6. Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.

i'm not one for eye contact.  i think looking into someone's eyes is like staring at the sun.  there is something precariously dangerous about it.  at times, it has to do with the other person; and at other times, it has to do with me.

there is a book that i loved called "till we have faces" by c.s. lewis.  yes, while he is most well-known for his children's books, and secondarily for being a christian apologist, he was also someone fascinated with, and i daresay in love with, the pantheistic traditions of the greeks.  in any case, "twhf" was a reinterpretation of the myth of cupid and psyche.  the title comes from a statement by the protagonist and narrator, orual, who asks, "how can we meet them [the gods] face to face, till we have faces?"  this statement somewhat captures my problem, the problem of confronting others when one does not have a face of one's own.

some think that the inability to hold eye contact arises from some sort of falseness.  in one sense, i think this is true.  but it is not "lying", in the sense of speaking a specific falsehood.  it is rather (for me at least) the sense that ALL is insubstantial, that any claim i make of myself is smoke and mirrors...  and that there is the attendant fear, ever present, that someone will see right through me.

i find it easier to speak by looking at some obscure corner of the ground, and tracing the patterns with my eyes, as my words summon structure from the void within me.

***

it is nevertheless a special thing when people's eyes meet, in seeking to create a bond.  there have been times in the past when, despite myself, my eyes have been drawn to another, like compass needles helpless to swing, under invisible direction.  just before being caught, my eyes would always turn away, perhaps playing the game of looking in the complete opposite direction, as if by pretending a sort of symmetry of observation, i were absolving myself of the crime of my preferential gaze...

it would be a dream of mine, a flutter of the heart, to be caught, and for the glance to be returned in kind...  sort of like a hand reaching out across a void, and fingers brushing for an instant in the heart of that emptiness...  and then for the hands to reach out, to hold each other, to form a bridge across that nothingness...

but i don't think it really happened much in real life.  and if it did, i probably just "made it up."

5. Food: What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.

this is a pretty unfocused prompt, but okay...

for breakfast, i don't really recall eating anything.  i got up this morning, and instead of eating breakfast, lynn and i laid down on the sofa upstairs together and watched "looper" on her ipad...

in fact, i think the first meal we had today was when we went through the drive through at mcdonald's.  i had a double quarter pounder with cheese meal.  it wasn't spectacular, but it was good as a burger: a bit on the salty side.  the bag with the fries toppled at one point (i was driving the car), but i still got enough of them, in handfuls, to make it worthwhile...

at taiko practice this afternoon, one of the women in the early (beginner's) class made gau for chinese new year's.  i thought this gau was excellent: good consistency, with a flavor that was composed of not just the brown sugar (i guess) that usually makes up gau.  there was a sprinkling of coconut flakes on it that added just the right texture and taste to it.  really good!

we went shopping at don quixote after taiko practice.  aiden decided that he wanted curry, so that's what we bought.  at home, lynn made it up: chicken with curry on rice.  and that's what we had for dinner...

sorry for the brevity and terseness of my response.  i suppose i'm not really into this prompt...

***

as for a poem about "that time you met a friend at a cafe..."  i can't recall such a time.  i usually use the "cafe" (i.e. starbucks) whenever i need a place to work, alone.

there were times in the past, like when i was in california, when i would work at a "cafe" (i mean, do work at a cafe), and have this feeling of longing making a slow burn within me.  actually, this sort of has a tradition that goes back to college days...  especially my pathetic senior year.  i recall going to the snack bar at baxter hall at odd hours of the day, and ordering something like a toasted muffin with butter on it, and a snapple drink, and just sitting there to work.  no one would ever see me.  no one would ever come up to talk to me.  i know i had a secret yearning that someone would want to talk to me, but no, it never happened.  and i would just dig myself deeper and deeper into isolation...

those were particularly dark days for me.

when i recall my past, i realize that i have, for long periods of my life, walked in the shadow of depression and loneliness.  it is difficult to get out of it.  no one, after all, wants to know of your sadness.  and when you're there, well, that's pretty much all that you are.

there is no sympathy for people who are trapped like that.  there's no understanding.

i think the one thing good about that time is that it gave me a sort of perspective, a kind of grim and dark humor about things.  and (i hope) it taught me to appreciate the company of others.  and (i hope) it taught me to empathize with loners and outcasts.

i somewhat hated (and maybe still do hate) people who "had it all together."  it just seemed so - fake, and far removed from my reality.  there is/was a truth in my brokenness that could not be systematized or mainstreamed, and the "completeness" of certain people seemed a denial and an affront to everything that i was...

