i keep hearing the u2 lyrics:

"sleep comes like a drug in god's country."

i am tired, i have a full day tomorrow, i can't sleep. sleep comes anyway, if not like a drug, then like the ground after a trip through a seventh floor window: it comes up on you fast and hard.

i am revising my pathetic chs application. i am reading a book called "doing qualitative research differently," and am studying up on interview techniques. very interesting. aside from traditional research concerns, such as developing rapport, the book questions the very notion of the interview as a legitimate information gathering technique, and wrestles with problems of "interviewer-coopting-interviewee's-narrative-for-purposes-of-study," "transparency-of-self", "transparency-of-subject", and transference-countertransference.

i think about these issues, not just with regards to my (HOPEFULLY) forthcoming research, but to other contexts, like patient intakes and such. maybe even everyday conversations. i mean, think about it. how much do we really listen to each other? when we ask others questions about themselves, are we really interested in hearing their constructed narratives (ie, the "story" and "meaning" they have self-generated), or do we "cut to the chase" and automatically seek to filter out our version of the truth through the sieve of our own preconceptions?

(if we bother to hear the other person at all...)

it reminds me of so many other things. such as the montessori principles of teaching (ie, teacher as "observer"), or certain styles of acupuncture ("less is more"). i do believe as a principle that the sign of a master of anything is his/her level of "gentleness," or, in other words, the ability to do more work with far less effort, and/or the ability to "disappear completely." self-effacement. the paradox of somehow controlling the outcome by not controlling anything. wu wei. letting things "speak for themselves."

well, i'd best get back to that book, and then, to reformulating my chs application in a more "informed" and intelligent manner.

i thank the patience of god and my instructors (often confounded in my head)...

***

"sleep comes like a drug..."

infiltration

in the water cycle (per 3rd grade science curriculum), there are six stages: evaporation, condensation, precipitation, surface runoff, infiltration, and transpiration... infiltration involves water seeping into the ground.

***

the other day (was it yesterday?) after i parked my car over at my parents' to pick up my children, i noticed the sound of rainwater flowing into the gutters. i could hear the sound of the water right at my feet falling underground, certainly, but within the hollows of the gutter, i could also hear "other waters" flowing in dark places deep underground, the sounds reverberating. the sound made me think of those occasions when my friends and i explored pieces of the rain drainage system under mililani, wandering in those pitch black tunnels...

***

i think of self esteem quite often, in regards to the children and patients and students i deal with on a daily basis, but also, and most particularly, in regards to myself. i've heard a variety of metaphors of what self esteem is that serve to explain how it influences behavior; for example, richard lavoire's gambling chips. but a lot of those metaphors have failed to express what i have experienced, the persistent, haunting, hollow nature of low self-esteem...

i think, for some people, there is an acute awareness that the world is hollow. perhaps, as a child, they must have fallen into that other, dark world, covered over by the world where everyone else walks and trusts the ground they walk on. perhaps they even wandered for a time in the darkness, unable to find their way back. maybe they even saw something there that changed their life forever. in any case, when they returned to the surface world, they brought with them an indelible awareness that the world above was indeed just the surface, that, every footstep they made caused echoes in unseen places...

***

you can build and build and build and build, but when the rain comes, you will hear the truth of everything, that it all falls down again, pulled relentlessly into the darkness...

***

the one redeeming factor of carrying a personal "hollow" within is that it makes one aware of the hollowness of others. paradoxically, ironically, the compassionate thing to do is to always keep others from becoming similarly aware of their secret hollows. it is a relentless cover-up of their faults, their imperfections, even or especially when they are aware of them. it is to encourage them, despite a burgeoning awareness of the emptiness, that they are something else besides, that edifices and foundations exist that will allow them to build and become something great, or at least, something greater.

at least, this is the "superficially compassionate" thing to do. it is to be a figurative manhole cover.

for those who are strong enough, perhaps it would be best to point out the hollowness, and set another's soul to wrestle with it and develop their own personal "re-solutions" anew...

