school mind you, and he would construct machines and structures that he saw on movies and television. His skills at that age were honed to creating Power Ranger zords (yes, I watched Power Rangers), space-faring vessels from Star Wars, and any other thing that popped in his head.
I, being an ideal youngest brother, broke as many as I could. Sometimes it was on accident; other times…not so much.
The first Wilkie computer was purchased while in West Virginia. Before that time, my brothers and I were rarely subjected to the “brain-rotting” of game systems. Sure, we had a Sega Genesis at one time, but Sonic has long worn out its welcome in society. Our computer opened the door for video games in my life for years to come. Now, I have the new Halo: ODST on preorder at Gamestop. It has been a considerable change to be sure.
We lived in Cross Lanes (a small, unincorporated town outside Charleston) for ten years; therefore, it encompasses most of my life. So much happened during that time. My parents were strict in believing that all of their five children should receive a good education. In my second through fourth grade years myself and my siblings attended a Christian, private, classical school called Covenant. I hypothesize that such a great education at an early age helped me garner skills that I have now—I am using one of them at this very moment. Just to understand to what degree Mom and Dad wanted a great education for us, I’ll say that the commute from Cross Lanes to Huntington where the school was consumed a full forty-five minutes of our lives every trip.
I learned years later that my sisters had nicknamed Covenant as the Convent. Why? Well, it was a good classical school: uniforms, Latin courses in elementary school, harsh rules and punishment based on language and conduct, etcetera. Janelle and Lorin both graduated from Covenant in the same year. Their class was comprised of four graduates.
When they scurried off to college, my brothers and I also left. For a year, we were home schooled. Then Jake and I were taught by Mom, and Brock went to a nearby public school, where he became a member of the ROTC which would later lead him to a career in the United States Marines.
Let me take a moment to describe myself.
At the time, I was a little kid with glasses and braces, and my personality fit them. Well, it did unless you factor in my attitude. I was a hothead to be sure. I couldn’t take a joke or a tease no matter how genial or well intentioned it was which only fueled the prodding of Brock and Jake.
In short, I wasn’t exactly a pleasant little angel to know personally.
III
Eighth grade year, I was enrolled in another private, Christian establishment that, thank the Lord, was a mile down the road. Its standards for learning were not quite as steep as Covenant, but Cross Lanes Christian School was far stricter in other areas.
The administration at the school fully believed that it was the sole authority over every sphere in the lives of the students. Rules regarding behavior were stretched to the home life. They would enact discipline if gossip leaked of any “immoral” activity. And guess who decided what was moral?
Alcohol was viewed as an abomination which sat very coolly with my very German family. If only they knew…but, to promote plausible deniability, I won’t go there.
The school’s breed of Christianity was called dispensationalism. I began to ask Dad theological questions when they began to force their beliefs on me. In a way, their zeal to mold me into one of them pushed me further into my family’s own theology: Reformed theology. I don’t want to bore anyone by listing the points written by John Calvin for Covenantal beliefs, but I will say that I am now a firm follower.
My real persona began to emerge during this time. I started to shed my irritability as I simply lost interest in it. I indulged myself in heavy reading, art, video games, and personal writing. All three somehow contributed into the birth my current self. I sang in the church choir, noted the opposite sex, took guitar lessons for a time, and, in short, was exploring life.
It wasn’t until the final odyssey that I really became who I am today.
IV
For several years previously (it’s 2006 by now), we would visit my grandmother in North Carolina. Her name is Giselle, but everyone just calls her Oma, which is the intimate German term for grandmother. She owns a bed and breakfast in Lake Lure called The Lodge on Lake Lure. Every summer, we would camp down there and work for her, but more of this later.
This year was a momentous one for the Wilkie family. Janelle and Lorin graduated from college, Brock graduated from high school and had his face set towards boot camp, and my grandmother Jane Wilkie died. And it all happened on the same day too.
Faith Presbyterian had never been a church for my father. The congregation, over the ten years Dad preached there, dwindled through rampant gossip and slander. In short, he was tired of them, and it was a good time to leave. All of the family except for him was already living in Lake Lure for the summer; we merely made the transplant permanent.
What I said above was partly incorrect. This move was difficult for me to accept. After ten years among the Appalachian Mountains, I was attached to the place in a myriad of different ways. But the word of the parents was final.
Jake and I were rather unsure about ourselves when we walked into RS Central high school for the first time nearly four years ago. Jake was becoming into a fit, proud, good-looking, may I say, typical teenager. I was…something else. After a life of private school, I was unprepared for public pandemonium. Still, I adapted somewhat quickly.
I like to believe that high school was the final step in becoming me. However, it was far from easy. Freshman year I remained much the same: introverted at school, active at home. To me, my four siblings were always my best friends; now, I had one brother who, I regret to say, had other friends.
Janelle was engaged that fall. Her wedding in May of 2007 will always remain in my mind as one of the happiest days I have lived. One of the happiest, mind you. My brother-in-law Tyler is a true delight to have close. I am glad that he is a part of this family.
Moving forward: as a sophomore, I was challenged most fiercely by the World. I cannot give specifics into this, but I can say that I emerged forged in faith as a better person and Christian through God’s grace.
I remember thinking that junior year was the greatest year I had ever experienced. I had some fairly close friends, and I was comfortable with myself in many ways. To say that the spiritual hardships were over would be false however. This time, God was a little craftier in how he rescued me. Unfortunately, I can’t be very specific; I’ll just state that romance is a very powerful thing.
V
Our new house was set in place on March 1 2008. I use “set in place” because it was a modular. However, it wasn’t until fall of my junior year that I was able to take up residence.
By now, my family has altered members. Janelle and Tyler moved to Harrisonburg, Virginia, Brock was deployed to Afghanistan, Jake would soon be married (his baby was born the very day that I wrote this), and Lorin would also be wedded on the fifth of September. However, my grandfather Opa moved over here from California after the death of my step-grandmother.
“I can’t believe my youngest child is a senior,” was all my mom could say one day was we were running errands. Truthfully, it took me some amount of time to accustom to the title. I can’t wait to see where I go next on this road of life (cliché, I know). I hope that it is different, and new. But I hope that my future is just as fun and exciting, and, indeed, challenging as the road I’ve already traveled

