So I'm learning (far too slowly, but learning) that I need to be more selective in how I use my talents and resources. Here's the thing:
1. I have skills and tools that can be of use to people.
2. I'm very generous with these skills and tools.
3. I like to help people.
4. I don't expect much, if anything, in return.
5. But I have my limits.
6. I need to respect my limits.
That last item, "I need to respect my limits," is something new for me. See, the list used to end at number 5. I used to just work and work and work until I hit these limits and then I'd be screwed because I'd have no energy and no time but would have all these jobs on my plate that I'd still have to finish.
No more. For the sake of my own sanity and happiness, I’m going to have to be more selective in who and how I help.
For most people, this is a no-brainer. I guess I'm not wired like most people (you only figured that out now, Randall?). See, I don't like to turn people down when they ask for my help. I've gone very far out of my way to help people, sometimes at significant inconvenience on my part. This is something I do.
I know this might sound like science fiction to some, but when someone asks me for help, it pains me to turn them down. It's almost a literal physical pain to say no to helping out when I have the ability or the resources needed. But I need to learn to be more careful as to how I distribute my generosity.
This might read like something as obvious as basic arithmetic but this is nothing less than a huge paradigm shift for me. How did I end up with such a self-sacrificing personality? To put it bluntly, I blame the shitty theology I was taught in my formative high school/early college years.
Back in high school (Hawaii Baptist Academy, Christian school), I was taught this nifty acronym: JOY. It meant that joy comes when you put Jesus first, Others second, and Yourself last. I swallowed this stinker hook, line, sinker, pole, and fisherman. And I put it into practice at every opportunity. I mean, here was a formula for bringing joy into your life and who doesn't want joy? But it didn't bring joy, it brought pain and frustration and confusion.
Now it would be one thing if I was a fast learner but I can be a stubborn bastard. When a little bit of putting myself last didn't work, I tried harder - pushed my needs/wants/desires down further and tried to help more people. In addition to the JOY acronym, I guess I was also trying to test the adage, "it's better to give than to receive." But none of it was working. I didn't find joy and I didn't see how giving was any better than receiving.
Maybe I am just a generous person and this thinking just corrupted this part of me. Or maybe I tried so hard to make the JOY formula work that it became a part of who I am. (Sounds like the nature versus nurture debate.) Regardless, I need to start being more selective as to how and whom I help. But this is something new for me and I'm not sure how to choose.
But I know one thing. I need to be appreciated (or at least feel appreciated). I don't mind working for free, I don't mind going out of my way to help. But I'm not a fucking hammer or wrench. You can't call me for help and then just walk away once I’m done. I don’t need much but I do need to know that I’m appreciated as something more than an anonymous repairman.
So what do you want, Randall? Well WTF, I always bust my ass to go above and beyond your expectations. The least you can do is come up with some way to show your appreciation on your own. I don’t need much, I just need to know that I’m not someone you call on to fill a need – someone you drop like expired milk once your need is met. Here’s a hint. If I call to ask you how you’re doing, how about calling me back?
(SIGH)
There are a few people I’m helping out right now. I was going to include disclaimers as to whom this blog did and did not apply to, but I say screw that. Thing is, this blog doesn’t apply to very many people. In fact, it primarily applies to one person. But I’m not going to say who. Why should I? If you treat me like a person and not just some anonymous corporation that works for free then you have nothing to worry about. I’m cool with you. If do treat me like a corporation, well you’re probably not reading this blog so…so what am I writing for? Just to vent, I guess.
Again, if you think this applies to you, it probably doesn’t. But if you want to be on the safe side and take me out for a scoop of ice cream, well that’s fine with me.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
73. love languages illiterate (part 2)
Okay so I went on a book buying rampage (along with a couple of disappointing CDs). One of these books was The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. The only reason I did this is because some of the comments people left on blog 70 ("love language illiterate") which led me to believe that this wasn't just a book about romantic love.
I suppose the sub-title should have been a clear sign, "How To Express Heartfelt Commitment To Your Mate," but after reading/scanning a few pages, it was pretty clear that this exactly the kind of book that I wanted to avoid - a book about romantic love, or more specifically a book primarily about being in a relationship.
Now first off, I want to express my gratitude to the two people who commented on blog 70. You couldn't have known about the things I'm going to be writing about in the next few paragraphs so don't sweat a bit of it. And I'm sure the book will come in handy when God finally sees fit to introduce me to her (whoever she is).
Okay, now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let me say that this Love Languages book is exactly the kind of book I didn't want to read because if there's one thing that I as a single person don't need to read, it's reading about relationships. Now this may sound strange coming from someone who just finished reading The History of Love by Nicole Kraus. But despite the title, that really isn't a book about love. I wouldn't have bought it from Borders if it was. Actually, even having finished it, I'm still not exactly sure what it is about but I know it has something to do with being Jewish. The thing I loved about the book was the writing - strange, beautiful, inventive, and complex, yet accessible.
Anyway, here's the thing. It's sick and a bit twisted, but when watching any kind of romantic movie (which I generally try to avoid for reasons that I'll explain below), the only parts I really enjoy are the bits near the end of the second act when the two people who are supposed to be together are tragically torn apart. Yeah, I know that's the part where you're supposed to feel all sad and you're supposed to wish the two back together again, but I don't. I like those parts of those movies because (and this is pathetic, I know) they're the only parts I can really relate to. And so in a mildly f'd up kind of way, those are my favorite bits.
The thing is, being single is kind of like having a cold sore that just won't go away. It hurts but it's a droning kind of pain that you can learn to tune out after a while. But watching or reading something about romance or love or sometimes even just seeing a happy couple giggling and sharing coffee (or looking longingly at one another or even just sitting across the table from one another reading) is like mistakingly biting down on the cold sore. The pain just explodes in your mouth and you're swearing like a sailor and the worst part is, you have no one to blame but your clumsy self.
All that to say that reading Love Languages was kind of like biting into that cold sore. Now, I understand how this book could be used as a way to just learn about love and what kind of love you want and need. I even understand how someone who is single and not looking for a relationship can benefit from this book - it can help them know how to better love the people around them.
BUT...
But to get to that useful information, you've got to wade through the relationship bits, and there are a lot of them because the book really lives up to its subtitle. And so I'm trying to read, trying to give the book a chance, but it just hurts too much. Every example reminds me that I'm not in a relationship and that's just not something I need right now.
Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk about: my general mood lately.
I know for a while I was writing about how I recently realized that I had been living my life for the past few years with two wrong assumptions and how after correcting these assumptions my mood and attitude turned from the shits to the smiles (see blog 54, 47, and 34, 36, and 37 in particular). However, a lot of the blogs I've been writing lately seem to indicate that I'm slipping back into the old, morose, melancholy person I used to be.
Thing is, I'm not returning to that state. I mean I'm not as ecstatically happy as I was back when I was writing those blogs but I'm nowhere near as Black Hole Sun-depressed as I used to be. What happened? Let's just say I hit a little road bump. I found myself in love with a woman who I knew wasn't right for me and who I knew I didn't have a chance with...but sometimes you really don't have control over these things do you? Well I don't. I didn't want to love this person because I knew it wasn't going to work and because I liked her as a friend and I didn't want my emotions to screw that up. And the other thing was, I didn't want the failure of this relationship (which I knew was never going to be a relationship from the start but the heart has it's own inertia and it doesn't stop on a dime) to screw up the good-mood vibe I had found.
But it happened anyway. I found myself thinking (and even saying to close friends) things like, "she's amazing, she inspires me." And I knew I was a doomed. And I was right.
Sting wrote a great line in the Police song "Message In A Bottle" that goes like this: "love can mend your life but love can break your heart." I love that line because it's true. Well, i know the second half is true because that's the story of my life but I'm ninety nine percent sure that the first half is true as well. And if it's not, I'm going to cloister myself in a monastery for the rest of my life...so it better be true.
So things turned out just as I expected. Turns out I'm just someone she finds useful. Read the end of blog 69. That bit at the end about the tool, the piece, and the part...that's pretty much about my place in her world.
Anyway, the good news is, because I knew things weren't going to work out, I didn't try very hard (and this is not why things didn't work out. This relationship had no chance of getting off the ground) and so even though it still sucked when my suspicions turned out to be true, I took care not to feed the disease (and unrequited love really is a disease that requires care and maintenance to survive...neglect it and it will erode away on its own) and so though the fall hurt, it did not break anything vital. And that means I'm trying to work my way back to that chipper lad that I was about a month ago. But it's not like flipping a switch. This love thing was a speed bump, a detour. But I'm just about back on course again. Please, wish me God speed.
I suppose the sub-title should have been a clear sign, "How To Express Heartfelt Commitment To Your Mate," but after reading/scanning a few pages, it was pretty clear that this exactly the kind of book that I wanted to avoid - a book about romantic love, or more specifically a book primarily about being in a relationship.
Now first off, I want to express my gratitude to the two people who commented on blog 70. You couldn't have known about the things I'm going to be writing about in the next few paragraphs so don't sweat a bit of it. And I'm sure the book will come in handy when God finally sees fit to introduce me to her (whoever she is).
Okay, now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let me say that this Love Languages book is exactly the kind of book I didn't want to read because if there's one thing that I as a single person don't need to read, it's reading about relationships. Now this may sound strange coming from someone who just finished reading The History of Love by Nicole Kraus. But despite the title, that really isn't a book about love. I wouldn't have bought it from Borders if it was. Actually, even having finished it, I'm still not exactly sure what it is about but I know it has something to do with being Jewish. The thing I loved about the book was the writing - strange, beautiful, inventive, and complex, yet accessible.
Anyway, here's the thing. It's sick and a bit twisted, but when watching any kind of romantic movie (which I generally try to avoid for reasons that I'll explain below), the only parts I really enjoy are the bits near the end of the second act when the two people who are supposed to be together are tragically torn apart. Yeah, I know that's the part where you're supposed to feel all sad and you're supposed to wish the two back together again, but I don't. I like those parts of those movies because (and this is pathetic, I know) they're the only parts I can really relate to. And so in a mildly f'd up kind of way, those are my favorite bits.
The thing is, being single is kind of like having a cold sore that just won't go away. It hurts but it's a droning kind of pain that you can learn to tune out after a while. But watching or reading something about romance or love or sometimes even just seeing a happy couple giggling and sharing coffee (or looking longingly at one another or even just sitting across the table from one another reading) is like mistakingly biting down on the cold sore. The pain just explodes in your mouth and you're swearing like a sailor and the worst part is, you have no one to blame but your clumsy self.
All that to say that reading Love Languages was kind of like biting into that cold sore. Now, I understand how this book could be used as a way to just learn about love and what kind of love you want and need. I even understand how someone who is single and not looking for a relationship can benefit from this book - it can help them know how to better love the people around them.