***

i remember asking shodo-san how i could stop hating myself. i think i phrased the question (with my clumsy japanese) in terms of good and bad, or right and wrong. i think i said that, no matter what i did or where i went or who i was with or whatever, it was never good enough. there was always my shadow following alongside, waiting for me to catch a glimpse of it, so it could laugh and remind me who i always, always, always would be: a little child lost in the darkness.

i told shodo-san that i just wanted it to stop, that part of my reason for seeking enlightenment (or even a watered down version of it) was that i wanted things to just be what they were, without all the endless self-incriminations and irrationality dragging me down and away.

i wanted, in short, to be happy.

shodo, in his characteristically matter-of-fact way, attempted to dissolve my problems via a koan of sorts, by telling me that "good" and "bad" were not places, so how was it ever possible that i would arrive?

and when i am strong, i think this way. i "non-identify" or "non-attach." the so-called shadow, the so-called hollow world, the so-called surface world, all of these conceptualizations and distinctions do not ultimately exist. the only thing i need pay attention to is the matter-at-hand, and how i may best "do" or "express" this moment: paying bills, writing, sleeping, laughing... in other words, when i am strong, i have nothing to say. i just live. (kind of nietzchean)

when i am weak, as happens frequently lately, then i ruminate, i search for relief and distraction. i think. i write. as i am doing now.

***

soon, it will be a year since my grandmother passed. on occasion, i look at her picture and wonder how strange it is that someone so vital could disappear. and i get to hating myself that i don't feel the loss more. that i don't feel much of anything...

i also wonder (superficially) about my sister. about those who really suffer. about suffering all around. and how i'm doing so very little about it. and how i am so weak and ineffectual at handling those who are already in my charge.

the spin cycle goes around and around.

there is the sleep of the just.

there must be.

***

i hear my daughter sniffling, my son snoring, my wife's even breathing. i will protect their sleep, as i wander these halls in the darkness.

terms of love

nibble gentle
relentless
in the hidden places
swiftly building
ribbons round within
like a gift wrapping
in reverse
in negatives
before you know
you'll be my present.

i'll core a zone
around your heart
(i save the best for last)
and find the far corners
of you instead
the unfelt places
and fill you with me
tunnels for me alone
coated with mud and spit.

and when at last,
you've nothing left to offer
when it's far too late to stop
(would that you could)
well, dear, i'll move on.

but not before i
eat your cardboard heart.

before the garden
before the snow
before what happens
before you know

i dreamt i was with my brother. there was a beach head divided in two by a looming sand colored cliff. to the right was the "safer" beach, which was strongly recommended because the waters were shallow. to the left was a more dangerous beach (although i can't recall why it was so). i decided to swim to the safer beach.

there was a line going up (i believe) to the top of the cliff. it tunneled through the ground in a weaving ant-like passage. i was following a woman carrying her child. every so often, the claustrophobia-inducing tunnel involved a literal crawlspace that i barely was able to negotiate. at one point, i recall feeling a mild panic after i had crawled through a narrow hole to my waist and discovered no way to go through the rest of the way...

i once knew the edge of the garden, before the snows came and hid it away. it was composed of a trim shin-high bamboo fence, tied together smartly by wrapped twine at the joints. on the first day that i arrived at the temple, a piece of my naked mind drank in the fine detail of that fence, but only a piece. there were too many new things to admire about the place, too many hopes and fears and promises suspended in the shimmering air...

***

late into the winter, on yet another day of snow, i was told to shovel away the parking lot, or at least claim a piece of it from the thick and smothering mantle of white. and it was during my somewhat callous and uncaring hacks with the snow shovel that i struck something solid, what felt like a thin fibula-like bone in the ice. i was tired, and a job needed to be done, so i struck at it again and again, longing to feel the blank and endless whiteness to yield to me, that i might form a shortcut to completion, and then to a respite from the job at hand. it was only after about the tenth hack that i paused, my breath coming in smoky gasps, and glanced at what i had sought to break.

it was the little bamboo fence.

my shovel had succeeeded in undoing the twine at the joint, and splintered the bamboo beneath besides.
to
***

i reflected on this, with regards to the naked truth of our past experiences, the smothering influence of time, and our inadvertent and damaging "reinterpretations" in our attempts to reclaim those past experiences...

