i got really upset about the whole colorado shooting. i posted messages on facebook expressing my anger at the inability of this country to see that there is a problem when an average civilian can assemble an arsenal LEGALLY. i still am incredulous at how- i'm sorry- idiotic people are regarding this issue... i eventually removed my postings, along with the associated comments, which i felt were getting a little heated for my tastes. i know, it's now common sense that you don't get political or religious on facebook. but jeez, to me, that WAS and IS common sense, and i was truly incensed, and shouldn't my friends WANT to know how i really feel? rather than stupid platitudes and to-do lists or just-did lists or pictures of food and places, etc... BUT I GUESS NOT. our country is just a patina of "politeness" concealing a lot of rust and decay.
ANYWAY. here's a comment i read off of charles blow's article in the times called "mourning and mulling". i think it largely expresses some of my own sentiments:
***
We can all by now repeat every argument that has ever been used in the gun control "debate" by either side during the last 25 years.
I mourn those people and their families.
But may we speak honestly? Our country, as a whole, has made an explicit political decision to accept the almost unregulated possession of firearms and, with that, to tolerate a certain number of periodic massacres of innocent people so long as each massacre is appropriately condemned, piously mourned and thoroughly forgotten after two weeks. I am no longer willing to be complicit in that process by participating in the shame and mourning rituals that are an explicit part of this decision.
Unless gun control advocates can figure out a way or summon the will to get a lot of other people in this country to support gun control then I will no longer participate in "national conversations," great debates or mourning rituals. There is no debate. Sometimes the decision gets made. It's been made.
If someone can suggest to me a political strategy to get gun control passed in both Congress and the state legislatures, I will be there. If not, then I will use my time and energy to support another important cause. But I will not participate in this ritual anymore.
***
there you go.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Kipapa: rewritten beginning
Read some Neil Gaiman, so decided to begin the Kipapa story from a different angle, i.e. first-person retelling of a story. There is something much more natural about telling the story from the first-person perspective, something more conversational about it all. Third-person narratives, it's hard to decide where to be, or how omniscient to be (i.e. can I report how this person feels? Am I allowed to poke my finger into this character's brain?)... So, despite the fact that this will throw a wrench into the ending which I just wrote, let's see, yesterday (already having second thoughts about that ending anyway), here goes: REWRITTEN BEGINNING.
You wouldn’t believe it, if I told you. How a couple of kids survived the Night Marchers.
Heck, I hardly believe it myself, especially after all this time. It was like a dream, or a nightmare, fading away after years of waking up. But it happened to the both of us, and even though we’ve never openly talked about it afterwards, we both shared something terrifyingly real and unforgettable that night.
In fact, it’s what brought us together, if you can believe it.
It was early October of my sophomore year. Things were going fine. In fact, it felt like something great was sort of coming together, not quite there yet, but on its way. Just like a cherry blossom in springtime, right on the verge of blooming (don’t mind me- never saw a cherry blossom, and I know it’s the wrong season, but I just like Japanese-y imagery). While the academics had always been easy and comfortable for me, my classes were actually starting to engage and interest me in a deeper way. My second cross country season was well under way, and our team actually had a decent set of runners; at one race, five of us placed within the top ten. And there were a few girls at the school who actually had a personality, and I was on comfortable speaking terms with at least one of them. It felt like a- what’s the word- a confluence. Like a bunch of things were all joining up and merging, and carrying me somewhere wonderful.
I guess it was just about when I started being aware of this feeling of optimism, on, let’s see, October the 12th, to be exact. That’s when my dad came home with the news. He received orders that, by the end of the month, we’d be packing up and leaving our home on Wheeler Air Force Base in Hawaii, and moving to some place in Nevada.
So there you go.
It wasn’t all that bad, in the large scheme of things. And, being in a military family, you learn to take these sorts of things in stride, no complaining. It’s all about sacrifice, right? The whole military way of life is founded on it. So my mother and my younger brother and sister, we eat a little bit of that sacrifice that my father so willingly gives, so that we all stay strong together.
I decided not to tell anyone at school. Not my classmates, my teammates, the girls I had set my eyes on. Not even my best friend. I’m not good at goodbyes, see. I don’t know how to act. I decided to keep it a secret, leave abruptly without a word or a trace.
You wouldn’t believe it, if I told you. How a couple of kids survived the Night Marchers.
Heck, I hardly believe it myself, especially after all this time. It was like a dream, or a nightmare, fading away after years of waking up. But it happened to the both of us, and even though we’ve never openly talked about it afterwards, we both shared something terrifyingly real and unforgettable that night.
