closed for business.

I've decided (a few months ago) to move over to a WordPress blog. Apologies for the much-delayed notification!

This blog can be found at: http://benjamingotchel.wordpress.com/.

Thank you for your readership!

this is a real blog post.

I thought I would indulge in a more typical blog post and talk a little bit about my life.
Since just talking about myself would be mind-numbing, I'll focus on more interesting things.

Over the past few months I've been thinking about qualities within myself that are either non-existent, under-developed, or distasteful.  So here's my game plan for the next few months.

the persistence of divine right in american politics.

            God did not tell me to write on this topic.  Nor did He tell me not to.  God actually had no direct influence on my decision to compose this essay.  And why should He have?  

the death of the notebook.

The ringed notebook frustrates and confounds me.  The metal spiral twining its pages together is a grotesque deformation that spits in the face of every attempt to form a neat stack of books.  At any given time, its metallic spine holds prisoner a handful of notebook paper strands.  They cling to the spiral, forgotten or ignored. My utter inability to properly tear out the poorly-perforated pages is revealed by the more tattered and torn of the strands.
Despite its glaring flaws, the notebook has become a staple of everyday school supplies.  It is the most dangerous of evils: that which nobody questions.

But I think it's time to question.
It's time to do better than question. It's time to challenge.
It's time to do better than challenge. It's time to end.
This is the end of the notebook...
and the beginning of a revolution.

sparks of holiday spirit.

Christmas is the greatest season of all.
My Nat King Cole Christmas Pandora station throws my mind into reminiscence.

The many Eves spent in my church sanctuary.  The warm glow of a candle in my hand. The white hot sting of wax as it drips onto my knuckles.  Voices joining together in song. the gentle strains of Silent Night, with perfectly surreal moments of silence filling the time between verses.

The chaotic, stressful, freezing-cold family escapades as we go searching for the perfect tree to decorate.  Scent and symmetry must be perfect. Chilled air swirled with the scent of pine and the smoke of the nearby fire pit.

Peppermint.

The thrill of opening each door of my candy-filled advent calendar.  The smooth chocolate contained within serves only to heighten my impatience as Christmas Day approaches at an impossibly slow pace.


I got home from college on break yesterday, and it's already a mere week until Christmas weekend.  I haven't been afforded the time to experience very much of the Christmas spirit this year. But it's nice to have memories to find comfort in.

two months in advance.

• written for my college writing class. the assignment was to write in restrictive third person, showing the character of a subject without any subjective content. 

 Two Months in Advance

              A man walked into a restaurant. He wore a tweed jacket and mismatched socks.  In one hand was a bouquet of flowers.  In the other was a cane.  He was alone.  “Do you have a reservation?” a waiter asked.  He wore a crisp tuxedo.  “Johnson,” the man said.  The waiter peered at a list on the podium in front of him and gave a brief nod.  “This way please.” He led the way to a small table in the middle of a large dining room. The man sat down and thanked the waiter.  He laid the flowers down on the table and unfolded his napkin onto his lap.  A band stood in the corner of the room, plucking delicately at their instruments.  “Would you like these in a vase, sir?”  The man looked up in surprise.  The waiter was gesturing to his flowers.  “Oh.  No, thank you.” He gave his order.

                “Will your second party member be joining you, sir?” The man shook his head slowly.  The waiter frowned and walked off.  The man dug into his jacket and removed a photo, crumpled and browning with age.  It was a young man and woman on their wedding day.  The man he could recognize, barely, as himself.  He propped the photo against the plate across from him.
                “I know you love fancy places,” the man said.  “I had to make these reservations two months in advance.” He smiled.  “No need to thank me.”  After some time, the food arrived and the man ate his meal.  He continued to chat amiably with the picture.  An hour passed.  He left a large tip and gathered his things.  The photo he placed back into his jacket, in the pocket against his left breast.  He left the restaurant, hailed a taxi, and clambered in.  Twenty minutes later he got out, handing the driver a few bills and waving him off. He turned and walked through a gate.  He followed a winding gravel path until he was nearly out of breath.  He finally reached his destination.  He leaned on his cane for respite.  He turned and stepped onto the grass bordering the path.  Dry leaves crunched underfoot.  He stopped as the grass changed to freshly turned soil.  He knelt and put his flowers on the ground in front of him.  Next to them he placed the photo.  A gravestone cast its shadow across the ground.  The white granite shone clean and glossy.  The man managed a few shaky words: “Happy anniversary, dear.”  He stood, wiped his eyes, and walked slowly away.

the Facebook project.

A few minutes past midnight on the first of November, I cut myself off from my Facebook account.

This project of month-long Facebook deprivation is based on the idea that something is seen in greatest clarity when it is absent.

In my state of deprivation I hope to see what I do or do not need from Facebook, and how to readjust my life accordingly.

this is a record.