there is always a (fictitious) time in the past when we experience things anew, usually full of fear and trepidation, but also with the wonder and hope of unknown and unknowable things. usually, we seek to bury that uncertain time via repetition, experience, aggressive actions, whatever. and as days pass, we succeed; the new becomes old hat, we trace patterns and pull routines out of the wavering air. and then, as the season begins to freeze to the stillness of monotonous color and deathly cold, we begin to long again for that uncertain time that we covered over in our haste for mastery. if we are (archaeologically) careful, sometimes we may unearth a faint whisper or whiff of that past through our efforts. but more often than not, we are far too clumsy, and in our attempts to get a hold of that naive "once upon a time," we destroy it.

and then, we are left alone and isolated from who we once were.

the fence that once existed at the edge of our garden is now broken...

venus shut your fly trap
your slickened leaves have teeth
to clamp the exoskeletons
and suck the life from them

i know better than to trust
you and your offered self
standing pure and nude
on tongue of pearly
vomiting clam

i will away

some edge
on some world
i will find
will find me
frozen in dark shade
of silver caveless cliff
to know who i am
wholly
apart

the job of a parent is to love, unconditionally love.

there are always two voices a parent hears, sometimes one more than the other. one voice always appreciates what a wonder it is that a child is exactly as he or she is. the other is the voice that desires (rightly or not) that a child were "better."

here is the paradox: you need to hear both voices, simultaneously. BUT you almost always have to choose to act on the "harder" one in any given situation. that seems to be the path to greatest growth, anyway (for the parent or the child, i'm not so sure).

for example, when it is obvious to everyone (including the child) that there is a problem of some sort, and the temptation is to come down with condemnation, and say things like, "why can't you be more like this?" or "why can't you be normal?" well, i want to be the parent who acknowledges errors of behavior or whatever in his heart (this is the "obvious" truth, anyway), but who still looks beyond this to appreciate and love the child unconditionally. this has to be done FIRST, before any constructive action can be taken to "correct" any errors. i feel this is true. if you operate out of the "worldly voice" that only sees the faults in a child (i call this the "what will the other parents think?" voice), then you will be, for the child, just another part of the world that looks down upon and judges the child. but if you make clear that, despite errors of behavior or whatever, you love the child NO MATTER WHAT, then you will be the child's advocate, and, together, hand in hand, you can conquer the world.

i think of the final scenes of "little miss sunshine." i didn't see the whole movie (not yet), even though i claim to love it, but what i appreciated at the end was how a whole family of misfits pulled together to make the dream of a little girl (objectively impossible, ridiculous even) come true, NO MATTER WHAT. i want to be the advocate for my child, yes, when they are "good" and behave, but also when they challenge me, when they pursue dreams that i (and the rest of the world) don't understand or appreciate. i hope i am the kind of parent that my children KNEW in their bones loved them no matter what.

because i do.

***

i am in a tight spot right now. it seems as though simple problems are always like "improvised explosive devices" waiting to blow up in my face. i am facing a few such "simple problems" at the moment, all the while knowing that other, so-called larger things are waiting for me in the near future... there have been many long hours of tortuous panic, some outbursts of frustration and outright despair (i get like this sometimes, enough that i've come to appreciate, on some level, on some very abstracted level, the humor of it all). i can't sleep or concentrate until these "simple problems" are addressed (even if it may kill me).

my family and friends are wonderful at such times. they give me space when i need it, and they offer a lot of support. thank you to all of you.

***

i did a few treatments and ran clinic today (yesterday), and one thing i reflected upon was the importance of giving all that you can, putting your heart into everything, no matter what you do. i reflected upon the "art" of what i do. sometimes people look at the word "art" and they think of "artifice" or even "artificial." but "art" for me has always been the path that bridges the unbridgeable gap between myself and my secret burdens, and the world out there that is "unshaped," or in suffering, or otherwise could benefit from my intervention. if i embody my "art," whatever it may be, then perhaps i can touch the world in a way that, i don't know, approaches truth, or something or other. i don't know. it FEELS right, anyway.

part of embodying "art," as i see it, is an acknowledgment of and full acceptance of your limits. a person can't know everything, can't be this fictitious hegelian absolute subject. but that doesn't mean a person can't do something helpful. there are several things with regards to my patients that i don't fully understand, or can't account for. but that doesn't mean i can't understand them in some sense, and treat them. "art" doesn't seek to answer all questions, but it does seek to "touch" the contradictions of reality and address them intelligently...

