there is something more important than being right.

***

i don't want to play at this game called life.  it isn't fun.  it's tiresome.

there are people in this world who cannot abide by anyone having fun "at their expense," i.e. winning even once.  if you claim one meager victory at the game, then they will trounce you 10 times in a row to let you know that it was a complete fluke.

someone did this to me throughout my childhood.  and the world let this person do it.  and the world loved this person as he did it.  because that is what the world loves.  a winner.  a go-getter.  i did not hate this person for it.  i, like the rest of the world, admired him...

growing up for me meant that i had to find another game, a secret game, and pretend not to play it.  i always knew that once i started to become good at something, that someone would come along and destroy it, just to show that i didn't deserve it.  this meant, for the most part, that i was a shadow of a person, with glints of genius and creativity (as ALL people have), who kept swallowing and swathing it all in darkness, because i was afraid of being seen.  being seen meant that someone would smother out the little burning embers.  being seen was the end of the world.

i did not know i was wounded.  the world teaches you that you must never speak of your wounds.  the irony was that those who wounded me would complain of pretended offenses, and because their voices were so clear, despite the hypocrisy, they would garner attention and aid.  but whenever i attempted (or even now attempt) to speak of wounds which damaged me so much that my eyes could not see them, nor my voice whisper of them, i am castigated for feeling sorry for myself.  and so, the offenses of the past were buried, as though they never happened, and any attempts to unearth them seemed, in the eyes of the world, self-pity and lies...

another irony was that, in concealing myself, i had in essence become the hater that i sought to escape.  i had swallowed the knife of the one who had wounded me, and cut myself deeper than anyone else could...  thus, in moments when i should have been happy, a part of me, that part of me that i had created, carefully carved out my shins with skilled slices, undermining my own stilted supports...  "i hate myself" replaced "they hate me."

***

i am a shadow person.  the world i live in is occupied by shadows.  my past is a blur of shadows.  muted impressions.  deep within me is a hatred of this life of shadows, a yearning for the clarity that i sense others have.  but at the same time, there is this fear of that clarity, for it would likely destroy everything that i have grown up to be, shade upon shade upon shade...

like a shadow, i derive my form and sustenance from others.  i say i love people and support them, but perhaps what i really mean is that i need to have a role and identity by showing the world i am a good person by helping them.  i am the beetle or centipede beneath the pavement, claiming that i shoulder the burden of it, when in reality, it is my concealment, and it is i who derive all the benefit...  how i hate myself as i realize this!  how i wish someone would smash me out of existence...

writing, a shadow play of words (shades of meaning), is in itself little more than another attempt to garner acceptance through concealment.  it is a longing for a lover/reader who will reconstruct in their mind's eye a real person out of these echoes and whispers and shadows that i write.  "believe in me, help me believe in anything, cause i want to be someone to believe."

***

i say i love people.  i loved my grandmother.  and yet perhaps i did not love her so much.  why then do i not live in the clarity and conviction of the path that she laid out for me?  why do i not honor her wishes?  i continue to live in the shadows, perhaps deeper than before.

i claim i love my sister.  and yet, i allow circumstance and time to dull my memory of her.  perhaps it is all my fault that she has committed yet another crime.  hell, she is hardly even a person to me any more...

***

what is love?

i imagine it to be an invisible embracing of all that is.  i repeatedly cling to this notion that it is blind.  it is blind, not in the sense that it does not see, but in the sense that it does not attach to what it sees; it looks beyond the eyes of the world into the truth of the heart.  deep within that abyss, in a place that no person can see themselves, love can go, and can unlock secrets and redeem everything.  love believes that i am a good person, and that i can do good things, despite everything.  despite the mistakes i've made, and the promises i have not been able to fulfill.

in moments when i am desperate (and they come nowadays, deep in the night, when the footsteps of time echo within me, and I am not certain whether I should panic because I can't settle, or because I always settle too much), i call on, i look for, love.  i find it in fragments of people and time.  in reality, those times may have passed, and those people may have turned away, but i try to remember those moments anyway.  they are all i have to cling to.

god for me is just like me in the sense that s/he has been so shrouded in the shadows and rags of hypocrisy in the eyes of this world, that i almost cannot believe in a fixed, institutionalized vision of him/her any more.  churches have become hypocritical precisely because they think they see god and claim a righteousness based upon that image.  it is in this sense that the dispossessed and downtrodden are closer to god than the church, for their eyes are broken.  god can only be seen and called upon by those who "cannot see" any longer, who cannot believe that any man-made, fixed conception ever is a satisfactory god.  there are too many cracks to slip through, too many ways for a man and a soul to be unacceptable and unforgivable.  if god truly is what s/he is, that which embraces and creates all, then there can never be a way to speak of him/her without limiting him/her, and god's salvific and redemptive power.  you will help him, but not her?  you will love that person, but not this?  you will allow this one to win, and be righteous, and that one to fall away?