BUT...
But to get to that useful information, you've got to wade through the relationship bits, and there are a lot of them because the book really lives up to its subtitle. And so I'm trying to read, trying to give the book a chance, but it just hurts too much. Every example reminds me that I'm not in a relationship and that's just not something I need right now.
Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk about: my general mood lately.
I know for a while I was writing about how I recently realized that I had been living my life for the past few years with two wrong assumptions and how after correcting these assumptions my mood and attitude turned from the shits to the smiles (see blog 54, 47, and 34, 36, and 37 in particular). However, a lot of the blogs I've been writing lately seem to indicate that I'm slipping back into the old, morose, melancholy person I used to be.
Thing is, I'm not returning to that state. I mean I'm not as ecstatically happy as I was back when I was writing those blogs but I'm nowhere near as Black Hole Sun-depressed as I used to be. What happened? Let's just say I hit a little road bump. I found myself in love with a woman who I knew wasn't right for me and who I knew I didn't have a chance with...but sometimes you really don't have control over these things do you? Well I don't. I didn't want to love this person because I knew it wasn't going to work and because I liked her as a friend and I didn't want my emotions to screw that up. And the other thing was, I didn't want the failure of this relationship (which I knew was never going to be a relationship from the start but the heart has it's own inertia and it doesn't stop on a dime) to screw up the good-mood vibe I had found.
But it happened anyway. I found myself thinking (and even saying to close friends) things like, "she's amazing, she inspires me." And I knew I was a doomed. And I was right.
Sting wrote a great line in the Police song "Message In A Bottle" that goes like this: "love can mend your life but love can break your heart." I love that line because it's true. Well, i know the second half is true because that's the story of my life but I'm ninety nine percent sure that the first half is true as well. And if it's not, I'm going to cloister myself in a monastery for the rest of my life...so it better be true.
So things turned out just as I expected. Turns out I'm just someone she finds useful. Read the end of blog 69. That bit at the end about the tool, the piece, and the part...that's pretty much about my place in her world.
Anyway, the good news is, because I knew things weren't going to work out, I didn't try very hard (and this is not why things didn't work out. This relationship had no chance of getting off the ground) and so even though it still sucked when my suspicions turned out to be true, I took care not to feed the disease (and unrequited love really is a disease that requires care and maintenance to survive...neglect it and it will erode away on its own) and so though the fall hurt, it did not break anything vital. And that means I'm trying to work my way back to that chipper lad that I was about a month ago. But it's not like flipping a switch. This love thing was a speed bump, a detour. But I'm just about back on course again. Please, wish me God speed.
Friday, August 26, 2005
72. sick and tired (caution, potty mouth)
"You need to bust out, man," my friend Willie is always telling me. And he's right. I'm always frustrated at how small my life is but it's only that way because I've taken so little of it on. Life is out there for those who want to live it but I, like 99 percent of the rest of the "civilized" world, want to play it safe, to be smart about things, to take life as it comes.
Well right now in this chair, in this blog, in this house on this island, I'm sick and fucking tired of it. God did not create a safe world so all of our efforts to make it so, while noble, are misguided. Life is a huge, fucking hunk of raw meat. But all we do is grab little mouth-sized pieces, fry them up, and process them into little nuggets that we eat with various dipping sauces. I want to tear into the hide with my bare hands. I want to stick my face into the mass of it and rip bloody pieces out with my incisors.
See here's the thing. I know God has gifted me with certain abilities. I also know that these abilities are not being used to their fullest extent. I know that God has made me for more than this safe fucking life that I'm living right now. I'm dying from the inside out because I'm not living the live I was created (designed by God) to live. The devil is smart. He doesn't tempt me with drugs or casual sex or any of the obvious vises. He tempts me with security, with complacency - lulling me into a useless (though polite) stupor.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to become a heroin addict or some kind of Hugh Hefner playboy. I'm Randall Ajimine, not Evel Knievel or Jesse James. But I'm not Billy Graham or Dr. James Dobson either.
I don't know why or how or...why, but I just don't think I've been living the life that God has planned for me. And I'm sick and fucking tired of it. I waste my time with the most meaningless coping mechanisms and then wonder why I'm so dissatisfied. Back to the meat metaphor, I'm just taking these small, processed bites and it's making me ill. To steal a quote from Dead Poet's Society, (who stole it from Thoreau), "I want to suck out all the fucking marrow of life" (emphasis mine, of course).
I want to live life more deliberately - to chart a course instead of being blown by the wind, to be proactive rather than reactive, to risk rather than refrain. Again, I don't think God has given me a larger-than-life kind of personality but I know it's bigger and bolder than it is right now, because sometimes I think I have all the backbone of a sea cucumber (or any other invertebrate you care to picture).
...BUT...
But these are words on a computer screen and life is on the other side of the door. I write because I find strength in these words, in the worlds they cast and create. I think, maybe it's this strength that draws people to this blog (over 115 views this week so far). But away from the keyboard, outside that door, I'm not as bold of a man. All of the brash bravado I wrote about above? I wish I could live up to it all, or even a part of it.
But strange as it might seem, I don't take my writing with me. Loudon Wainwright has a great song called "Father/Daughter Dialogue." It's about a daughter who is frustrated with her songwriting father for writing all of these idyllic songs about family while reality falls far short. His response is thus:
darling daughter can't you see
the guy singing the songs ain't me
he's someone people wish I was
what I can't do this dude does
And that's how it is with my writing. When I'm writing I can say that I want to take on the world and when I'm writing it, I feel like I can make it happen. But away from my keyboard, without a pen in hand: I stutter, I stumble, I have no words to say. Here, I'm brave and tan and ten feet tall. Out there, I'm a slightly overweight, 33yo virgin who's never had a girlfriend - someone who happens to have a blog somewhere out there in cyberspace. Not exactly the kind of thing that gets you play with the women at Indigo or the Feng Shui Lounge. I mean yes, I play in a band (a very good one, by the way) but playing in a rock band in Hawaii is like being a championship tennis player in a bowling league. You know you can kick their ass, but not on their turf.
So how does this end? What do I do now?
I post this blog. Close my laptop. And do the best I can.
I'm reaching for my mouse now...
Well right now in this chair, in this blog, in this house on this island, I'm sick and fucking tired of it. God did not create a safe world so all of our efforts to make it so, while noble, are misguided. Life is a huge, fucking hunk of raw meat. But all we do is grab little mouth-sized pieces, fry them up, and process them into little nuggets that we eat with various dipping sauces. I want to tear into the hide with my bare hands. I want to stick my face into the mass of it and rip bloody pieces out with my incisors.
See here's the thing. I know God has gifted me with certain abilities. I also know that these abilities are not being used to their fullest extent. I know that God has made me for more than this safe fucking life that I'm living right now. I'm dying from the inside out because I'm not living the live I was created (designed by God) to live. The devil is smart. He doesn't tempt me with drugs or casual sex or any of the obvious vises. He tempts me with security, with complacency - lulling me into a useless (though polite) stupor.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to become a heroin addict or some kind of Hugh Hefner playboy. I'm Randall Ajimine, not Evel Knievel or Jesse James. But I'm not Billy Graham or Dr. James Dobson either.
I don't know why or how or...why, but I just don't think I've been living the life that God has planned for me. And I'm sick and fucking tired of it. I waste my time with the most meaningless coping mechanisms and then wonder why I'm so dissatisfied. Back to the meat metaphor, I'm just taking these small, processed bites and it's making me ill. To steal a quote from Dead Poet's Society, (who stole it from Thoreau), "I want to suck out all the fucking marrow of life" (emphasis mine, of course).
I want to live life more deliberately - to chart a course instead of being blown by the wind, to be proactive rather than reactive, to risk rather than refrain. Again, I don't think God has given me a larger-than-life kind of personality but I know it's bigger and bolder than it is right now, because sometimes I think I have all the backbone of a sea cucumber (or any other invertebrate you care to picture).
...BUT...
But these are words on a computer screen and life is on the other side of the door. I write because I find strength in these words, in the worlds they cast and create. I think, maybe it's this strength that draws people to this blog (over 115 views this week so far). But away from the keyboard, outside that door, I'm not as bold of a man. All of the brash bravado I wrote about above? I wish I could live up to it all, or even a part of it.
But strange as it might seem, I don't take my writing with me. Loudon Wainwright has a great song called "Father/Daughter Dialogue." It's about a daughter who is frustrated with her songwriting father for writing all of these idyllic songs about family while reality falls far short. His response is thus:
darling daughter can't you see
the guy singing the songs ain't me
he's someone people wish I was
what I can't do this dude does
And that's how it is with my writing. When I'm writing I can say that I want to take on the world and when I'm writing it, I feel like I can make it happen. But away from my keyboard, without a pen in hand: I stutter, I stumble, I have no words to say. Here, I'm brave and tan and ten feet tall. Out there, I'm a slightly overweight, 33yo virgin who's never had a girlfriend - someone who happens to have a blog somewhere out there in cyberspace. Not exactly the kind of thing that gets you play with the women at Indigo or the Feng Shui Lounge. I mean yes, I play in a band (a very good one, by the way) but playing in a rock band in Hawaii is like being a championship tennis player in a bowling league. You know you can kick their ass, but not on their turf.
So how does this end? What do I do now?
I post this blog. Close my laptop. And do the best I can.
I'm reaching for my mouse now...
71. The Secret Chord (for Rocky Green)
Once upon a time, there was a man who played guitar with all his heart and all that was within his soul. Word of his singular talent spread far and wide such that whenever he'd play a show, he'd draw a crowd the size of a small city. And they would listen, rapt in awe. Women would swoon and men would cry and call their mothers between sets to apologize for stealing quarters from their purses when they were young.
But one day while writing a new song he went in search of a chord that would not come. Interval upon interval, he tried them all but none would satisfy, none were right.
Tours were canceled. Fans went wondering and rumors sprung up like weeds. His critics said he was done, washed up, expired.
And then one morning upon waking, he found it - the secret chord. The one jazz artists strive to find night after smoky night in empty bars. The one composers try to find at the bottom of flasks of bourbon. The one rock stars try to find between lines of cocaine.
It was a chord like no other. Bird, Bach, and Hendrix would have, all of them, traded their left hand for those notes. But it was Rocky Green who fished it out of the collective unconscious.
He took this chord to California, back to his love who was waiting for him there. And though she could not fully understand the weight of his discovery, she knew - deep down inside, where wisdom is born - that the chord was her's and that he had searched far and wide for the sound of it.
And she held him in her arms all night long as he played her song.
The end.