In fact, it’s what brought us together, if you can believe it.
It was early October of my sophomore year. Things were going fine. In fact, it felt like something great was sort of coming together, not quite there yet, but on its way. Just like a cherry blossom in springtime, right on the verge of blooming (don’t mind me- never saw a cherry blossom, and I know it’s the wrong season, but I just like Japanese-y imagery). While the academics had always been easy and comfortable for me, my classes were actually starting to engage and interest me in a deeper way. My second cross country season was well under way, and our team actually had a decent set of runners; at one race, five of us placed within the top ten. And there were a few girls at the school who actually had a personality, and I was on comfortable speaking terms with at least one of them. It felt like a- what’s the word- a confluence. Like a bunch of things were all joining up and merging, and carrying me somewhere wonderful.
I guess it was just about when I started being aware of this feeling of optimism, on, let’s see, October the 12th, to be exact. That’s when my dad came home with the news. He received orders that, by the end of the month, we’d be packing up and leaving our home on Wheeler Air Force Base in Hawaii, and moving to some place in Nevada.
So there you go.
It wasn’t all that bad, in the large scheme of things. And, being in a military family, you learn to take these sorts of things in stride, no complaining. It’s all about sacrifice, right? The whole military way of life is founded on it. So my mother and my younger brother and sister, we eat a little bit of that sacrifice that my father so willingly gives, so that we all stay strong together.
I decided not to tell anyone at school. Not my classmates, my teammates, the girls I had set my eyes on. Not even my best friend. I’m not good at goodbyes, see. I don’t know how to act. I decided to keep it a secret, leave abruptly without a word or a trace.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
writing from the ending: kipapa
Here's an attempt at a strategy I once used a long time ago: writing from the ending, backwards... This is the possible ending for a new version of "Kipapa."
After a long walk in silence, the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway appears before them. Blinking as though he were finally waking up from a long sleep, Cliff mutters, “My stop.”
“So,” says Erica, in a sing-song voice, lightly swinging Cliff’s arm, “What’s next?”
“What’s next?” Cliff glances at Erica. He takes a seat at the bus stop, and pulls her gently down beside him. He flashes a smile as he turns away in thought. The smile fades swiftly, carried off by the sound of the cars on the road beside them. “Nothing changes. In a couple of days, I’m leaving this place, for good.” He exhales slow and long through pursed lips, a low whistle. “And you?”
“I’m going back home,” Erica says, in a grey voice. Sensing Cliff’s reaction, she turns to him, eyes steely and bright. “Just to get my stuff.” She turns away to look at the road, her lips set and resolute. “I’ve heard there are places you can go to. Safe houses. At least it will be a step, right?”
“...Yeah.”
“After that, who knows? Guess I’ll decide what to do from there.”
Cliff smiles a half-smile, to no one in particular. “Sounds like a plan.” He nods. “Do you need me to go with you?”
Erica laughs loudly, but there is a hint of a tremor in it, just at the end. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Next time I’m in a pinch to do Shakespeare for a hostile audience, I’ll call you. But this? I can handle this shit myself.”
Cliff nods, and keeps nodding, like a bobblehead. He turns at the sound of a big engine revving up the road. It’s only a dump truck. He inhales, sharp. “Erica?” he says abruptly. “Just what are we? I mean, to each other.”
The sound of cars passing. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
Erica squeezes his hand. “Don’t you know? We’re Hamlet and Ophelia, after the curtains are down and the play’s over. We’ve no audience to please, and no lines to read. Hamlet and Ophelia.”
Suddenly, the #52 bus to Wahiawa is there, breathless and impatient. The doors squeak open, and the driver is looking down at the two of them through tea-colored sunglasses. Cliff releases Erica’s hand. There is an empty, needly numbness in his palm and fingers. He sticks his hand into his pocket, fumbles for change. “My bus,” he mumbles absently, not looking Erica in the eye, as he gets up from his seat.
Not good at goodbyes.
“Sure you’ll be alright?” he manages, without turning all the way.
“Sure you can’t stick around forever?” Cliff doesn’t look at her, but he can almost imagine that brilliant smile of hers, a smile that almost pushes you away.
Almost.
At the threshold, Cliff yells a “Sorry” over the din of the restless, fuming engine, and waves the irritated driver on. The bus pulls away, kicking up a cloud of red dirt and swirling black smoke.