well, it's getting late. i hope everyone has what i have, family and friends (and god) that supports me like the glove of sleep, ready to catch me and allow me to rest from all of my troubles... i wish everyone this, in the least...

asynchronous

the end of the world was announced
but by the time word reached the fourth corner
the news was already two days old,
and those who heard it
deemed it false,
or at least highly suspect,
all evidence withstanding.
they ignored it,
and went about their daily routines.

motivation (ii)

at a certain age, or at a certain stage of seasoning, it becomes impossible to apply simple motivational techniques upon oneself.

"i'm an old dog," the soul mutters, "and those old tricks don't work on me." a laziness of sorts begins to creep into old bones. motion and emotion becomes economical, measured. and other things begin to be valued, replacing the old youthful dynasty's monetary system.

"your currency's no longer good here."

everything is now measured in a kind of feeling, a feeling akin to riding waves...

it is impossible to prepare for a tsunami in advance, simply because it is a wave that hasn't happened yet, and hasn't arrived. those who do prepare are the ones who "have it together," who still operate out of that quaint mythology that the world can and should be prepared for. yes, there is a certain elegance and simplicity to that.

but for those who have loved the world and been irrevocably broken by it, it is impossible to prepare for anything. not only that, it is undesirable to prepare. preparation, in a certain sense, kills the world. it lays a blanket of dominion over the future, and prevents the true tomorrow from arriving, the tomorrow that everyone and no one anticipates, the tomorrow of a fresh face and a new horizon.

i will address things as they come. there are too many things to love right now. i may be, will be, killed by something sometime soon, but i never played this game to win. i played this game to play.

***

imagine yourself a character in a book. you have the privilege (or curse) of being self-aware, and in a certain sense, in control of your destiny. do you rail against the pages you have been written into, seeking to find that empty space that has never been written? do you struggle to climb out from beneath the covers that contain your narrative? do you shout in capital lettered quotations to the invisible author who writes you into being, to set you free?

or are you quiet and inwardly laughing, as the story unfolds before you? you have no choice but to live it, no choice but to follow a path that has been set before you, with illusory decisions to make. "no choice but to choose." some call it abdication, but who here has every turned the world on their whim? better for a fish to swim in its sea, than to seek a way to escape all tides and waves in the suffocating air above.

the one who wrote me and writes me still has not a single clue where he will put me. perhaps for periods of time he lays me down and forgets all about me, his cares directed elsewhere. and for those moments, i live my life, oblivious and aging, a secret to myself and to "him." and i flow into the rivers and i stagnate in the pools. i live and i die. sometime, somewhere, events unfold that make waves, and perhaps for a time, those waves stir me and i flash into a narrative again. but the point is, i am not in control of anything. i do not write the story. and, in any case, no one is there who has the capacity or patience to read it, anyway...

keep the teacup warm
the shapes are forming
and settling destinies.
"i'll drink to that."

there is a photo beneath the lamp
of a man sitting at this very place
taken over ten years ago
and beneath it a fortune cookie line:
"you are a very happy man."

who would have imagined
that his eyes staring through the dusty glass
see us sitting here together
fulfilling a fortune,
reading tea leaves for
tomorrows still brewing?

potential karaoke lists

here's a partial list (as of tonight) of some songs that i'd like to sing for karaoke (as we are having an upcoming karaoke outing). what are some of your favorite karaoke tunes? what are some of your ideal karaoke tunes (but sadly are not carried at any existing karaoke joint)?

devotchka's "till the end of time"
morissey's "the more you ignore me"
morissey's "we hate it when our friends become successful"
smith's "ask me"
smith's "headmaster's ritual"
replacements' "i'll be you"
replacements' (?) "dyslexic heart"
u2 "one"
beatles "hey jude"
beatles "twist and shout"
beatles "michelle"
beatles "in my life"
radiohead (of course) "creep", "high and dry", and a whole lot of other songs most karaoke joints don't supply
wheatus "teenage dirtbag"
soul asylum "leave without a trace", "frustrated incorporated", "promises broken"

forgive me for the soda stains
it was a windy day and it blew my mind
i have at other times taken great pains
to be a person who's gentle and kind

forgive me for the shouted words
the rain was loud and it beat me down
normally i speak just loud enough to be heard
or with dry eyes speak without a sound

i don't know what got into me
i don't know what came over me
i don't know who came out of me
it isn't me
it wasn't me
so forgive me
please forgive.