Check out the talented (understatement) Rocky Green at:
http://www.myspace.com/rockygreen
and
http://www.rockygreen.com/
But one day while writing a new song he went in search of a chord that would not come. Interval upon interval, he tried them all but none would satisfy, none were right.
Tours were canceled. Fans went wondering and rumors sprung up like weeds. His critics said he was done, washed up, expired.
And then one morning upon waking, he found it - the secret chord. The one jazz artists strive to find night after smoky night in empty bars. The one composers try to find at the bottom of flasks of bourbon. The one rock stars try to find between lines of cocaine.
It was a chord like no other. Bird, Bach, and Hendrix would have, all of them, traded their left hand for those notes. But it was Rocky Green who fished it out of the collective unconscious.
He took this chord to California, back to his love who was waiting for him there. And though she could not fully understand the weight of his discovery, she knew - deep down inside, where wisdom is born - that the chord was her's and that he had searched far and wide for the sound of it.
And she held him in her arms all night long as he played her song.
The end.
Check out the talented (understatement) Rocky Green at:
http://www.myspace.com/rockygreen
and
http://www.rockygreen.com/
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
70. love languages illiterate
So maybe you've heard of the book The Five Love Languages by Gary Chatman. I've thought about picking it up...but here's the thing. Me reading a book about love languages is like a blind person reading a book on color theory. I have no frame of reference with which to know what my love language might be. How can I know? The closest I've come to love is empty, paper infatuation. And even if I did know, what good would that do me - knowing my language but not being able to speak it or have it spoken to me?
Sometimes I think love is a sick joke. I imagine angels and demons wagering on the outcome of relationships like gamblers at a horse race or a dog fight. It's amazing the daggers we'll swallow and the poison we'll pour through our veins, all for a taste of Eden - that glorious day when Adam met Eve.
Sometimes I think love is a sick joke. I imagine angels and demons wagering on the outcome of relationships like gamblers at a horse race or a dog fight. It's amazing the daggers we'll swallow and the poison we'll pour through our veins, all for a taste of Eden - that glorious day when Adam met Eve.
69. an apology
Hey all,
Gosh, based on MySpace's blog counter, people are visiting this blog all the time. I feel bad since I haven't been posting much of anything lately. A lot of that has to do with being busy with my Band's recording (and fixing broken recording gear *argh*).
Stay tuned because there's a lot of stuff brewing in the brain stew.
"Come on, Randall, throw us a bone or something."
Okay, I've got 15mins left in my lunch break. How about a speedy story...hmm...okay, here's a line that I've been thinking about using for a while, let's see where it goes.
He's a tool and he knows it. Useful, handy for fixing things, but once the loosely fitting pieces are tied up he goes back up on the shelf, faithful and obedient as a Border Collie, patient as the red oaks of California, unseen as the white truffles of Italy.
He is a tool but what he wants to be is a piece or, in the best of all worlds, a part. To be a piece of her life, peripheral perhaps, but still near and by her side. But best of all to be a part, integral, integrated, and in her arms intwined.
But he's just a tool. And so he sits upon the shelf, waiting for her call, ready to spring up at a moment's notice, dropping every task at hand, serving her every mundane need, dutifully making himself unobtrusive when the job is done.
What can he do? He's in awe of her, in love with her, and he'll make himself useful with no hope of recompense so long as she has a need. On the shelf, off the clock, waiting, praying, loathing his place in line, hoping beyond reason that the next time she calls upon him that she will see beyond his utility and take him with her. Off the shelf, out of the garage, into the wide, rapturous world.
Gosh, based on MySpace's blog counter, people are visiting this blog all the time. I feel bad since I haven't been posting much of anything lately. A lot of that has to do with being busy with my Band's recording (and fixing broken recording gear *argh*).
Stay tuned because there's a lot of stuff brewing in the brain stew.
"Come on, Randall, throw us a bone or something."
Okay, I've got 15mins left in my lunch break. How about a speedy story...hmm...okay, here's a line that I've been thinking about using for a while, let's see where it goes.
He's a tool and he knows it. Useful, handy for fixing things, but once the loosely fitting pieces are tied up he goes back up on the shelf, faithful and obedient as a Border Collie, patient as the red oaks of California, unseen as the white truffles of Italy.
He is a tool but what he wants to be is a piece or, in the best of all worlds, a part. To be a piece of her life, peripheral perhaps, but still near and by her side. But best of all to be a part, integral, integrated, and in her arms intwined.
But he's just a tool. And so he sits upon the shelf, waiting for her call, ready to spring up at a moment's notice, dropping every task at hand, serving her every mundane need, dutifully making himself unobtrusive when the job is done.
What can he do? He's in awe of her, in love with her, and he'll make himself useful with no hope of recompense so long as she has a need. On the shelf, off the clock, waiting, praying, loathing his place in line, hoping beyond reason that the next time she calls upon him that she will see beyond his utility and take him with her. Off the shelf, out of the garage, into the wide, rapturous world.
Monday, August 22, 2005
68. FYI
I know I haven't been writing much lately...at least not here. I've been trying to get some things straightened out with my band's recording project and have been posting about that on their blog which can be found at: http://www.myspace.com/harrisonmusic
I'll be posting more here soon.
I'll be posting more here soon.
Friday, August 19, 2005
67. The Silence
She was ill and he wanted to go to her, to sit with her in silence, to read her stories, to watch DVDs together. But there was a mountain between them and though he knew he could brave the peaks, there was a guard at the gate and he didn't know the answer to the riddle that was posed.
And so he wrote her a story, pinned it to the legs of a carrier pigeon and released it into the air. But it didn't know the way or maybe the story slipped on the way there. He didn't know how but he knew that she was there, alone, in bed, in silence. And that her story was lost along the way.
And so he asked the guard again and the guard replied
"You soar when you fall
When you don't fall, you fracture."
And he tries hard to understand but a fog has fallen and he's lost his way while pacing for the answer. and so he returns home by dead reckoning. Once there he sits at his Remington typewriter and tries to remember the story he had pinned to the pigeon. He thinks of a line and as he hits a key, instead of typeface striking the page, a bread crumb ricochets back at him, hitting him in the face. Oblivious, he continues to type until he's up to his knees in crumble and crumb.
"Damn the mountain, damn the silence," he thinks. And he falls into bed wishing it would all just go away. And he closes his eyes. And he prays himself to sleep.
And so he wrote her a story, pinned it to the legs of a carrier pigeon and released it into the air. But it didn't know the way or maybe the story slipped on the way there. He didn't know how but he knew that she was there, alone, in bed, in silence. And that her story was lost along the way.
And so he asked the guard again and the guard replied
"You soar when you fall
When you don't fall, you fracture."
And he tries hard to understand but a fog has fallen and he's lost his way while pacing for the answer. and so he returns home by dead reckoning. Once there he sits at his Remington typewriter and tries to remember the story he had pinned to the pigeon. He thinks of a line and as he hits a key, instead of typeface striking the page, a bread crumb ricochets back at him, hitting him in the face. Oblivious, he continues to type until he's up to his knees in crumble and crumb.
"Damn the mountain, damn the silence," he thinks. And he falls into bed wishing it would all just go away. And he closes his eyes. And he prays himself to sleep.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
66. how I worship
Near the end of my short story thing titled "String Theory," (blog 64) I describe a guy descending down into the subatomic. That came out of a fascination that I have with cosmology - a branch of physics (astrophysics to be more precise) that deals with theories relating to the universe - how it came about, how it's held together, how it works, etc. I appreciate this study on the most basic level (and even that is overstating the case) but even the tiny bit that I can understand fascinates me to no end. The thing that amazes me even more is that the scientists who are on the cutting edge of this field describe a cosmos that would be laughable if it were passed off as fiction. What I mean is, the scientists who work in this field are coming up with a theory of the cosmos that is so bizarre and unimaginable that the scientists themselves can hardly believe it. In describing one facet of this grand study, Richard Feynman (one of the pioneers of Quantum Mechanics) said, "...the only thing that quantum theory has going for it, in fact, is that it is unquestionably correct." What he meant was, their discoveries are painting a picture of the universe that is so odd that the only reason they still believe they're on the right track is because the theories hold up so well under experimental scrutiny.
Look, here are a few things that amaze me:
1. If you remember any of your high school science, you know that everything we see is made up of atoms. These atoms are made up of a nucleus (which contains protons and neutrons) and electrons, which "orbit" the nucleus. Now here's the part that blows my mind. Take the nucleus of an atom and blow it up to the size of a grape seed and put it in the center of a football stadium. The nearest electron will be eating a hot-dog in the last row up in the cheap seats. That's a lot of empty space isn't it? So if my fingers are made up of atoms and this keyboard I'm typing on is made up of atoms and atoms are mostly empty space, why aren't my fingers passing straight through the keys?
2. Let's say you're driving a Ferrari (any one will do) down the H3. You're being good and driving the speed limit until some dweeb in a souped up Honda CRX passes you, giving you the finger as he does. He drives by too quickly for you to get a good look at him so you step on the gas and catch up to him and you see that it's your punk cousin.
Now let's change it up a bit. Let's say you're the pilot of the fastest spaceship ever created. You're flying from planet to planet when you see your cousin whip by you, riding on a beam of light. You're tired of his antics so you open up the thrusters on your spaceship and try to catch up to him. But then you discover something very strange. No matter how fast you push your spaceship, your cousin is traveling away from you at the exact same rate. Even as you approach the speed of light (the same speed your cousin was traveling) he's still zipping away from you...at the speed of light.
I'm probably completely screwing up the example but ask your resident geek astrophysicist (or channel Einstein who discovered this phenomenon) and they'll tell you that it's basically correct.
3. The bits of the universe that we can observe with telescopes and microscopes only accounts for about five percent of what the universe is made of. The other ninety five percent is made up of dark matter (20 percent) and dark energy (75 percent). No one has ever seen either dark matter or dark energy but it's pretty much settled that it exists. If it didn't, the galaxy our solar system lives in would rip itself apart like pizza dough that's being spun too fast. And the last time I looked up in the sky, the milky way seemed pretty stable.
4. We normally measure the world in three dimensions - left/right, forwards/back, up/down. We navigate this way. For example, I work at Altres Staffing which is on the corner of Kapiolani Blvd (one dimension) and Ward Ave (a second dimension), up on the second floor (third dimension). Einstein introduced time as a fourth dimension, which makes sense if you consider that I schedule people for interviews at my office all the time. I give them directions to the office in three dimensions but I also have to tell them when to be there.
Okay, common sense right? Well some of the most popular models (theories) of the cosmos include up to twenty six dimensions (although the most popular model makes do with a mere eleven). Can't picture that? No one can, it's impossible for us because all we've ever known is our measly four dimensions.