Cliff turns back to Erica, still sitting there at the bus stop, huddled beneath his oversized grey sweat-shirt.
“Not good at goodbyes,” he mutters with a shrug.
After a long walk in silence, the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway appears before them. Blinking as though he were finally waking up from a long sleep, Cliff mutters, “My stop.”
“So,” says Erica, in a sing-song voice, lightly swinging Cliff’s arm, “What’s next?”
“What’s next?” Cliff glances at Erica. He takes a seat at the bus stop, and pulls her gently down beside him. He flashes a smile as he turns away in thought. The smile fades swiftly, carried off by the sound of the cars on the road beside them. “Nothing changes. In a couple of days, I’m leaving this place, for good.” He exhales slow and long through pursed lips, a low whistle. “And you?”
“I’m going back home,” Erica says, in a grey voice. Sensing Cliff’s reaction, she turns to him, eyes steely and bright. “Just to get my stuff.” She turns away to look at the road, her lips set and resolute. “I’ve heard there are places you can go to. Safe houses. At least it will be a step, right?”
“...Yeah.”
“After that, who knows? Guess I’ll decide what to do from there.”
Cliff smiles a half-smile, to no one in particular. “Sounds like a plan.” He nods. “Do you need me to go with you?”
Erica laughs loudly, but there is a hint of a tremor in it, just at the end. “Nah, I’ll be alright. Next time I’m in a pinch to do Shakespeare for a hostile audience, I’ll call you. But this? I can handle this shit myself.”
Cliff nods, and keeps nodding, like a bobblehead. He turns at the sound of a big engine revving up the road. It’s only a dump truck. He inhales, sharp. “Erica?” he says abruptly. “Just what are we? I mean, to each other.”
The sound of cars passing. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
Erica squeezes his hand. “Don’t you know? We’re Hamlet and Ophelia, after the curtains are down and the play’s over. We’ve no audience to please, and no lines to read. Hamlet and Ophelia.”
Suddenly, the #52 bus to Wahiawa is there, breathless and impatient. The doors squeak open, and the driver is looking down at the two of them through tea-colored sunglasses. Cliff releases Erica’s hand. There is an empty, needly numbness in his palm and fingers. He sticks his hand into his pocket, fumbles for change. “My bus,” he mumbles absently, not looking Erica in the eye, as he gets up from his seat.
Not good at goodbyes.
“Sure you’ll be alright?” he manages, without turning all the way.
“Sure you can’t stick around forever?” Cliff doesn’t look at her, but he can almost imagine that brilliant smile of hers, a smile that almost pushes you away.
Almost.
At the threshold, Cliff yells a “Sorry” over the din of the restless, fuming engine, and waves the irritated driver on. The bus pulls away, kicking up a cloud of red dirt and swirling black smoke.
Cliff turns back to Erica, still sitting there at the bus stop, huddled beneath his oversized grey sweat-shirt.
“Not good at goodbyes,” he mutters with a shrug.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
revisioning
i believe i understand something more about myself. i am not someone who can easily "work things out" without at least a general vision of where i am going. i need to see the big picture.
i realized this when i attempted (for the umpteenth time) to write following natalie goldman (sp?)'s advice, as articulated in "writing from the bones." she advocates freewriting, and quick freewriting in particular, as a tool to bypass the internal censor. all well and good. but when i put this into practice, what it turns into is a kind of stream of consciousness drivel full of random sparks of thought, and repetitions of catch phrases ("hate"). i feel a kind of despair as i produce this sort of writing, just as i feel a kind of despair when i dream in this way (i.e., conscious of the meaninglessness of the associations, as opposed to a dream with a secret and therefore meaningful theme). i feel as though i am wasting my time.
don't get me wrong. i do feel as though freewriting has a place, just as doodling and marginalia can have their place. but, for me at least, the presence of some predetermined form, at least in a very rudimentary sense, provides the seed crystal around which creative thought can find structure...
when i recall some of the better works i'd written, i had a keen awareness of structure, of where things were going. although some writers can "write" their way to the conclusion, i find my attempts at such a strategy seriously wanting: like a stand-up comedian who doesn't prepare, and finds himself coming up empty on stage. no can do.