Yammerings About Myself

This is a stream of consciousness work about myself. So if you really want to know what I'm all about...read it up.

Only rock climbers and conservatives may attain the rank of implacable magnificence in this caste system of a social standard. I’m redoing this assignment because the internet is a rather insidious invention. What is not? Rock’n’roll. Greatest invention after cheese and another substance that will remain anonymous. Anonymity is boring. Forget what other people think. Be yourself. Like Steve.
Stephen Lawhead < Steve Lawhead. Fantasy and science fiction infiltrate my brain with pointless expertise. Lasers. Monsters. And Warp drives!
But it’s an art.
Art is a guilty pleasure of mine. It in truth incurs absolutely no guilt. Myself, being an artist, relates with the work of other men and women that perform such miracles. I’m not Michelangelo.
Call me Caleb.
Call me German.
Grandmother. Mother. Uncle. Grandfather. All German. Anything with “German” in it deserves a medal. Germany. Germans. Germanic. German. Germanesque. Germ. Man.
Man, created by God a couple thousand years ago, is such a drag. Pathetic even.
Man, not woman, is given a complex and tenuous situation with his counterpart. Communion with said opposite sex is essential for world peace. Otherwise it has dramatic, malicious repercussions.
World War II commenced when Eleanor Roosevelt broke up with Hitler. Allegedly.
I love a good story.
Like science fiction. Or a small piece of stream of conscienceness about me.
Or anything with implacable magnificence.
Or about rock climbers or conservatives.
Or…me.

The Things I Carry

The Things Within
Only liars move without burden.
We all carry.
I carry my backpack
And the the things within it.
I carry my clothes
And my life within them.
My books weigh on my back.
My pens and pencils and papers.
I carry them allAnd the knowledge within them.
I carry them allAnd I use every one of them.
I wear, without fail, a necklace about my throat.
It probably cost nothing.
But it means everything.
I carry itAnd the love within it.
I loveAnd I feel its wonderful load.
Smile.Even when it's not bright.
It's the weight made of seventeen muscles.
And the happiness within them.
Share the burden with others
And the joy within it.
We all live.
I live.
Eventually, we all die.
Live like you die tomorrow
Love like you have no tomorrow
Carry your burdens faithfully
And the things within them.