Now I've limited myself to physics. but our world is littered with everyday astonishments like these:
1. You listen to CDs? Well every second of sound you hear off of your CD player has been pieced together from 44,100 little pieces of information. Each piece can have one of 65,536 values. All of that information is stored on that little disc.
2. The computer you're using to read this blog? Let's say you've got an old crappy computer like mine and your processor speed is around 1GHz. That means, the chip at the center of your computer is making 1,000,000,000 little calculations every second. Massively parallel supercomputers are thousands of times faster than that.
And the most amazing fact of them all?
3. The uber-stud, Randall has been single for thirty three years.
And even more amazing that that?
4. You're still reading this damn blog...get to the point already!
Okay, okay, the point of all this geeky information:
One could look at all of these facts and figures and say, "wow, humans are pretty smart huh?" But we aren't. Most of these advancements and discoveries have occurred in the last couple centuries. In the grand scheme of things, it was only yesterday that we as a species thought the world was flat. And besides, we're only discovering what's already there, what's already been created. Here's a great story I heard once that illustrates how limited our understanding is:
A group of scientists discovered a process by which they could take a cup of dirt, run it through a complex series of electro-chemical reactions and end up with simple single-celled organisms - in short, they were able to create life from dirt. They were so impressed by this feat that they took their accomplishment to God saying, "look what we can do. We can create life from dirt just like you did." God nods his head then says, "yeah, but first you gotta make your own dirt."
See, when I read about all of these mind-blowing theories of the universe and all the other minor miracles that man has made, I don't wonder at the power of the human mind, I stand in awe of the one who created it all. Columbus didn't discover America - it was already there for the finding. In the same way, all these discoveries about the nature of the universe, we're just finding what God has already put in place. And the more we explore, the more we learn, the more we realize how little we know.
Those theories about the cosmos that I started talking about? There are maybe a couple dozen people in the entire world who are smart enough to work in that field. And that's just one field of study. There are only a handful of biologists who know how to turn a stem cell into a nerve cell. There are chess players who know that one push of a pawn can win the game twenty moves later. There are computer hackers who use just a few lines of code to crash computers all over the world (bastards...but then again, I'm an Mac guy - ask me the last time I updated my virus software...oops, what virus software?).
All of these people devote their entire lives to understanding just a tiny piece of what God has created, and there's still so much to be learned, to be discovered, to be calculated. There are over 18 million books in the Library of Congress and even if one were to read and understand them all, you'd still only grasp an ounce of the universe that God has created.
This is how I worship.
Look, here are a few things that amaze me:
1. If you remember any of your high school science, you know that everything we see is made up of atoms. These atoms are made up of a nucleus (which contains protons and neutrons) and electrons, which "orbit" the nucleus. Now here's the part that blows my mind. Take the nucleus of an atom and blow it up to the size of a grape seed and put it in the center of a football stadium. The nearest electron will be eating a hot-dog in the last row up in the cheap seats. That's a lot of empty space isn't it? So if my fingers are made up of atoms and this keyboard I'm typing on is made up of atoms and atoms are mostly empty space, why aren't my fingers passing straight through the keys?
2. Let's say you're driving a Ferrari (any one will do) down the H3. You're being good and driving the speed limit until some dweeb in a souped up Honda CRX passes you, giving you the finger as he does. He drives by too quickly for you to get a good look at him so you step on the gas and catch up to him and you see that it's your punk cousin.
Now let's change it up a bit. Let's say you're the pilot of the fastest spaceship ever created. You're flying from planet to planet when you see your cousin whip by you, riding on a beam of light. You're tired of his antics so you open up the thrusters on your spaceship and try to catch up to him. But then you discover something very strange. No matter how fast you push your spaceship, your cousin is traveling away from you at the exact same rate. Even as you approach the speed of light (the same speed your cousin was traveling) he's still zipping away from you...at the speed of light.
I'm probably completely screwing up the example but ask your resident geek astrophysicist (or channel Einstein who discovered this phenomenon) and they'll tell you that it's basically correct.
3. The bits of the universe that we can observe with telescopes and microscopes only accounts for about five percent of what the universe is made of. The other ninety five percent is made up of dark matter (20 percent) and dark energy (75 percent). No one has ever seen either dark matter or dark energy but it's pretty much settled that it exists. If it didn't, the galaxy our solar system lives in would rip itself apart like pizza dough that's being spun too fast. And the last time I looked up in the sky, the milky way seemed pretty stable.
4. We normally measure the world in three dimensions - left/right, forwards/back, up/down. We navigate this way. For example, I work at Altres Staffing which is on the corner of Kapiolani Blvd (one dimension) and Ward Ave (a second dimension), up on the second floor (third dimension). Einstein introduced time as a fourth dimension, which makes sense if you consider that I schedule people for interviews at my office all the time. I give them directions to the office in three dimensions but I also have to tell them when to be there.
Okay, common sense right? Well some of the most popular models (theories) of the cosmos include up to twenty six dimensions (although the most popular model makes do with a mere eleven). Can't picture that? No one can, it's impossible for us because all we've ever known is our measly four dimensions.
Now I've limited myself to physics. but our world is littered with everyday astonishments like these:
1. You listen to CDs? Well every second of sound you hear off of your CD player has been pieced together from 44,100 little pieces of information. Each piece can have one of 65,536 values. All of that information is stored on that little disc.
2. The computer you're using to read this blog? Let's say you've got an old crappy computer like mine and your processor speed is around 1GHz. That means, the chip at the center of your computer is making 1,000,000,000 little calculations every second. Massively parallel supercomputers are thousands of times faster than that.
And the most amazing fact of them all?
3. The uber-stud, Randall has been single for thirty three years.
And even more amazing that that?
4. You're still reading this damn blog...get to the point already!
Okay, okay, the point of all this geeky information:
One could look at all of these facts and figures and say, "wow, humans are pretty smart huh?" But we aren't. Most of these advancements and discoveries have occurred in the last couple centuries. In the grand scheme of things, it was only yesterday that we as a species thought the world was flat. And besides, we're only discovering what's already there, what's already been created. Here's a great story I heard once that illustrates how limited our understanding is:
A group of scientists discovered a process by which they could take a cup of dirt, run it through a complex series of electro-chemical reactions and end up with simple single-celled organisms - in short, they were able to create life from dirt. They were so impressed by this feat that they took their accomplishment to God saying, "look what we can do. We can create life from dirt just like you did." God nods his head then says, "yeah, but first you gotta make your own dirt."
See, when I read about all of these mind-blowing theories of the universe and all the other minor miracles that man has made, I don't wonder at the power of the human mind, I stand in awe of the one who created it all. Columbus didn't discover America - it was already there for the finding. In the same way, all these discoveries about the nature of the universe, we're just finding what God has already put in place. And the more we explore, the more we learn, the more we realize how little we know.
Those theories about the cosmos that I started talking about? There are maybe a couple dozen people in the entire world who are smart enough to work in that field. And that's just one field of study. There are only a handful of biologists who know how to turn a stem cell into a nerve cell. There are chess players who know that one push of a pawn can win the game twenty moves later. There are computer hackers who use just a few lines of code to crash computers all over the world (bastards...but then again, I'm an Mac guy - ask me the last time I updated my virus software...oops, what virus software?).
All of these people devote their entire lives to understanding just a tiny piece of what God has created, and there's still so much to be learned, to be discovered, to be calculated. There are over 18 million books in the Library of Congress and even if one were to read and understand them all, you'd still only grasp an ounce of the universe that God has created.
This is how I worship.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
65. the opposite sex
I'm no linguist but I think that's such an interesting way to differentiate between the genders - to refer to them as opposites. I mean, I'm no doctor either (really?) so I don't know the exact statistics but I'd bet male and female share a good 90 percent of the plumbing - hardly enough to be called opposite.
I suppose I could enter the deadly minefield where the differences between the way men and women's minds work are discussed...but even there there are far more similarities than differences. We focus on the differences because that's our nature.
So what's the deal with this, "opposite," business? It's not like men walk on their hands or women eat with their toes.
I don't know. Having never (that's right, never) been in a relationship, I suppose it's easy for me to downplay the differences...I mean, what do I know? All those stories about the guy and the girl - purely a product of my imagination and what I've managed to glean from movies and books and television and comedians (the great comedians are always experts in human nature and interaction - they can teach you a lot). It's not a very reliable way to learn about life, but I take what I can get.
I learned quickly enough that entertainment stereotypes don't translate well in real life. Here's one example. Watch enough VH-1's Behind The Music and you get the idea that being in a band equals getting chicks. WTF? I must smell like guano or something because I have never met any women after any gig with any of the bands I've ever been in. Of course, I've never really made an effort to try to talk to women after these gigs (I'm shy and I have no game...see blog 62). On top of that, one of the last bands I was in was this pretty heavy, chunky band called Apartment 3. The women who'd show up for those shows usually looked like they'd kick my ass and steal my bus pass if I tried talking to them. The band I'm in now? Those women seem far too cool and artsy...oh and far too young.
Oh, and along the same lines, I remember when I was in college I had a little solo gig where I would sing and play guitar in a little coffee shop on Waialae Ave. I remember I specifically had two goals in mind when doing those gigs. One was to get better at the guitar - I hate practicing but I knew playing in front of people would make me discipline myself. The other was to see if it was true that musicians got women. The results? Well, I got better as a guitar player... Of course it would probably have helped if there were actually people there to listen to me play. I had the distinct misfortune of starting my solo coffee shop career right when Starbucks hit the island. I guess I could have tried my luck with the wait help, some of them were really cute but as I remember it they all had big scary boyfriends. And besides, I'm not one to steal anyone away from anyone else.
Anyway, all of this is just a really long way of saying that I have a lot to learn about the opposite sex...and even though I kind of started out diss-ing that term, what else are we going to say..."the other sex?"
I suppose I could enter the deadly minefield where the differences between the way men and women's minds work are discussed...but even there there are far more similarities than differences. We focus on the differences because that's our nature.
So what's the deal with this, "opposite," business? It's not like men walk on their hands or women eat with their toes.
I don't know. Having never (that's right, never) been in a relationship, I suppose it's easy for me to downplay the differences...I mean, what do I know? All those stories about the guy and the girl - purely a product of my imagination and what I've managed to glean from movies and books and television and comedians (the great comedians are always experts in human nature and interaction - they can teach you a lot). It's not a very reliable way to learn about life, but I take what I can get.
I learned quickly enough that entertainment stereotypes don't translate well in real life. Here's one example. Watch enough VH-1's Behind The Music and you get the idea that being in a band equals getting chicks. WTF? I must smell like guano or something because I have never met any women after any gig with any of the bands I've ever been in. Of course, I've never really made an effort to try to talk to women after these gigs (I'm shy and I have no game...see blog 62). On top of that, one of the last bands I was in was this pretty heavy, chunky band called Apartment 3. The women who'd show up for those shows usually looked like they'd kick my ass and steal my bus pass if I tried talking to them. The band I'm in now? Those women seem far too cool and artsy...oh and far too young.