***
not much else going on. i am currently living my life on a cycle basis; that is, i think of all the things i am responsible for, and cycle through them, in either 20 minute, or task-compartmentalized segments. for example, i might write one page of a story, or read a chapter of a story. i am still working out the cycles to keep them even and functioning, but i do feel it's the best way for me to function. although i could be "project-based", that is, work on one thing to its completion, i realize that i am actually stretched across several infinities, and to commit to only one would lead to imbalance and neglect of the thousand other things i need to attend to.
i work with my kids on a cycling basis also. this insures that, throughout a week, i will have touched on each of the things that i feel it is important for them to work on. yes, boring and repetitive, but perhaps at its core, life needs to be this, needs to have this. without this core, like the regularity of a heartbeat, life becomes too chaotic, unregulated, unproductive...
yes, one thing i've realized is this: passion, alone, dissipates. steady, focused, consistent pressure, on the other hand, consciously chosen and regularly applied, leads to results. this is my hope, this is my path.
i realized this when i attempted (for the umpteenth time) to write following natalie goldman (sp?)'s advice, as articulated in "writing from the bones." she advocates freewriting, and quick freewriting in particular, as a tool to bypass the internal censor. all well and good. but when i put this into practice, what it turns into is a kind of stream of consciousness drivel full of random sparks of thought, and repetitions of catch phrases ("hate"). i feel a kind of despair as i produce this sort of writing, just as i feel a kind of despair when i dream in this way (i.e., conscious of the meaninglessness of the associations, as opposed to a dream with a secret and therefore meaningful theme). i feel as though i am wasting my time.
don't get me wrong. i do feel as though freewriting has a place, just as doodling and marginalia can have their place. but, for me at least, the presence of some predetermined form, at least in a very rudimentary sense, provides the seed crystal around which creative thought can find structure...
when i recall some of the better works i'd written, i had a keen awareness of structure, of where things were going. although some writers can "write" their way to the conclusion, i find my attempts at such a strategy seriously wanting: like a stand-up comedian who doesn't prepare, and finds himself coming up empty on stage. no can do.
***
not much else going on. i am currently living my life on a cycle basis; that is, i think of all the things i am responsible for, and cycle through them, in either 20 minute, or task-compartmentalized segments. for example, i might write one page of a story, or read a chapter of a story. i am still working out the cycles to keep them even and functioning, but i do feel it's the best way for me to function. although i could be "project-based", that is, work on one thing to its completion, i realize that i am actually stretched across several infinities, and to commit to only one would lead to imbalance and neglect of the thousand other things i need to attend to.
i work with my kids on a cycling basis also. this insures that, throughout a week, i will have touched on each of the things that i feel it is important for them to work on. yes, boring and repetitive, but perhaps at its core, life needs to be this, needs to have this. without this core, like the regularity of a heartbeat, life becomes too chaotic, unregulated, unproductive...
yes, one thing i've realized is this: passion, alone, dissipates. steady, focused, consistent pressure, on the other hand, consciously chosen and regularly applied, leads to results. this is my hope, this is my path.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
lost dreams
at one point, i was a worker at a starbucks or some random restaurant. i was to take a survey or something on an online computer or hovering touch pad with icons done in the same chalk drawings that restaurants typically make to display their daily specials. in the survey, i needed to identify my role in the store/restaurant: server? cook? and then, i was supposed to answer some sort of question, only now, i can't remember what it is. i sort of turned into this girl, who at first seemed a typical starbucks employee, only later it seemed as though she were both a waitress and a chef, taking orders and preparing the dishes. i recall her manning the burners. the dishes became somewhat elaborate, even turning into seafood, caught fresh...
"i" hovered through the store, and saw a group of black-clad youngish guys who were clearly into ninjitsu, judging by the tabis they were wearing. they were surrounding a wok? with fresh vegetables steaming. they opened the lid, thus ejecting all the collected steam. i warned them that each time they did that, their vegetables would take longer to prepare... as i was walking back, i noticed the tabis of one of these guys, all wet. and i had a thought, that if this guy wanted to, he could very well kick my ass. i didn't want trouble...
there then "appeared" a huge lobster tank. a man dressed as a samurai (actually, all of the people in the tank were dressed as samurai) was moving around inside the tank, dropping esa (bait) for the others, who were apparently lobsters. at the same time, however, he was stomping his feet loudly, so loudly that i was afraid that the bottom of the tank (which was glass, and raised) would shatter, and all the water would come rushing out...
in any case, the man seemed intent upon "training" the lobsters, by combining fear and love (i.e., feeding them). eventually, it worked, and the "lobsters" began bowing to the man. the man gave some kind of speech about wanting to train them to become samurai. all of a sudden, i noticed that above the "men", in the fishtank, were a bunch of samurai swords, hanging from above in their sheaths. the man took his sword, unsheathed it, and continued his lecture. for some reason, i thought his sword was dull; there was danger in carrying a truly sharp sword in this, which amounted to some kind of play...
