something missing.
in ruts
there are found pieces
placed or shed or even
violently disavowed
but in not one
what i miss.
eye and tongue
drifts the
flavorless glaze
spread thick
a pushing tick
of time
drags
another identical
interval.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
the possibility of beginning again
it hasn't been a pleasant fall break. on monday and tuesday, my son was sick with a high fever and vomiting. on wednesday, there was a "true break," and i was able to take my kids and two of the cousins out to fish in the ocean off of heeia pier. but today, my daughter caught the same cold that my son had, and was in bed all day. on those days when my kids were sick, i stayed home with them. i also have been feeling some kind of malaise of late, with frequent bouts of diarrhea (i know, tmi) and a lethargy that i've been finding hard to shake...
there is a kind of despair that you feel when you realize your break is more than half over, and that you haven't taken advantage of it yet.
***
on the way to work this evening (my other teaching job), i realized that i would need to restart my outlook. i think i have been neglecting to do this lately, partially because it becomes harder and harder to do the more time passes, and your outlook becomes smothered over by the patina of rust and decay and habit that accrues with experience. but it is vital and necessary; a necessary fiction, if you will.
there is a (cynical) song called "clean" by depeche mode that reflects the conflict between a jaded "knows better" perspective and the need to "start again." i think the lyrics go something like this:
"clean, you know what i mean, an end to the tears and the in between years and the troubles i've seen."
"white wedding" by billy idol is another song that reflects this feeling, the need for a "fresh" start...
as i've grown older, i've come to realize the fiction of the restart, and no longer commit it with the conviction that i once had. you can't really escape your mistakes, or, for that matter, the mistakes of others, or even (outside of the realm of "mistakes," which betrays the assumption of a "should" and a volition which may not even exist) just plain circumstances. you can't escape your obligations, your inescapable debts to the world... someone will visit you to make the collections, if not tomorrow, then another day...
BUT. there also comes a point when it is difficult to function without pretending ignorance or oblivion of circumstances. and at those times, it is vital to practice the skill of forgetting and saying, "once upon a time," with a tacit understanding that that time is now.
the life of an organism is filled with such restarts: sleeping, shitting, bathing... why is it so strange that the life of the soul, the narrative of the individual, also require such restarts? do we assume that the self is a smooth evolving, that it too does not require times when it empties itself, or loses its mind, or loses its way?
***
remember this: the capacity to forget is almost more important than the ability to remember... and it is not that "memory" and "forgetting" are a duality. rather, it all comes down to how things are "held." there is a blur between memory and oblivion. it's not an on-off switch. in a way, we cannot forget what we remember, and we cannot remember (bring back) what we have forgotten (what has passed on)... perhaps in this (and i'm not alone in this observation), we come
there is a kind of despair that you feel when you realize your break is more than half over, and that you haven't taken advantage of it yet.
***
on the way to work this evening (my other teaching job), i realized that i would need to restart my outlook. i think i have been neglecting to do this lately, partially because it becomes harder and harder to do the more time passes, and your outlook becomes smothered over by the patina of rust and decay and habit that accrues with experience. but it is vital and necessary; a necessary fiction, if you will.
there is a (cynical) song called "clean" by depeche mode that reflects the conflict between a jaded "knows better" perspective and the need to "start again." i think the lyrics go something like this:
"clean, you know what i mean, an end to the tears and the in between years and the troubles i've seen."
"white wedding" by billy idol is another song that reflects this feeling, the need for a "fresh" start...
as i've grown older, i've come to realize the fiction of the restart, and no longer commit it with the conviction that i once had. you can't really escape your mistakes, or, for that matter, the mistakes of others, or even (outside of the realm of "mistakes," which betrays the assumption of a "should" and a volition which may not even exist) just plain circumstances. you can't escape your obligations, your inescapable debts to the world... someone will visit you to make the collections, if not tomorrow, then another day...
BUT. there also comes a point when it is difficult to function without pretending ignorance or oblivion of circumstances. and at those times, it is vital to practice the skill of forgetting and saying, "once upon a time," with a tacit understanding that that time is now.
the life of an organism is filled with such restarts: sleeping, shitting, bathing... why is it so strange that the life of the soul, the narrative of the individual, also require such restarts? do we assume that the self is a smooth evolving, that it too does not require times when it empties itself, or loses its mind, or loses its way?
***
remember this: the capacity to forget is almost more important than the ability to remember... and it is not that "memory" and "forgetting" are a duality. rather, it all comes down to how things are "held." there is a blur between memory and oblivion. it's not an on-off switch. in a way, we cannot forget what we remember, and we cannot remember (bring back) what we have forgotten (what has passed on)... perhaps in this (and i'm not alone in this observation), we come
Monday, September 3, 2012
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...
***
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...
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
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.
***
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.
***
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
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 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...
Monday, July 23, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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