Oh, and along the same lines, I remember when I was in college I had a little solo gig where I would sing and play guitar in a little coffee shop on Waialae Ave. I remember I specifically had two goals in mind when doing those gigs. One was to get better at the guitar - I hate practicing but I knew playing in front of people would make me discipline myself. The other was to see if it was true that musicians got women. The results? Well, I got better as a guitar player... Of course it would probably have helped if there were actually people there to listen to me play. I had the distinct misfortune of starting my solo coffee shop career right when Starbucks hit the island. I guess I could have tried my luck with the wait help, some of them were really cute but as I remember it they all had big scary boyfriends. And besides, I'm not one to steal anyone away from anyone else.
Anyway, all of this is just a really long way of saying that I have a lot to learn about the opposite sex...and even though I kind of started out diss-ing that term, what else are we going to say..."the other sex?"
Friday, August 12, 2005
64. String Theory
Down every street, in every room, on every station. Her memory, like fingerprints, are everywhere. And they won't come off, not with prayer, not with alcohol, not with holes in the drywall.
It's like half his world's been stolen from him. Nothing's sacred anymore, it's all tainted, stained, etched by association. "We walked down that sidewalk, that's her favorite color, it's raining, it's sunny, and there's the constellation Orion, fighting Tarus - the bull with Seven Sisters on his back. She's breathing this air, still."
A red light. Not at this intersection, not in this car, but at a red light, they kissed for the first time. And despite himself, he laughs at how the kiss was broken by horns blaring behind them, and how they were the only ones to make it through the yellow light.
It's like some grand conspiracy of grief, everywhere but invisible to everyone. But he sees all too clearly.
He drives around trying to find somewhere, anywhere away from her but they had so much in common and what was not common they made so. And now there's no where to go, nowhere to hide.
He thinks to try the opposite - to return to the bookstore where it all began, but it's past midnight. The doors will be locked and the lights out and besides, they've moved the new fiction shelves to the opposite end of the floor.
To the place where it ended then. But the car won't go, it knows better (it knows about the hole in the drywall). At first he's maddened by this minor rebellion but in a rare rational moment he sees that it's for the best.
In an apartment across town she's at the foot of her bed with a shoebox in her lap, once a makeshift hope chest. The sides are decorated by unseen hours with scissors, glue, and vintage gardening magazines (a box full purchased at some random garage sale). Once a hope chest. Now? Tonight? Two weeks apart?
It's garbage day tomorrow and she had planned on emptying it out, piece by piece - the cards, the shirt buttton, the fingernail, the movie stub, the orange plastic spoon, the miscelanea of memories. She was so sure and she started with such determination. But his handwriting. She didn't see that coming but it's all so clear to her now - those hours spent deciphering the scrawl and how the most important parts were the least legible. All the fury and anticipation and the glorious instant when the translation revealed itself.
She reaches for the lid but pauses. One thing. At least one thing must go or she'll never get through this. She needs to perform this one act of self-determination and so she closes her eyes and reaches into the box. And her fingers tell her before her eyes do, what they've found. So before she opens her eyes she remembers the park and the pages and this one thing. She smiles and she cries because she's no longer afraid of feathers.
He's parked. He's home but it hardly feels that way anymore and so he stares at the number of his assigned stall, a yellow "14" stenciled onto the wall. The cold is beginning to creep in and he knows he can't stay here much longer for fear of falling asleep - in the cold, in this car, forever. But he can't move or he doesn't want to move. He just peers, deeper and deeper at the number - past the pigment and the binders, deep down into the soup of molecules and beyond. He's subatomic now, in the realm of Heisenberg's uncertainty where Schrodinger's cat is both dead and alive at the same time. But in the macroscopic world where his car is parked, his eyelids droop and then close. In his mind, he continues his descent, deeper down past superstrings and their symphony of quarks and electrons and Tau-neutrinos. At the Planck level he takes a seat and wonders at the chaos of design.
His body is in the hospital now, comatose but alive. She is sitting beside him, holding his hand. In this way she comes to understand how meaningless the argument was that severed their love, how pride on both sides widened the divide, and how in the grand sceheme of it all they are better off together with their conflicts and their compromises than they are apart.
As she strokes his hand, she whispers this newfound insight into his ear but unconsciousness is sitting on the synapses and he cannot hear. And so after she's done her best to reason with is silence, she prays feebly, desperately.
On a bench across the street from a Mediterranian restaurant an angel stirs, purpose and passion coursing through her veins. She takes to the sky, sword aflame, armored for battle.
It's like half his world's been stolen from him. Nothing's sacred anymore, it's all tainted, stained, etched by association. "We walked down that sidewalk, that's her favorite color, it's raining, it's sunny, and there's the constellation Orion, fighting Tarus - the bull with Seven Sisters on his back. She's breathing this air, still."
A red light. Not at this intersection, not in this car, but at a red light, they kissed for the first time. And despite himself, he laughs at how the kiss was broken by horns blaring behind them, and how they were the only ones to make it through the yellow light.
It's like some grand conspiracy of grief, everywhere but invisible to everyone. But he sees all too clearly.
He drives around trying to find somewhere, anywhere away from her but they had so much in common and what was not common they made so. And now there's no where to go, nowhere to hide.
He thinks to try the opposite - to return to the bookstore where it all began, but it's past midnight. The doors will be locked and the lights out and besides, they've moved the new fiction shelves to the opposite end of the floor.
To the place where it ended then. But the car won't go, it knows better (it knows about the hole in the drywall). At first he's maddened by this minor rebellion but in a rare rational moment he sees that it's for the best.
In an apartment across town she's at the foot of her bed with a shoebox in her lap, once a makeshift hope chest. The sides are decorated by unseen hours with scissors, glue, and vintage gardening magazines (a box full purchased at some random garage sale). Once a hope chest. Now? Tonight? Two weeks apart?
It's garbage day tomorrow and she had planned on emptying it out, piece by piece - the cards, the shirt buttton, the fingernail, the movie stub, the orange plastic spoon, the miscelanea of memories. She was so sure and she started with such determination. But his handwriting. She didn't see that coming but it's all so clear to her now - those hours spent deciphering the scrawl and how the most important parts were the least legible. All the fury and anticipation and the glorious instant when the translation revealed itself.
She reaches for the lid but pauses. One thing. At least one thing must go or she'll never get through this. She needs to perform this one act of self-determination and so she closes her eyes and reaches into the box. And her fingers tell her before her eyes do, what they've found. So before she opens her eyes she remembers the park and the pages and this one thing. She smiles and she cries because she's no longer afraid of feathers.
He's parked. He's home but it hardly feels that way anymore and so he stares at the number of his assigned stall, a yellow "14" stenciled onto the wall. The cold is beginning to creep in and he knows he can't stay here much longer for fear of falling asleep - in the cold, in this car, forever. But he can't move or he doesn't want to move. He just peers, deeper and deeper at the number - past the pigment and the binders, deep down into the soup of molecules and beyond. He's subatomic now, in the realm of Heisenberg's uncertainty where Schrodinger's cat is both dead and alive at the same time. But in the macroscopic world where his car is parked, his eyelids droop and then close. In his mind, he continues his descent, deeper down past superstrings and their symphony of quarks and electrons and Tau-neutrinos. At the Planck level he takes a seat and wonders at the chaos of design.
His body is in the hospital now, comatose but alive. She is sitting beside him, holding his hand. In this way she comes to understand how meaningless the argument was that severed their love, how pride on both sides widened the divide, and how in the grand sceheme of it all they are better off together with their conflicts and their compromises than they are apart.
As she strokes his hand, she whispers this newfound insight into his ear but unconsciousness is sitting on the synapses and he cannot hear. And so after she's done her best to reason with is silence, she prays feebly, desperately.
On a bench across the street from a Mediterranian restaurant an angel stirs, purpose and passion coursing through her veins. She takes to the sky, sword aflame, armored for battle.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
63. woman shaped hole
I've always bristled at the thought whenever someone would say, "you need to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." I never really thought about it but I think I know why - I don't think it's Biblical.
In Genesis 2:18-25, we see the creation of the first woman, Eve. It all starts with God sensing that Adam is missing something, "It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a companion who will help him," (Gen 2:18b NLT). And so God went to work creating all kinds of animals, bringing them to Adam. Adam in turn gives them names, but even after God's grand parade, "...there was no companion suitable for him," (Gen 2:20b NLT).
Funny side-note, some people tell me that I'm too picky. Hell, I think I'm too picky, but it's a good thing Adam was too because if he wasn't, he might have settled for llama and God would never have gone on to create Eve. And I don't want to even begin to think about how procreation would have worked out if that were the case..."damn, did you see the teats on that llama mama? DAMN!"
Anyway, God sees that none of the animals he's created are right for Adam and so he goes and does something very strange. "So the LORD God caused Adam to fall into a deep sleep. He took one of Adam's ribs and closed up the place from which he had taken it. Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib and brought her to Adam," (Gen 2:21-22 NLT).
Up until this point, God had fashioned all of creation out of the ground. But he does something very different when creating the first woman, Eve. He opens Adam up, removes a part of him (a rib), and uses that to create her. Thus, instead of just being another form or creation, woman is "...bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh," (Gen 2:23 NIV). And God doesn't replace the rib (at least not Adam's rib...despite what some Christians think, men and women have the exact same number or ribs) and so in a very real sense, Adam is made whole when he is with her.
Another side note, the Greeks had a similar kind of idea about men and women and why they feel more whole when together. Plato describes, in one of his writings, a man being split in two. One half became male and the other half became female and that's why the one is always longing for the other - because they desire to be made whole again.
The thing that I find particularly interesting about the Bible's account the creation of Eve is the fact that it occurs BEFORE the fall - that is, the world has not yet been corrupted by sin, it is still as God intended it. The longing that Adam felt for another was there from the beginning, it's not a product of corruption but of design. Man and woman being together is a part of God's design, and so is Adam's longing for companionship!
So then, the advice that one needs to be whole before being ready for a relationship is misguided. Man's longing for companionship predated the fall and thus is an element of God's design.
I don't know. I'm no theologian (understatement of the year). I've just never heard the story of man and woman explained this way. I've always seen loneliness and longing as a product of a fallen world, but what if that's how we've been created?
Not sure what this all means in the long run. It's an interesting idea (to me). Maybe I'm wrong about this. Any Bible scholars out there able to comment on this?
