This is for you.

It seems that when a great author looks back on his life and tries to discern the turning points and describe the major changes that affected him, he can easily recall some anecdote that succinctly represents his feelings while simultaneously inducing laughter throughout audience. That's what makes these men brilliant: they can talk about themselves all day long yet somehow keep people enthralled throughout their entire ego-trip.

So before I really begin this long-winded exercise in expression, I'll give you this caveat: I'm not like the men described above. I'm not a great writer, and you may become bored--so bored that you cry.

Regardless, I must write about how you have changed my life.

Finding a starting point is tricky, considering that the last three or four years have been quite an odyssey for me, and I'm not sure if the trip to Japan marks the end of that journey, or simply the true beginning.

I suppose it all started with a bowl of macaroni. (Of course, I'm skipping a proper introduction, which could span volumes, but we need to get moving here. So just plunge with me headfirst into this steaming red bowl...)

*Splash*

This certain steaming red bowl of macaroni is significant because it is one of those not-so-remarkable symbols that bring memories flooding back in torrential fashion. I remember when I was about to dig into its artificial cheesy goodness. Zach Garfield was there--but, I mean, how couldn't he be? This is Zach we're talking about, the kid who was a part of me, the guy who shared his entire life with me, and was the only person I ever truly trusted. We had shared monumental victory, and also defeat. We ran through dark moonlight streets, breathing heavy, racing police. We had shared fear together. We shared hopes and dreams. The spiritual and philosophical paths we had traveled together were innumerable. When I knew Zach, life had an air of mystery to it that was so utterly intoxicating that I wanted nothing more than to just inhale it deeply every night, exploring beyond the sunset, careless, powerful--remaining children throughout.

But let's pause for a moment.

When I say mystery I'm not talking about any Hound of the Baskervilles puzzle that can be solved by deduction. No, my dear Watson, I'm getting at something deeper. "Mystery" simply refers to the haze that clouded everything in life, fogging up the windows, making the exterior enticing and extravagantly unexplored. That is mystery, and I loved it.

There was, however, no mystery to the macaroni, of course, it just happened to be what I was eating at the time of my arrest, which is why it is significant. And after the whole legal ordeal was over, the once golden contents or my red steaming bowl grew cold and hard. Oh, predictable macaroni.

Those fossilized noodles are but one tiny ribbon in a giant tapestry of fluid memory. I suppose that night marks the beginning... or was it the end? Change had to start somewhere...

And it did. And you were all there for me.

When I was down, you listened--every night. Liz Green listened. Liz, that infinitely yielding and amiable new neighbor and old friend, so adept at making me feel good despite my best attempts to wallow in my self pity and writhe around in my misery. She wouldn't let me.

So many warm summer nights I sat with a window open, thisting for a taste of that old mystery Zach and I found, and the whole time Liz listened to me as I babbled on and on. I was depressed, and my wanderlust was locked away, but Liz cultivated it, kept me sane, and put up with me while keeping a remarkably good temperament.

That was when I was emotionally down.

But there was also a time when I was literally down--drugged into a near comatose state, salivating, sucking, dripping, dribbling and drooling. I was fermenting in my own juices. (I couldn't swallow!) Eight hours of jaw surgery will do it to you--and by 'do it to you' I mean: turn you suicidal as you search for any position in which sleep ceases to become a hell where punishment is gagging on buckets of your own oral secretions.

I'll let you in on a secret: after surgery like that, no such position exists, for at least 5-weeks. So I was stuck in saliva Hades.

I felt like I was dying, but there was John Thorson and Walker Cline, visiting me in all of my fat-faced glory. How could such brilliant people care about my puffy jowls and me? Perhaps the two most talented people I had ever met were visiting ME at MY house when I couldn't even talk to them.

Ironically, their visit really caused me a lot of pain, because they induced me to laugh incessantly, which was quite excruciating because my mouth couldn't open more than a meager centimeter or two.

What was going on here?

I'm still not really sure why they aren't famous yet, considering that their every pore exudes some kind of contagious ambition. (That sounds like I'm saying they're sweaty, and if you want to interpret it that way, I'll assent--I find their aroma inspiring.)

I dream of traveling one day with Walker, though he may prefer solo journeys, whether it be a walk across town or a road trip to Chicago, I can't help but admire his vagabonding disposition. I have visions of us soaring across the country via boxcar, dirty and happy. He seems completely at peace in his mind, not introverted, but simply subscribing to a very clear philosophy shared by Bob Marley: "My home is my mind." Oh, how I aspire...

But inspiration doesn't end there, so many others left their footprints on my mind.

Kim Karels and her indelible confidence in my truly lackluster running ability (support I never deserved) illustrates her exuberant nature and clearly defines her as a lofty optimist--for her, there is no finish line. She never seems to stop glowing. Anna Degraff and her rock solid dedication to her dreams carried out in such a challenging context that her ambition can't help but spread like a viral infection. The same with Stef Tomkis, who constantly reminds me what we are actually put on this earth for: to help others.

But since I'm talking about passion, I have to tell you about my favorite framed photograph. Well, it's two frames actually, but one photograph. Simple, yet effectively, the scene of two lesbians engaged in '69' under fluorescent lighting had been cut and framed in such a way that when hung on a wall they provoked such deep thought within me I concluded only an esoteric madman could discern meaning from it.

And actually, that little piece of work was done up by one of my favorite madmen.

I'm talking about Matt Gee the absolute lexicon of passion, brilliance and abstract thought. He will read this and denounce the preceding adjectives, probably denying them on the grounds that they cannot apply to someone with his resume, but I disagree. Beyond his lackadaisical camouflage exists one of the greatest talents I've ever met. Trust me. That lesbian 69 portrait still has my mind in a pretzel that I don't feel like untangling just yet.