in yet another sequence of the dream, perhaps a prequel: i dreamed of a quest, an objective, with a potential risk. for individuals deemed insane, or trapped within some "complex" or conundrum of the mind, notably with their eyes closed, a few compassionate individuals volunteered to venture within their thoughts and dreams, and attempt to pull them out of their states of varying catatonia, in order to shorten their time within their own private hells. i visualized the entrance into the mind as being a burrow (like a tunnel) that started from one eye, delved deep into the brain, and eventually ran out the other eye. the danger was that some souls were so sneaky that they would trap the volunteer, and escape themselves, thus leaving the helper to remain trapped within their dream, within their coma, for some unspecified time...
***
i have lost my dream, or had lost it, for quite some time. over this past week, which has been somewhat of a respite from many things, i have been somewhat like an empty vessel, caught on various wayward currents, with not a rudder nor captain to guide me. i slept a lot. i had no memorable/vivid dreams until the night before...
i think the world has two traps, both having to do with (in simple terms) matters of focus. both arise from a desire or need to keep moving, or to maintain the illusion of movement, of belonging. there is nothing that tempts mutiny so much as laying adrift purposeless in a boundless sea, after all. we are meant to be sailing this sea, conquering it, drawing our lines across its trackless expanse, discovering new things, transporting goods, be they slaves, or sugar, or cotton, or information...
in any case, one can be myopic and invent little things to accomplish, and once they are done, pretend that one has "done" something. or, one can choose no direction at all, appreciate the roundness of things, allow the world to penetrate into one (or be absorbed by the world); sure, you don't really get anywhere, but it gives you "perspective," right? i am oversimplifying things of course, but at present (this interminable present), i oscillate between the two, getting nowhere.
perhaps i am depressed, perhaps not, but it seems as though i have disconnected myself from the worldstream, and, at some level, disconnected myself from actively caring. maybe a bulb or fuse has burnt out, but, while attending to my daily responsibilities, i no longer receive any particular joy or gain from anything, nor a feeling of particular despair at not doing something else. i have realized that nothing i do really amounts to anything (no, this is not a "it's a wonderful life" issue; i do think that what i do has some meaning, in the sense of moving others to believe in themselves, helping others to feel happiness or learn something new... but it neither convinces ME nor the WORLD nor GOD in the least)...
you can't stab the ocean. you can't piss in the sea and leave a trace. everything dissolves and moves away and fades. if i try really hard, perhaps i can build an island, but i will have to pay for it with my life.
and for what?
***
to parenthood: you can train your children, you can appreciate them for what they already are. these are not two extremes, just as being a parent involves both loving them for what they are, and moving them to better themselves. no contradiction. in a sense, both are present as the plenitude within the moment. each moment is not a pearl in and of itself, with no connection to the stream of time. so too, each soul, when touched, has a past and a dream of a future. we don't just "bliss out" and appreciate a moment in its "moment-ness", it is always by its very nature here and gone. fleeting. to appreciate a child is to move it on its course, on its own momentum. honoring everything, pushing nothing particularly... at present, my vague dream is to prepare my kids for their respective grade levels, to get back to taijiquan training, to improve in data-collection and record-keeping as a teacher, and to basically heal the two year or so wound (if that) that has really gotten at my heart. healing, i realize, is an iteration. it's an experience of the other. if you don't incorporate it into your dialectic, then it remains as history repeating itself. my way is to understand it, and remain true to my motivations of helping others. i now know that i can't help anyone unless i am healed. a broken man, after all, has sharp and hidden edges, and each touch can cut unawares...
"i" hovered through the store, and saw a group of black-clad youngish guys who were clearly into ninjitsu, judging by the tabis they were wearing. they were surrounding a wok? with fresh vegetables steaming. they opened the lid, thus ejecting all the collected steam. i warned them that each time they did that, their vegetables would take longer to prepare... as i was walking back, i noticed the tabis of one of these guys, all wet. and i had a thought, that if this guy wanted to, he could very well kick my ass. i didn't want trouble...
there then "appeared" a huge lobster tank. a man dressed as a samurai (actually, all of the people in the tank were dressed as samurai) was moving around inside the tank, dropping esa (bait) for the others, who were apparently lobsters. at the same time, however, he was stomping his feet loudly, so loudly that i was afraid that the bottom of the tank (which was glass, and raised) would shatter, and all the water would come rushing out...