i think i drank too much caffeine tonight. two cans of coke. that, combined with the strange things illness can do to your adrenal glands.

it's 2 am, and i am still up. there is energy within me, but it has nowhere to go (or at least nowhere particularly appetizing).

the wind has started up again. it has a voice and a rhythmless rhythm. it surprises me sometimes with its ferocity, and then withdraws just as quickly. sometimes it speaks in multiple voices, or at least, it seems to, when the window to my right "hears" one aspect of it, while the window to my back seems to catch a discordant chorus.

on nights like this, i imagine creatures (like the wild pig that on occasion slips into my backyard) creeping about disguised by the storm. perhaps it skulks in the shadows and shelter of the snowbush on the left side of the house.

***

irresponsibility.

***

there are places and times and people in our lives, and then there are the hopes and fears and dreams we have about them. the two on occasion appear to coincide, but never entirely. the latter superimposes upon or submerges the former, burying it with shifting, swallowing waves beneath a restless sea.

what is real?

***

i remember the california grass field where the current mililani town post office now lies. my brother and i, and then later, my sister and i, we used to cross that field every day to go to and from japanese school on the far side of the mililani high school campus. i like to think (somewhat arrogantly) that it was solely the tread of our tires that maintained the pathway through all of that undergrowth. i can remember the landscape of that hidden field primarily as a series of hills and slopes, and particularly the last one, the one before the entrance to the track field, the one where you would run out of momentum just before cresting, and had to put it one last umph with the pedals to get your front tire catching the top and pulling you up.

***

the past seems so rich with details, evasive and irrelevant. the past seems so huge and long. and yet, as i watch my children (as if looking at them askance), i realize how swiftly it is all running away. the memories that i hold sacred, the memories that i (whether rightly or not) feel determined everything that i am today, the memories that i always return to, those memories are happening right now for my children. in the babble that i half-heartedly listen to, there are secrets that one day i will try to reach for but will always elude me.

this moment only happens once. everything after is just us. just me.

perhaps there is sentimentality in this, but i make a conscious effort to see my children, to really see them, not as what i would like them to become (although, of course, it is impossible for a parent to ignore this), but as who they are in their present wonderful moment of childhood. oddly enough, through the lens of the present, i can almost see the whole trajectory of their life's path. i see in willow the cheerful optimism that will push her through adversity; i see also the competitive edge and simple trust in fairness (and other myths) that could potentially break her heart. i see in aiden a gentle spirit, unafraid (and even eager) to play the fool, always looking for a way to be seen or heard, and always afraid to be left behind. in many ways, he is so like myself. i hope that his need for love and respect does not turn him away from the lonely path of independence that he must eventually forge for himself...

i hear one of them stirring... mumbling in sleep.

***

i watched a korean movie called "the host." it begins like a horror movie, but ends up being about so much more. i would strongly recommend it. it is full of surprises, not just in the sense of "horror" films (which i definitely would NOT characterize this movie as), but in the way it keeps stepping outside categorizations so that one can't clearly say what the movie is "about." watch it! it is viewable in its entirety on youtube.

well, i think i've killed some time and energy for tonight. i should sign off. wish i had something more interesting to write about...

this morning, i worked on two of my sped assignments (due today). that occupied a majority of my attention, while (sadly) my kids played with themselves. after that, the three of us headed over to walmart to purchase a gift for nicholas (the 2 year old son of a friend, who, by the way, shares my birthday), and to have breakfast over at mcdonald's. we picked mommy from her working place (she had to train an assistant manager from another store) and then dashed off to nicholas's party. we were late (as usual), but no more than 35 minutes (which, sadly, is kind of a record). thankfully, most of the other guests were late. i spent a blurry half hour or so at the party, which took place over at one of the teahouses at my friend min's apartment complex. it was a nice party (at least the scant time i saw of it), with a few of min's close friends. nicholas himself is truly a little man. there is a calmness and certainty about him that i admire.