These are the people I love. Without this kind inspiration? How could I have become who I am?

So we've strayed a bit from our motif. Don't you recall? I have somewhat of an obsession for the so-called mystery that exists in our world. I thought it was lost forever, after that macaroni hardened and began to grow mold, but now I know it's still out there.

I know because of Sumreen Tarar. Gorgeous mind, beautiful disposition, pleasantly refreshing. Sumreen reminded me that life still has surprises that are as ambient as the air, and that there is still space to explore. Her unwavering support and steadfast hold on generally ambivalent ideals perplexed me, but also taught me to think on an entirely different plane. Perhaps it took a bit of time and reflection to actually understand this, but I see now what she has done to me, and no words can possibly thank her properly. Through her love, patience and compassion I have learned lessons in thinking and understanding that I will treasure for the rest of my life. How can I repay someone for teaching me that looking at the world upside down through a kaleidoscope is OK, and utterly necessary?

My greatest regret of the past 3 years is that I treated possibly the most profound person I've met in my life as if she was worth nothing.

Sumreen wasn't the only one to make me think different, though. There was Megan Milligan. I hear she eats meat now, but her influence has made me a vegetarian for life. Though she exerted her pull on me years before that bowl of macaroni began our story, the effects still linger on. When people ask me what has impacted my life with the greatest magnitude, I can't help but name Megan, and then grasp helplessly for words to describe the abstract way in which she somehow molded me into who I am.

Bored to tears yet? Was that stupid to ask? Don't feel like answering? Well then read these next few questions:

Did you know it's ok to laugh at fat people and people in wheelchairs? Did you know its ok to laugh at yourself? How can I not be grateful to Amy Schmeeckle for reminding me that it's not bad to be impudent and brash, and that sometimes the real dichotomies in our everyday life are so essential that denying them will only erode who we are as people. Laugh at everything, including the face in the mirror.

What I'm getting at, I mean, really, is that it's fine to dance like a bumbling fool, and it's even better if you have fun doing it. Life is about dancing aimlessly, flailing and twirling like Dan Petersen who seems to be an incessant model for the way I want to live life: whimsical, carefree and for my friends and myself. If I have a smile on my face, who cares if everyone else in the bar is giggling at me? I hold his attitude in my highest esteem, and Dan is one of few people who truly fit the definition. Discouragement from others is unheeded. Distractions fall into an abysmal pit of forgotten static.

Maybe you agree, the way I think has changed slightly.

But what about the future?

It's always on my mind, really, like some great gray train slowly chugging along on the horizon. Maybe Walker and I are inside one of those boxcars... I'm not really sure. Who knows where it's going or what's in it, all we need is a vague notion of the destination. Ben Walter will inevitably be part of this future that lies beyond the curve of the Earth, that future I can't quite see yet. Whether it's working with him in a Mexican restaurant in Paris, France, or building some kind of partnership here in Lincoln, I know that his iron integrity will last for the rest of his life and that we will share in some kind of success. He seems to stand still like some huge block of concrete, unimpaired by the trivialities that may intrude into his life. When Ben says something, he means it. This is why I will look to him as a model for my conduct in the future, as I mature.

But let's be honest, I'm not ready to grow up just yet, though I have in some ways.

The flyers, the leaves, the toilet paper and the website. Oh, the smashed pumpkins, too... the newspapers swirling above in the ceiling fan like so many forgotten memories. All part of my relationship with Billy DeFrain, and all things that I somewhat regret with a cockeyed half-smile. The tolerance and endurance he has had with me and all my fantastical friendship-wrecking escapades speaks volumes about his character and his ability to forgive. For every wrong done to me, I think of Billy and how he has handled all of the ridicule thrown at him from my direction. I aspire to be of his demeanor, and I want to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in the future on any project (He's much funnier than I could ever hope to be, not to mention a more talented writer).

There is something I've been neglecting, up to this point and I'm not sure why--maybe because it's such a Pandora’s box, yet it's only one single solitary word: Spadt.

That syllable that I affectionately refer to him by certainly does send forth a tumult of baggage with it, though. Ben Spadt. Who is that guy? What's he doing now? Where is that kid? Popular questions from those who know the mystique, not the man.

Since 8th grade he's stood by me, and I think that's almost enough said about a guy who I proudly look to as a father figure. He is the original mystery. He brought it to me, he showed me a river and pointed to the other side. "What's over there?" He showed me the kind of mystery that oozes from the streetlights on a humid summer night and drips down onto the still hot asphalt.

Take a deep breath. We've almost made it, though I really have been terse--I've left off so many of you.

...So I don't really want to name names, but I suppose I'll have to. To Nidhi Mehta, Nargis Sadat, Irma Sulemanovic, Amnia Elbasheer, Nate Young, Ananda Walden, Anne Swanda, Heather Sigle, Quentin Lueninghoener, Melanie Feyerherm, Jeremy Buckley, Robby DeFrain, Ian Terry, Dana Meier, Ben Marker, Chia Li, Adam Nordloh, Lauren Wirt, Terry Khan, J.J. Idt, Nic Skiles, Travis Bossard and Lis Reinkordt, thank you for sharing your lives with me, there's so much I want to say about all of you...

To those I forgot, I'm sorry, but you are probably on my mind, too.

I wish I had the erudition to beautifully phrase how much I respect and love you all, but for now I shall remain an undergrad just "waxing philosophical" ... another hopeless rant that, with luck, will convey how much I care about you all--I suppose if you made it this far you probably understand what I mean, but I want you to know that you will all be with me in Tokyo for the this new mystery, because you are all a part of who I am.