in any case, the man seemed intent upon "training" the lobsters, by combining fear and love (i.e., feeding them). eventually, it worked, and the "lobsters" began bowing to the man. the man gave some kind of speech about wanting to train them to become samurai. all of a sudden, i noticed that above the "men", in the fishtank, were a bunch of samurai swords, hanging from above in their sheaths. the man took his sword, unsheathed it, and continued his lecture. for some reason, i thought his sword was dull; there was danger in carrying a truly sharp sword in this, which amounted to some kind of play...
in yet another sequence of the dream, perhaps a prequel: i dreamed of a quest, an objective, with a potential risk. for individuals deemed insane, or trapped within some "complex" or conundrum of the mind, notably with their eyes closed, a few compassionate individuals volunteered to venture within their thoughts and dreams, and attempt to pull them out of their states of varying catatonia, in order to shorten their time within their own private hells. i visualized the entrance into the mind as being a burrow (like a tunnel) that started from one eye, delved deep into the brain, and eventually ran out the other eye. the danger was that some souls were so sneaky that they would trap the volunteer, and escape themselves, thus leaving the helper to remain trapped within their dream, within their coma, for some unspecified time...
***
i have lost my dream, or had lost it, for quite some time. over this past week, which has been somewhat of a respite from many things, i have been somewhat like an empty vessel, caught on various wayward currents, with not a rudder nor captain to guide me. i slept a lot. i had no memorable/vivid dreams until the night before...
i think the world has two traps, both having to do with (in simple terms) matters of focus. both arise from a desire or need to keep moving, or to maintain the illusion of movement, of belonging. there is nothing that tempts mutiny so much as laying adrift purposeless in a boundless sea, after all. we are meant to be sailing this sea, conquering it, drawing our lines across its trackless expanse, discovering new things, transporting goods, be they slaves, or sugar, or cotton, or information...
in any case, one can be myopic and invent little things to accomplish, and once they are done, pretend that one has "done" something. or, one can choose no direction at all, appreciate the roundness of things, allow the world to penetrate into one (or be absorbed by the world); sure, you don't really get anywhere, but it gives you "perspective," right? i am oversimplifying things of course, but at present (this interminable present), i oscillate between the two, getting nowhere.
perhaps i am depressed, perhaps not, but it seems as though i have disconnected myself from the worldstream, and, at some level, disconnected myself from actively caring. maybe a bulb or fuse has burnt out, but, while attending to my daily responsibilities, i no longer receive any particular joy or gain from anything, nor a feeling of particular despair at not doing something else. i have realized that nothing i do really amounts to anything (no, this is not a "it's a wonderful life" issue; i do think that what i do has some meaning, in the sense of moving others to believe in themselves, helping others to feel happiness or learn something new... but it neither convinces ME nor the WORLD nor GOD in the least)...
you can't stab the ocean. you can't piss in the sea and leave a trace. everything dissolves and moves away and fades. if i try really hard, perhaps i can build an island, but i will have to pay for it with my life.
and for what?
***
to parenthood: you can train your children, you can appreciate them for what they already are. these are not two extremes, just as being a parent involves both loving them for what they are, and moving them to better themselves. no contradiction. in a sense, both are present as the plenitude within the moment. each moment is not a pearl in and of itself, with no connection to the stream of time. so too, each soul, when touched, has a past and a dream of a future. we don't just "bliss out" and appreciate a moment in its "moment-ness", it is always by its very nature here and gone. fleeting. to appreciate a child is to move it on its course, on its own momentum. honoring everything, pushing nothing particularly... at present, my vague dream is to prepare my kids for their respective grade levels, to get back to taijiquan training, to improve in data-collection and record-keeping as a teacher, and to basically heal the two year or so wound (if that) that has really gotten at my heart. healing, i realize, is an iteration. it's an experience of the other. if you don't incorporate it into your dialectic, then it remains as history repeating itself. my way is to understand it, and remain true to my motivations of helping others. i now know that i can't help anyone unless i am healed. a broken man, after all, has sharp and hidden edges, and each touch can cut unawares...
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Marsilani Chronicles: it has been a while since my last posting. well, ...
Marsilani Chronicles: it has been a while since my last posting. well, ...: it has been a while since my last posting. well, this is not really for my nonexistent readership as it is to chronicle the slow and strang...
Marsilani Chronicles: hey.allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...
Marsilani Chronicles: hey.
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...: hey. allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relen...
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...: hey. allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relen...
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