In Genesis 2:18-25, we see the creation of the first woman, Eve. It all starts with God sensing that Adam is missing something, "It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a companion who will help him," (Gen 2:18b NLT). And so God went to work creating all kinds of animals, bringing them to Adam. Adam in turn gives them names, but even after God's grand parade, "...there was no companion suitable for him," (Gen 2:20b NLT).
Funny side-note, some people tell me that I'm too picky. Hell, I think I'm too picky, but it's a good thing Adam was too because if he wasn't, he might have settled for llama and God would never have gone on to create Eve. And I don't want to even begin to think about how procreation would have worked out if that were the case..."damn, did you see the teats on that llama mama? DAMN!"
Anyway, God sees that none of the animals he's created are right for Adam and so he goes and does something very strange. "So the LORD God caused Adam to fall into a deep sleep. He took one of Adam's ribs and closed up the place from which he had taken it. Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib and brought her to Adam," (Gen 2:21-22 NLT).
Up until this point, God had fashioned all of creation out of the ground. But he does something very different when creating the first woman, Eve. He opens Adam up, removes a part of him (a rib), and uses that to create her. Thus, instead of just being another form or creation, woman is "...bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh," (Gen 2:23 NIV). And God doesn't replace the rib (at least not Adam's rib...despite what some Christians think, men and women have the exact same number or ribs) and so in a very real sense, Adam is made whole when he is with her.
Another side note, the Greeks had a similar kind of idea about men and women and why they feel more whole when together. Plato describes, in one of his writings, a man being split in two. One half became male and the other half became female and that's why the one is always longing for the other - because they desire to be made whole again.
The thing that I find particularly interesting about the Bible's account the creation of Eve is the fact that it occurs BEFORE the fall - that is, the world has not yet been corrupted by sin, it is still as God intended it. The longing that Adam felt for another was there from the beginning, it's not a product of corruption but of design. Man and woman being together is a part of God's design, and so is Adam's longing for companionship!
So then, the advice that one needs to be whole before being ready for a relationship is misguided. Man's longing for companionship predated the fall and thus is an element of God's design.
I don't know. I'm no theologian (understatement of the year). I've just never heard the story of man and woman explained this way. I've always seen loneliness and longing as a product of a fallen world, but what if that's how we've been created?
Not sure what this all means in the long run. It's an interesting idea (to me). Maybe I'm wrong about this. Any Bible scholars out there able to comment on this?
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
62. too much information
Wanted: inspiration.
Stuck in a rut and I've run through all my gears. I need God's tow service to pull me out. And so I pray. And wait. And I check to see if anyone's read my blog (and better yet, left a comment). And I wait.
[insert segue]
You know how people are always saying things like, "you've got to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." Or, "while you're looking for the right person, make sure you're the right person." Or, "be glad you're single, appreciate your singleness, you're going to miss these days once you're in a relationship." This last one is particularly irritating. If they really feel this way then they should dump whomever they're with instead of trying to comfort me with this lame advice. If I knew how to be a contented single person I wouldn't be complaining about it now would I?
I can't speak for every 33yo single person out there but as for me, I'd rather lick a toilet bowl than have to listen to more of those comments/suggestions. I mean, I appreciate the fact that the person saying those things is just trying to help out, but...it doesn't help.
I'm the most single person I know. I don't know anyone in my circle of friends who's been single longer than I. Well, there is one person...but I won't go there. I don't get it and I hate it. It's stupid. I have so much to offer, so much I want to give: I'm selfless and I do my best to empathize, I like to shop for clothes, I'm a good listener, I have a latent romantic side of me that can't wait to spoil a woman with style and surprise, I've read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, I like chick flicks (as long as they're well made), I'm not obsessed with sports or automobiles, I believe that a woman's heart is ounce-for-ounce the most precious substance in the universe and should be treated as such, I really do care more about who a woman is than what she looks like (sometimes I wish appearance was all that mattered to me, that would be so much easier), I want to learn the difference between "I'm fine" and "I'm okay," I'm good about leaving the toilet seat down (the department I work in is mostly female and they'll back me up on this), I'm not afraid of marriage - I think a lifetime is not nearly long enough to know a woman but I'd love to give it a try.
All that said, I know if anyone's to blame for me being this single this long, it's me. I'm far too picky and I'm far too shy (not a good combination). I have no game and don't let anyone tell you that game doesn't matter. In the long run, that's true but game is what gets your foot in the door. And if you don't get in the door then you're on the outside with the other sorry, single individuals.
In case you're wondering what it is I'm so picky about, here are a few things I'm looking for, pretty much in order of importance: she's got to be a believer in Christ - that's pretty much a given but I think exceptions can be made in (very) rare circumstances. She's got to be smart. I find intelligence incredibly attractive and insight is far sexier than lingerie (I can't believe I just used the word, "lingerie" in my blog). She's got to be funny. But if she's smart, funny probably won't be a problem. I could go on but really, everything else is just a refinement of those three things: Christian, smart, funny.
Physical attributes? Hey, I've got eyes so yes, there are physical features that I'm drawn to but they're not nearly as important as the big three (Christian, smart, funny). But for the record, here they are: I've always been attracted to women with short hair - shoulder length and above. Anything below the middle of the back is redundant and frankly, gross (hair is really just strands of dead cells, thus longer hair equals more death...blah!). I also like women who wear glasses (believe it or not, I'm still going in order of importance, not off the top of my head). I like women who don't wear a lot of makeup. And this is probably far too much information, but big breasts frighten me. Honestly, the smaller the better (fo real).
Oh my, I never know where I'll end up when I start a blog entry. I thought this blog was going to be about feeling stuck in a rut...but I guess there's really not much to say about that. If you're stuck, you're stuck and if you're not going anywhere then there's really not that much to say is there? But I had no idea this would end up as an exposition on what I find attractive.
But I follow the sentences where they lead and I do my best to be true to what they want to say.
Thanks again for reading.
...and if you see her walking by, tell her I'm doing my best to find her - and that when I do, I'll do my best to overcome shyness and insecurity. Tell her I have no game and so if I drop the ball, don't give up on me.
Stuck in a rut and I've run through all my gears. I need God's tow service to pull me out. And so I pray. And wait. And I check to see if anyone's read my blog (and better yet, left a comment). And I wait.
[insert segue]
You know how people are always saying things like, "you've got to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." Or, "while you're looking for the right person, make sure you're the right person." Or, "be glad you're single, appreciate your singleness, you're going to miss these days once you're in a relationship." This last one is particularly irritating. If they really feel this way then they should dump whomever they're with instead of trying to comfort me with this lame advice. If I knew how to be a contented single person I wouldn't be complaining about it now would I?
I can't speak for every 33yo single person out there but as for me, I'd rather lick a toilet bowl than have to listen to more of those comments/suggestions. I mean, I appreciate the fact that the person saying those things is just trying to help out, but...it doesn't help.
I'm the most single person I know. I don't know anyone in my circle of friends who's been single longer than I. Well, there is one person...but I won't go there. I don't get it and I hate it. It's stupid. I have so much to offer, so much I want to give: I'm selfless and I do my best to empathize, I like to shop for clothes, I'm a good listener, I have a latent romantic side of me that can't wait to spoil a woman with style and surprise, I've read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, I like chick flicks (as long as they're well made), I'm not obsessed with sports or automobiles, I believe that a woman's heart is ounce-for-ounce the most precious substance in the universe and should be treated as such, I really do care more about who a woman is than what she looks like (sometimes I wish appearance was all that mattered to me, that would be so much easier), I want to learn the difference between "I'm fine" and "I'm okay," I'm good about leaving the toilet seat down (the department I work in is mostly female and they'll back me up on this), I'm not afraid of marriage - I think a lifetime is not nearly long enough to know a woman but I'd love to give it a try.
All that said, I know if anyone's to blame for me being this single this long, it's me. I'm far too picky and I'm far too shy (not a good combination). I have no game and don't let anyone tell you that game doesn't matter. In the long run, that's true but game is what gets your foot in the door. And if you don't get in the door then you're on the outside with the other sorry, single individuals.
In case you're wondering what it is I'm so picky about, here are a few things I'm looking for, pretty much in order of importance: she's got to be a believer in Christ - that's pretty much a given but I think exceptions can be made in (very) rare circumstances. She's got to be smart. I find intelligence incredibly attractive and insight is far sexier than lingerie (I can't believe I just used the word, "lingerie" in my blog). She's got to be funny. But if she's smart, funny probably won't be a problem. I could go on but really, everything else is just a refinement of those three things: Christian, smart, funny.
Physical attributes? Hey, I've got eyes so yes, there are physical features that I'm drawn to but they're not nearly as important as the big three (Christian, smart, funny). But for the record, here they are: I've always been attracted to women with short hair - shoulder length and above. Anything below the middle of the back is redundant and frankly, gross (hair is really just strands of dead cells, thus longer hair equals more death...blah!). I also like women who wear glasses (believe it or not, I'm still going in order of importance, not off the top of my head). I like women who don't wear a lot of makeup. And this is probably far too much information, but big breasts frighten me. Honestly, the smaller the better (fo real).
Oh my, I never know where I'll end up when I start a blog entry. I thought this blog was going to be about feeling stuck in a rut...but I guess there's really not much to say about that. If you're stuck, you're stuck and if you're not going anywhere then there's really not that much to say is there? But I had no idea this would end up as an exposition on what I find attractive.
But I follow the sentences where they lead and I do my best to be true to what they want to say.
Thanks again for reading.
...and if you see her walking by, tell her I'm doing my best to find her - and that when I do, I'll do my best to overcome shyness and insecurity. Tell her I have no game and so if I drop the ball, don't give up on me.
Monday, August 08, 2005
61. The Birds and the Bag Lady
They're walking down the sidewalk and decide to take the shortcut through the park. Halfway through, they come across a riot of birds, pathway-wide, roosting on the bushes beside and the branches above. She hesitates for a moment and he remembers her odd, yet endearing, fear of pigeons and crows.
He makes a run at them and some of them disperse but these are city-park birds - they'll make a mess of your umbrella and your hat, but apart from that, they really don't give a shit. He makes a spectacle of himself, kicking his feet and flailing his arms, but outside the circumference of his reach they just go on pecking at the unusually delicious crumbs left by the strange bag lady.
Story goes, she lost her home during the divorce but got the bulk of the settlement cash in return. She refused to use her millions to buy another house, claiming that no other house would ever be home. She chose, instead, to move into the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings she buys pretzel-croissants made to her specification (extra flaky) from the city's best cafe. She spends these mornings spreading crumbs in the park and doesn't stop until every last piece is gone. And as she spreads them, some say that if you listen close enough, you can hear her muttering her ex-husband's name under her breath, sometimes longing, sometimes mad.