NO.

there is something more important (and fundamental) than being right.

***

tonight, in the midst of the hissing winds outside, i will "pray" for shadows to fall away.  i will pray for love to find me, wordless and plain, a good person with a good heart, who can do simple things to uncover the goodness in the world around him...

it is late (in many senses)...

today, i went home early from work because i felt sick. i woke with a headache this morning, and as i went on with my work tasks, it gradually gnawed itself into a feeling of malaise and nausea. during lunch, i ate a few bites of lunch, felt like it wouldn't stay, and basically just sat back with my eyes closed, trying to shut everything out so that i would restore (i.e. control-alt-delete) back to normalcy...

i came home, and drifted in and out of sleep, hoping to come back, so i could get back on track with work. it didn't really happen... but i am feeling better, thanks for asking (haha).

***

this evening, as i worked with my son on his kidbiz, i thought about what my son would become. was this current level the ceiling of his capabilities? i don't like to think of such things, but at times, reality, or one of its more pessimistic gophers and go-aheads, will sneak in and whisper things to me...

oh well. i have come to understand one thing. my son is a wonderful person. i love who he is right now. i am uncertain as to his future, but i am content that he is someone who will always do good in this world. my job as his parent is to work with him, yes, to become something better than he presently is, but it is also (and i will strive to never forget this!) to love him as he is, appreciate him as he is, in this present moment, because he is like a fleeting beautiful thing right now, and i don't want to miss out...

perfection, the better path, "knowing better", "doing better", etc. this is the so-called will of heaven, the stamp of destiny. but heaven, in terms of the chinese version, knows very little of the vicissitudes of life on earth; and likely cares even less... for some people, perhaps with a more vigorous, cruel and disciplined heart, it has been possible to forge a clearing and manifest "heaven's will on earth," some rare and perfect thing, a representation of what is possible stolen from the vague fog of impossibilities...

but as for me... yes, at times, i will be swayed into inspiration by such things. perhaps at times i will seek to follow intimations of such pathways to light and perfection. after all, (haha) i am only human, right? but always, there is the voice of the world, the callings of IMperfection and suffering. there are the matters of old accounts to be settled, of endless old and new indebtedness. i live and breathe in this world, not in some rarefied spotlight just beneath the clouds... i choose to be here, because i understand that love is here, and it is earned through honoring its bonds, even when they take you far away and through unimaginable hardships... and love and the truth it engenders, love is far more real and compelling than anything that heaven screams to me...

i will not be ashamed, neither for me or for any of my own. so long as i am real to myself, and real to those i love, i will have made my mark, even though i do not scar or disturb the implacable heavens in the least.

***

the machinations of life...

i had my last wisdom tooth pulled (extracted) about four days ago. it was not an altogether unpleasant experience. in fact, i hardly felt a thing; only a mild tugging sensation. it is only now that i am realizing some of the consequences of this absence in my molars. no matter what i eat, and how i eat it, somehow the hollow where the tooth used to be acts like a kind of vortex, and later on, be it immediately, or (disgusting!) a few hours later, i will find assorted mouth-lint, like the fine edge of apple peel or a nugget of roast beef or something (these remnants always have a strange after-taste, a somewhat sharp coppery flavor, a mixture of decay and blood?)...

the days come and go. i am currently functioning somewhat happily, somewhat haplessly. i don't feel the pressure of circumstances as intensely as i have in recent years, and for the moment at least, i feel a kind of hope: that the plans i have constructed can be realized, and in fact are being realized (if somewhat slowly) in "my own image." it is great to see your intentions coming to fruition...

i have always enjoyed the people i have worked with, but i am enjoying this year's "crew" particularly now. everyone seems to be on the same page. and i feel we respect each other...

the problem/not problem is that i have little internal life. i am solid. there is no hollow within me, no suffering huddling recluse rattling about in an abandoned shell. neither is there the plenitude, the overflowing, that comes when i happen upon a surprise wellspring of inspiration... there is only the next task, and the next task, and the next task... and/but as long as i do good, as long as i feel i am helping/serving others, i feel fine...

well, nuff said for the time being.

on the timeline, by the way: i have been married for 10 years and 4 days now. and it is a happy thing, from my perspective... it is happy because it is founded upon a helpless commitment. if you can count on one thing, then you can count on everything. love is my one thing. the solidity of the bonds between myself and those i am sworn to...

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.

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.

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.

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.