...so i guess i was always looking for someone to be as broken and outcast as myself.  i hoped we would recognize each other...  feel each other's sharp and jagged incompatibilities and recognize them for what they were...  (and it would've been a plus, at the time, if SHE were japanese, with a nice body, and a sort of gothic sensibility... hahaha)

oh well, i think i sort of strayed off the topic, but...

4. Dancing: Who’s dancing and why are they tapping those toes?

i don't really understand this prompt...  am i dancing?  no, not currently, and rarely in general.  i'm just not a dancer.  i suppose that at one point, i liked to pretend i was dancing.  i would go to dances at my college and just do whatevers.  oftentimes it would involve slightly injuring my partners...  when there even were partners.  i had this sort of high-stepping thing i would do, slamming my feet into the ground...

i recall once when i went to a dance in santa monica, one with some young drama?  dance? girls.  and there was one wide-eyed girl who seemed at times interested.  i didn't really dance, but instead just sort of shifted my weight back and forth, trying to do my taiji stuff or something...  at times, i wonder what would have happened that night if things were allowed to proceed...  it's rare that things are open that way.  i mean, i have so many hang ups, and not many people are ever interested (or appear interested)...

so...  i'm really not good at dancing.  i like to think i am.  i like to close my eyes and just move to the rhythm.  i tend to like songs that are faster, that have a good beat...  not a square beat, but something a bit off...  and it helps if i resonate with the lyrics and message of the song too.  if any of these qualities are not present, i would almost rather not be on the dance floor.  it just sours my mood.  maybe i'm picky or something.

i used to like nin music.  techno.  but i didn't have the privilege of going to real raves, where free love and stuff were rampant.  the place i went, people mainly went to dances to stay warm and get drunk.  there was very little art and spirit and love to it.  and, frankly, now that i have the objectivity of time and space (hawaii), i realize that the pickings were pretty slim there anyway.

so...  i don't know how else i am supposed to answer this prompt.

well, i like dancing with people i love.  it's fun to see people get into it.

so again, going back to this strange prompt...  who's dancing, and why are they tapping those toes?  well, I am tapping the toes.  more like slamming on them.  it's me.  the terribly clumsy, enthusiastic dancer.

Writing prompt for 1/28

this is from a different writing prompt site.  just trying it out.

Ode to a playground: A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

Let me think of a place from my childhood...  well, there once was a sort of playground on the courts near where the Waipahu Recreation Center is today.  I recall my grandmother leaving me there every now and then.  There really wasn't much there, honestly.  There was this tall "lookout" thing, which would NEVER be allowed nowadays for liability reasons.  I suppose you could climb up it (there were no ladders, or anything), and sit or lie at the top beneath shade...  But the thing that I really remember about it was the sound.  There were these holes in the metal pipes that formed its four support pillars, and whenever the wind blew, there would be this eerie whistling sound...

So I suppose there was that place...  some other images I recall from my childhood, all in passing, were this church.  I've seen it recently, so I know it still exists.  It was a Christian church of some kind, with a lot of open glass windows...  It looked like it came from the 50s, or at least my conception of the 50s...  beach boys music.  Bright blue skies.  The window of a Woolworth's store.  A bar called "Sloop John B."  All of these things in that day glow reality, with faded pages...  With people who all seemed blonde and tanned with tousled hair and eyes somewhat squinty from the sun.  All with broad smiles on their faces...

In many ways, that reality is gone, though whether it is because I have grown up, or because those places are physically gone, I'm not so sure.  Of course, my grandmother's house in Ewa Beach is still around, but I have no access to it; haven't had access to it in many years.  Right now, it is closed up (fenced), and my Uncle Masao who runs the place is either never home or is inaccessible.  Regarding that place, which, though not a playground, served as the background for most of my childhood memories...  I miss it dearly.  I remember those hot, quiet rooms.  The refrigerator that was always stocked with drinks for me.  I remember the Japanese radio station always blaring, with the kitchen windows open, with plastic bags suspended from the glass jealousies (to dry them); the flies buzzing, my grandma always standing at the cutting board, cutting something.  My grandmother always had time for me.  Whenever I had something on my mind, or she had some wisdom to impart to me... she would sit me down, hand patting my knee to hold my attention.  And, no matter what, I think I would always feel better about life...