He's still working on the birds when he feels something fall on his shoulder. At first he thinks that he's just been shat upon but when he turns his head to check, he sees her hand and beyond he sees her face betraying a thin, uncomfortable smile burdened by the weight of her phobia. Her eyes pinball between face and fowl.
He holds her close and tells her to close her eyes.
"I can still hear them - their wings" she says, calmer now but still nervous.
"No, listen," he whispers. "Those aren't birds, they're old, manual typewriters - Remington, Royal, and Underwood machines - spewing out stories all by themselves."
As he's telling her this, the birds jump and scatter as Olympias and Smith-Coronas appear beneath them, pages filled top to bottom with text spilling out over their carriages. After the last bird has flown, he tells her to open her eyes and when she does she finds the pathway white with paper. He picks a few of them up and walks her through the park, reading letters from the bag lady to her husband - some of them longing, all of them sad.
He makes a run at them and some of them disperse but these are city-park birds - they'll make a mess of your umbrella and your hat, but apart from that, they really don't give a shit. He makes a spectacle of himself, kicking his feet and flailing his arms, but outside the circumference of his reach they just go on pecking at the unusually delicious crumbs left by the strange bag lady.
Story goes, she lost her home during the divorce but got the bulk of the settlement cash in return. She refused to use her millions to buy another house, claiming that no other house would ever be home. She chose, instead, to move into the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings she buys pretzel-croissants made to her specification (extra flaky) from the city's best cafe. She spends these mornings spreading crumbs in the park and doesn't stop until every last piece is gone. And as she spreads them, some say that if you listen close enough, you can hear her muttering her ex-husband's name under her breath, sometimes longing, sometimes mad.
He's still working on the birds when he feels something fall on his shoulder. At first he thinks that he's just been shat upon but when he turns his head to check, he sees her hand and beyond he sees her face betraying a thin, uncomfortable smile burdened by the weight of her phobia. Her eyes pinball between face and fowl.
He holds her close and tells her to close her eyes.
"I can still hear them - their wings" she says, calmer now but still nervous.
"No, listen," he whispers. "Those aren't birds, they're old, manual typewriters - Remington, Royal, and Underwood machines - spewing out stories all by themselves."
As he's telling her this, the birds jump and scatter as Olympias and Smith-Coronas appear beneath them, pages filled top to bottom with text spilling out over their carriages. After the last bird has flown, he tells her to open her eyes and when she does she finds the pathway white with paper. He picks a few of them up and walks her through the park, reading letters from the bag lady to her husband - some of them longing, all of them sad.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
60. this "relationship with God" business (bring your lightning rod)
The backstory:
1. So I'm hanging out with a couple of my Christian friends and we're talking about problems in our lives and it seems to me that we're talking about the same problems every week. Which brings to the fore something that was hanging out at the back of my mind which is...
2. These past couple weeks (well, past couple months but more so in the past couple weeks), I've been dealing with my feelings for this girl I know. When I'm in rational zen mind, I understand that she's not right for me and I'm not right for her so let's call the whole thing off, but most of the time it's tweaking me this way (maybe things can work out anyway, give it a try) and that (stay the hell away, this could get ugly and throw you right back into the pit that you've just been making your way out of). The only thing I can do when I get twisted like this is pray...and so I pray...and nothing happens. I ask questions (is it this way or that?) and nothing happens. I ask for these feelings to be taken away, and nothing happens (although I do feel the edges soften sometimes). I pray for Jesus to fill the needy, resonating emptiness inside of me the way so many sermons have promised, and nothing happens (and the empty gains an inch).
The rant
And so tonight I'm listening to my friends and I'm thinking about my prayers and then it hits me. (lightning rods up) Where is God in all of this? Where is this God I always hear about in church - the one who hears prayers, who answers them? And in my loneliness, where is the God who brings comfort and fulfillment and purpose?
There are a thousand ways to explain them away, these questions, but the fact remains, evident as the air I breathe - God is not (as far as I can see, and right now - right now - that's all that matters to me) doing anything about anything.
Of course if I think it through, I can understand that God works on a different timetable than ours and so behind the scenes in dimensions inaccessible, angels are hard at work...but it's the quiet that ires me most. Some Christians talk about a relationship with Jesus as if he lives in the apartment across the hall. And he's always there when they knock on the door to borrow a bit of salt. My Jesus lives on another planet and my cell phone doesn't reach that far.
I suppose it's possible that God chooses to reveal himself in different degrees to different people, and that's his right. But this talk of relationship is ubiquitous. It's so ingrained into the Christian lexicon that one like me has to wonder, "what's wrong with me?" Has the church taken what was once a useful metaphor and turned it into a stumbling block?
Late at night, I like to sit and stare out into the night sky. And I pray. And I wait. And I listen. And I wait. And wait. And then I get up and go to bed.
What do I pray? Here's a quick list (minus the specifics...this is a blog, not an open book...so to speak):
1. Lord, my friends and I need help with these problems and they don't go away. We try but we fail. We need your strength and intervention. Is there anything you can do to save us from ourselves?
2. Lord, I'm lonely. Are you there?
3. Lord, you know that I'm a generous person, that I help whenever I see a need that I can fill, but who's going to fill the need that's left in me? I know you've graced me with great friends but this need is beyond them. This need is beyond me. It's a need that I can't even put into words but you know what it is (Romans 8:26-27). Can you do something about this?
4. Are you there? Can you throw me a bone or something?
And the wind blows, a car drives by. I watch the clouds (lit by light pollution) go by. And I try to listen beyond the ambiance, down through the noise floor. But it's silent. Jet black, squid ink, obsidian. Silence.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't mistake the silence for absence. I know God is there, that's not a question for me anymore. And so in the end, maybe my argument is not with God but with the church and their (false?) promise of relationship. And I wonder how many more of me are out there, squirming in their church pew seats when mention is made of this relationship business - if they're still in these seats at all.
I believe. Even though, even if, despite. Still, some evidence would be nice.
1. So I'm hanging out with a couple of my Christian friends and we're talking about problems in our lives and it seems to me that we're talking about the same problems every week. Which brings to the fore something that was hanging out at the back of my mind which is...
2. These past couple weeks (well, past couple months but more so in the past couple weeks), I've been dealing with my feelings for this girl I know. When I'm in rational zen mind, I understand that she's not right for me and I'm not right for her so let's call the whole thing off, but most of the time it's tweaking me this way (maybe things can work out anyway, give it a try) and that (stay the hell away, this could get ugly and throw you right back into the pit that you've just been making your way out of). The only thing I can do when I get twisted like this is pray...and so I pray...and nothing happens. I ask questions (is it this way or that?) and nothing happens. I ask for these feelings to be taken away, and nothing happens (although I do feel the edges soften sometimes). I pray for Jesus to fill the needy, resonating emptiness inside of me the way so many sermons have promised, and nothing happens (and the empty gains an inch).
The rant
And so tonight I'm listening to my friends and I'm thinking about my prayers and then it hits me. (lightning rods up) Where is God in all of this? Where is this God I always hear about in church - the one who hears prayers, who answers them? And in my loneliness, where is the God who brings comfort and fulfillment and purpose?
There are a thousand ways to explain them away, these questions, but the fact remains, evident as the air I breathe - God is not (as far as I can see, and right now - right now - that's all that matters to me) doing anything about anything.
Of course if I think it through, I can understand that God works on a different timetable than ours and so behind the scenes in dimensions inaccessible, angels are hard at work...but it's the quiet that ires me most. Some Christians talk about a relationship with Jesus as if he lives in the apartment across the hall. And he's always there when they knock on the door to borrow a bit of salt. My Jesus lives on another planet and my cell phone doesn't reach that far.
I suppose it's possible that God chooses to reveal himself in different degrees to different people, and that's his right. But this talk of relationship is ubiquitous. It's so ingrained into the Christian lexicon that one like me has to wonder, "what's wrong with me?" Has the church taken what was once a useful metaphor and turned it into a stumbling block?
Late at night, I like to sit and stare out into the night sky. And I pray. And I wait. And I listen. And I wait. And wait. And then I get up and go to bed.
What do I pray? Here's a quick list (minus the specifics...this is a blog, not an open book...so to speak):
1. Lord, my friends and I need help with these problems and they don't go away. We try but we fail. We need your strength and intervention. Is there anything you can do to save us from ourselves?
2. Lord, I'm lonely. Are you there?
3. Lord, you know that I'm a generous person, that I help whenever I see a need that I can fill, but who's going to fill the need that's left in me? I know you've graced me with great friends but this need is beyond them. This need is beyond me. It's a need that I can't even put into words but you know what it is (Romans 8:26-27). Can you do something about this?
4. Are you there? Can you throw me a bone or something?
And the wind blows, a car drives by. I watch the clouds (lit by light pollution) go by. And I try to listen beyond the ambiance, down through the noise floor. But it's silent. Jet black, squid ink, obsidian. Silence.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't mistake the silence for absence. I know God is there, that's not a question for me anymore. And so in the end, maybe my argument is not with God but with the church and their (false?) promise of relationship. And I wonder how many more of me are out there, squirming in their church pew seats when mention is made of this relationship business - if they're still in these seats at all.
I believe. Even though, even if, despite. Still, some evidence would be nice.
Friday, August 05, 2005
59. on loneliness and longing
Loneliness and longing are like two halves of a couple who can never be together. Like in the movie Ladyhawke where the man was a man by day but a wolf by night and his love was a hawk by day and a woman at night. Thus, they could only be together as man and woman at the instant the sun dipped below the horizon.
Loneliness and longing are like this, madly in love but never able to be together. And that's why there is so much ache tied to those emotions - because you're shairing in their impossible, insatiable need to be with their all too significant other.
Loneliness and longing are like this, madly in love but never able to be together. And that's why there is so much ache tied to those emotions - because you're shairing in their impossible, insatiable need to be with their all too significant other.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
58. Wishful Thinking
My phone rings and when I answer there is silence on the other end but it doesn't matter because I know it's her (caller ID). And I know her well enough to wait.
And the pregnant pause gives birth.
She tells me she's read my latest writing and she goes on and on about what she's found tucked between the lines. Her insight, as always, amazes me. She finds layers and textures within the text that I didn't intend but her reasoning is sound and the examples she sites are efficient in the way that only the truth can be.
But she doesn't stop there. She goes on to tie her findings to myself and though I've operated within this skin for all my life, she seems to understand what brews beneath better than I ever did.
I fight my tears because I want to savor the moment - to draw a bowl of glass around this space and time, pinching the ends closed so it's airtight, preserving the essence of it. But the tears come anyway because I feel I've been found - adrift in the populous sea, she found me.
The irony amuses me because I thought it was I who did the discovering - I thought I was the one who noticed her in the New Fiction section, lost in pages. And as I stumbled through the small talk and asked for her number, I thought I was the brave one - but it was she who took a chance and told me the truth (one digit off, she confessed to me once, that's all it takes to turn them away).