taiko practice was at 1, and it was important that i attend, since we hadn't gone to practice in two weeks. so i quietly excused myself from the party and headed over to pearl harbor kai elementary, where the practices are held. we worked briefly on two of the songs (kaizen and kansha); the second song, i really have little idea how to play, since i haven't had any direct instruction on how to do it, and i haven't taken the time to examine/memorize it. after that, we worked on the nameless song we've been focusing on for the majority of our time with the group. this song has a solo portion, and our leader has been wanting us to develop this aspect in particular. so three drums were set up on the stage facing the rest of the players. we played through the song a few times, with three players showing off their solo "stage presence" at a time. i had my chance, and i think i did alright, although i'm still shaky on my solo at parts, and i tend to be, as andrea puts it, "stiff", not looking up, focusing on what i'm doing.

the group has a great energy. it, like my previous taiko group (yoki daiko) seems to have a fresh, open energy. yoki daiko was an inexperienced group; the advantage of being an amateur is that there is little pressure to "do things right," and there is a lot of room for creativity and innovation and expression. anyway, this group, ryusei taiko, has that same energy, that same fun spirit.

certainly, there's a lot to be said for "expertise" and "professionalism" and "tradition." but these can be terribly stifling and stultifying things. to me, for art to stay alive, it has to "carry" tradition, but it must leave a constant opening, a way forward, in much the same way that a plant must remember its roots, but at the same time, have a way to grow up towards the light.

after picking the kids and wife up from the party, we headed home, and took a nap. then, i drove lynn off to a meeting at work, and went to a dinner with thomas and irene and rita, and debby, soukan, ian, and nia (lynn's sister's family, who had just come in from minnesota for great grandpa hashimoto's funeral). it was nice to see debby and her family again, particularly ian (because he'd grown so much) and nia (the new cherubic addition to her family).

and then, it was off to home, to put the kids to bed (it's school tomorrow!!!).

altogether, an okay day. sorry to bore you all.

the wind is howling violently outside, rattling the windows in their panes.

this evening, as i walked along river street back to my car, i took note of the dirty street pigeons huddling on the ground, amidst their splattered white birdshit graffiti... (usually, i walk cautiously beneath them as they perch on the branches of the tired trees) i saw a small group of homeless people huddled at the foot of some chinese clan's hangout, with a couple of wild-eyed lookouts, and about four prone forms huddled under dirty sheets...

i thought about living on the street, without walls. i can almost feel myself leaking away without a room of my own. all of my colors and thoughts fade out in the sun, and lose themselves in the shadows. and the wind... i imagine trying to anchor myself with dirty fingernails on the cold concrete in the face of that wind, the wind that would make me another piece of garbage, to be tossed hither and yon, unwanted.

i thought about how people (how i) solve problems simply by bracketing them. there are things too big for anyone to deal with. if we opened ourselves up to the endless uncertainties and anxieties, then we would be paralyzed and sleepless, forever. it is so much more convenient to think only of today, and of that small group of friends and family that i circumscribe as my own, my self, my love. the world may end tomorrow, for all that i care. for the little that i care...

***

the world is hungry for kindness and for love. just give it a little of these, and see what comes to life. you'd think the faces were all dead and jaded; but if given the opportunity, if given the chance and attention, then they will change and move and speak to you. everyone has something to say, a story to tell. the cold and dead statues in the background, every single one, has a whisper of an echo to share with you, about life before everyone forgot their names...

***

"goodbye," whispered the walls. "tomorrow, you will leave me."
"i will never leave you," came the voice from within. "you have always been so faithful. you have held me safe, held me fast, for all this time. how could i ever leave you?"
"tomorrow, you will leave me," repeated the walls, as if in echo. "tomorrow, you must."
just as insistently, the voice within repeated over and over again, "i will never leave you."
but as the sun crested the skies and descended into the western shadows, and as the moon took its turn leaping across the vast firmament, something grew and something receded. and there was a blind moment of fullness to bursting, and when it past, there were no walls and no voice within.
there was just me.