I also remember the yard.  The uneven paving stones, the endless potted plants.

The bathroom, with the old sink, everything a kind of cyan blue.

The mirror at the end of the hall...

The room that was intended for the dog (Coco) and the matting on the floor to catch his piss.

Just some fleeting memories of a place that is now gone.

test twine posting

Zork I: Forces of Krill

3. The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.

this vessel that takes me some place "different..." well, first of all, where would some place different be? because, in my present cynical perspective, anywhere you are is precisely the same, because you are there. it would almost have to be different in the sense of being someone else. and not just someone else, but someone who is liberated from this current state of being. i know, i'm sounding buddhistic, but i've lived long enough to understand the feeling of being pursued by- i'm not sure what to call it- desperation? despair? unhappiness? and it is that which i have sought to escape all my life. different places, different times, different people- yes, in some small way, they have made a difference... but in truth, the circumstance of entrapment is always the same.

i would say that a "different place" (i.e. the place i would want to be) would involve a narrative where there was a progressive march towards a definite, desired destiny... although, maybe that sounds a bit too "fixed." actually, i sort of like destruction's escape: to always go up and out... and nowhere in particular. that sounds intriguing. maybe i would want to carry a door with me wherever i went, so that i could just walk through to the place i wanted to be. not just places i'd already been to, but places where i wanted to be. i guess like a teleportation door... and perhaps it could not just go anywhere in space, but also to places in time...

but in all places, i would travel as a sort of mendicant. i would learn everything i could about the world. i would stay in one place long enough to understand it, and then move on... there is a secret yearning in my heart, and i would follow it to each successive interest.

where would i go first? well, because i have a thing against pure escapism, i think i would use this door to help me to gain information on this whole hate movement in this country, and in this world, and attempt to undermine it, humiliate it, embarrass it, destroy it... and then, once that were done, then i would try to find other ways to help the world.

so... going back to the vessel... for me, it wouldn't be a "ship," it would just have enough room for me to pass through, a portable door.

2. The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?

i suppose there's a certain sadness in me whenever i've "loved" someone who didn't love me back. of course, most of the time, i'd have to say i was more infatuated than in love. that is, it was a kind of love-from-a-distance thing. and perhaps i never really even wanted to be close to that person, because if that person ever did get close (i.e. reciprocate) then it would destroy the illusion i had of that person. it's funny; oftentimes, i would actually have this fantasy of dying for that person. it was an expression of this idea that, again, the existence of the infatuated person would cancel out my own existence...

this morphed into a lot of different compensations or versions. i read don quixote, and all that talk about chivalric love, and i'd laugh and think that it was so ridiculous. but in many ways, it was exactly what i did. i would long for people, but then have this certain giddy happiness at being "denied" (most of the time, no one even knew how i was feeling, btw). it was almost as though the infatuatee was in this separate heaven where everything was perfect and right, and i was in this purgatory just biding my time...

maybe i don't understand love at all. or at least, it's not love in the sense that others feel it.

i have always felt so thoroughly unworthy of love... maybe also respect. i have always felt so thoroughly despised. but again, maybe it was simply so i could remain a secret. an unknown factor. the hidden weapon.

i was never very close to people. but when i have been close, i.e. friendly, it has always felt dangerous. i'm not good at maintaining barriers, especially with people who have dared to enter my distant "gravity field," and for those that have been friendly to me (women that is), there was always the temptation to completely eclipse that distance... in my twisted head, that always meant intimacy (as if that actually solves anything).

nowadays, love is strange to me. i mean, not true love, the love that i feel for my wife, but that head-over-heels romantic type of love. even in fantasy, i don't believe it. or rather, it is so removed and incompatible with my present mindset that i can't even conceive of the possibility. i can't imagine a person who would ever express interest in me, at least not in a way that my defenses would not coopt. i think in many ways i'm impregnable. or completely dense.

as i get older, the possibility of "romance" (i.e., that trill and thrill) is ever more remote. i am an old man, and am happily, loyally married. and no one would be interested, no one could be interested in me. so...

love, the romantic sort of love, is only in memories, and even in memories, only existing as some kind of hollow echo; an unfulfilled promise.

well, i don't know what else to say on this topic...