And she doesn't ask why because she already knows. She just smiles (over the line, through the wires, I can see her smiling) and points out a typo and a misplaced comma.
And the pregnant pause gives birth.
She tells me she's read my latest writing and she goes on and on about what she's found tucked between the lines. Her insight, as always, amazes me. She finds layers and textures within the text that I didn't intend but her reasoning is sound and the examples she sites are efficient in the way that only the truth can be.
But she doesn't stop there. She goes on to tie her findings to myself and though I've operated within this skin for all my life, she seems to understand what brews beneath better than I ever did.
I fight my tears because I want to savor the moment - to draw a bowl of glass around this space and time, pinching the ends closed so it's airtight, preserving the essence of it. But the tears come anyway because I feel I've been found - adrift in the populous sea, she found me.
The irony amuses me because I thought it was I who did the discovering - I thought I was the one who noticed her in the New Fiction section, lost in pages. And as I stumbled through the small talk and asked for her number, I thought I was the brave one - but it was she who took a chance and told me the truth (one digit off, she confessed to me once, that's all it takes to turn them away).
And she doesn't ask why because she already knows. She just smiles (over the line, through the wires, I can see her smiling) and points out a typo and a misplaced comma.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
57. The Angel and the Argument
There's an angel sitting on a bus stop bench across the street from a fine dining restaurant (Mediterranean, if you must know). Her wings are tucked away, pressed upon her back such that (a marvel of design) they're barely noticeable laying against her dress. Even upon close inspection you'd think it was merely some strange fabric - that is, if you could see the angel at all.
She is looking through the window of the restaurant, but these are the eyes that never knew the fall of man and so they see clearly and deeply as if telescopic. And she listens with ears that can reach out through the clutter and the white noise. Angel eyes and ears focus on one table towards the back where a couple is arguing over an issue that has nothing to do with them.
The angel observes, with equal part sadness, equal part anger, the words that are hurled across the table. She is sad because she sees the words for what they are - daggers and poisonous darts, back and forth in a meaningless battle of attrition. And she is angry because she knows that they will continue to assault one another until one buckles under the barrage and the other tries to savor the emptiness of the victory.
But there is also fascination and envy, for these are passions that she cannot comprehend. That's not to say that she doesn't know passion, because she does. All angels carry with them an insatiable passion for justice, for beauty, and most of all for God. But this thing that drives this couple to claw at one another with these words - there's no explanation for it. What, she wonders, could so saturate a man that he sets aside his love for this woman, launching him straight at the chinks in her armor - weakness that she revealed (finally, able to reveal them) to him in moments of soft, safe intimacy. And what could so posses a woman that she turns her dormant maternal instincts inside out - dismantling the thing she loves with example after example of error and inadequacy.
A snap, a click, and the angel draws an inch of sword from its scabbard. The sound of a sail catching the wind, and tongues of flame ignite and lap at the length of holy steel that has been exposed. But only for a moment. A click, a snap, and the flames disperse into thin air.
Later that night, a student on his way home from the college library passes the bus stop bench and wonders when it was (and why) the state thought to install this strange bronze statue with the strangely textured back and the sword that seems so out of context.
She is looking through the window of the restaurant, but these are the eyes that never knew the fall of man and so they see clearly and deeply as if telescopic. And she listens with ears that can reach out through the clutter and the white noise. Angel eyes and ears focus on one table towards the back where a couple is arguing over an issue that has nothing to do with them.
The angel observes, with equal part sadness, equal part anger, the words that are hurled across the table. She is sad because she sees the words for what they are - daggers and poisonous darts, back and forth in a meaningless battle of attrition. And she is angry because she knows that they will continue to assault one another until one buckles under the barrage and the other tries to savor the emptiness of the victory.
But there is also fascination and envy, for these are passions that she cannot comprehend. That's not to say that she doesn't know passion, because she does. All angels carry with them an insatiable passion for justice, for beauty, and most of all for God. But this thing that drives this couple to claw at one another with these words - there's no explanation for it. What, she wonders, could so saturate a man that he sets aside his love for this woman, launching him straight at the chinks in her armor - weakness that she revealed (finally, able to reveal them) to him in moments of soft, safe intimacy. And what could so posses a woman that she turns her dormant maternal instincts inside out - dismantling the thing she loves with example after example of error and inadequacy.
A snap, a click, and the angel draws an inch of sword from its scabbard. The sound of a sail catching the wind, and tongues of flame ignite and lap at the length of holy steel that has been exposed. But only for a moment. A click, a snap, and the flames disperse into thin air.
Later that night, a student on his way home from the college library passes the bus stop bench and wonders when it was (and why) the state thought to install this strange bronze statue with the strangely textured back and the sword that seems so out of context.
Monday, August 01, 2005
56. more on writing
In his introduction to his first book in The Dark Tower series, Stephen King wrote that he started this series because he wanted to see what would happen if he got the heavy machinery out and took on a story of epic size. If you're familiar with King's writing, you know he's got some door-stopper books, so for him to say he wanted to take on something big...well that's really saying something. He started the series in 1991 and the seventh and last book was published last September. Most of the books are about 400 - 500 pages long but some, including the last one are around 800.
(FYI...I think I read some of the first book, The Gunslinger, and I can't remember if I finished it or not (guilty confession: I start a lot of books, I finish very few of them). But I never read any of the other books in the series.)
I can't comprehend that kind of writing. I can barely comprehend that kind of reading. I guess I say that because all I write are these tiny little story things, most of which wouldn't fill one page. Stephen King pulls out the big guns and ends up with an epic somewhere around 30,000 pages long.
I mention King partly out of insecurity - is there a place in the world for stories three, four, five paragraphs long? It's not that I'm lazy (well, it's partly that) or not disciplined (um...yeah, partly this too), it's more the case that that's all I have, that's all that comes. I get an idea, sometimes just a line or a sentence, and finishing that sentence is like opening a door. Behind the door, I find a scene or an action or another character. Whatever it is, I write down what I see and then I walk through the next door and I write what I see there.
Sometimes after I'm done with a room I can't find an exit - I don't know where to go with the story. When this happens, sometimes I wait and a door appears later - the wife of a writer once said that one of the first things she learned about being married to a writer is that when he's staring out the window, he's actually working. But sometimes the next door never appears. Sometimes that means it's a dead end and the story dies. Sometimes that means that I missed a door a few rooms back.
The ending...it's hard to explain but I just know when the story ends. It's not like running out of things to say, I just know there's nothing more to be said. And so I stop.
Someone asked Jackson Pollock (the artist famous for throwing paint onto the canvas rather than applying it with a brush) how he knew when he was done with a painting. He replied, "how do you know when you've finished making love?" (Oh crap, I just had a thought...I hope writing super short stories doesn't mean I'm going to be one of those guys who make love for five minutes and then they're done.)
[insert segue]
It seems I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately (see blog 50 and 55). I suspect this has something to do with the downswing (blog 54). I don't know if this is how everyone handles being down but I get all introspective and since I've been writing a lot lately, thats what I'm introspecting (holy crap, my spellchecker didn't flag that word...I can't believe it's in the dictionary).
I don't know. Maybe one day I'll find a story that doesn't go down in two bites. Maybe I'm just warming up. Or maybe this is how I write and I'm actually fine with that. I never aspired to be a writer, it's just something I like to do. That thing I wrote above about walking through doors, that's a reasonably good way to describe how I write - I never know what to expect. One sentence leads me to the next and a lot of times, even as I'm writing it, I won't know where that sentence will take me until I've put a period at the end of it. And that's what I love about writing - the surprises.
And this doesn't just happen when I'm writing stories. It's the same with my "regular" blog entries (like this one). Even when I'm writing about myself, I'm usually trying to figure something out or trying to flesh out an idea that's been running through my head and a lot of times, I find just as much surprise as I do when writing stories...which is why I continue to write both.
Thanks for reading...really.
(FYI...I think I read some of the first book, The Gunslinger, and I can't remember if I finished it or not (guilty confession: I start a lot of books, I finish very few of them). But I never read any of the other books in the series.)
I can't comprehend that kind of writing. I can barely comprehend that kind of reading. I guess I say that because all I write are these tiny little story things, most of which wouldn't fill one page. Stephen King pulls out the big guns and ends up with an epic somewhere around 30,000 pages long.
I mention King partly out of insecurity - is there a place in the world for stories three, four, five paragraphs long? It's not that I'm lazy (well, it's partly that) or not disciplined (um...yeah, partly this too), it's more the case that that's all I have, that's all that comes. I get an idea, sometimes just a line or a sentence, and finishing that sentence is like opening a door. Behind the door, I find a scene or an action or another character. Whatever it is, I write down what I see and then I walk through the next door and I write what I see there.
Sometimes after I'm done with a room I can't find an exit - I don't know where to go with the story. When this happens, sometimes I wait and a door appears later - the wife of a writer once said that one of the first things she learned about being married to a writer is that when he's staring out the window, he's actually working. But sometimes the next door never appears. Sometimes that means it's a dead end and the story dies. Sometimes that means that I missed a door a few rooms back.
The ending...it's hard to explain but I just know when the story ends. It's not like running out of things to say, I just know there's nothing more to be said. And so I stop.
Someone asked Jackson Pollock (the artist famous for throwing paint onto the canvas rather than applying it with a brush) how he knew when he was done with a painting. He replied, "how do you know when you've finished making love?" (Oh crap, I just had a thought...I hope writing super short stories doesn't mean I'm going to be one of those guys who make love for five minutes and then they're done.)
[insert segue]
It seems I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately (see blog 50 and 55). I suspect this has something to do with the downswing (blog 54). I don't know if this is how everyone handles being down but I get all introspective and since I've been writing a lot lately, thats what I'm introspecting (holy crap, my spellchecker didn't flag that word...I can't believe it's in the dictionary).
I don't know. Maybe one day I'll find a story that doesn't go down in two bites. Maybe I'm just warming up. Or maybe this is how I write and I'm actually fine with that. I never aspired to be a writer, it's just something I like to do. That thing I wrote above about walking through doors, that's a reasonably good way to describe how I write - I never know what to expect. One sentence leads me to the next and a lot of times, even as I'm writing it, I won't know where that sentence will take me until I've put a period at the end of it. And that's what I love about writing - the surprises.
And this doesn't just happen when I'm writing stories. It's the same with my "regular" blog entries (like this one). Even when I'm writing about myself, I'm usually trying to figure something out or trying to flesh out an idea that's been running through my head and a lot of times, I find just as much surprise as I do when writing stories...which is why I continue to write both.
Thanks for reading...really.
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