If you don't like, or are offended, by the F-bomb, don't read this poem!
There are many days
when I am too tired and
weather-worn to rise --
the alarm clock is a god-forsaken
testament to Progress --
Fuck Progress, I say
but I rise to dress with a pain
in my back
and sleep in my eyes
anyway.
Lights on, lights off --
I don't care.
I pull my jeans on over
my legs and hop-skotch
over soiled garments to the sink,
where I splash my face
and shave (every three days)
and put on deodorant,
brush my teeth,
pretend I am human again
and bemoan my need of a paycheck --
I'd rather be surfing,
or sleeping,
or sleeping on the beach in quiet
anticipation of surf,
but Progress has me at a 10-7
and I say Fuck Progress!
and sit through traffic anyway.
My boss is a douche-bag
and the work is a pain
but I say Fuck Progress
and do it anyway.
8.29.2007
Autumn -- A Sonnet
This poem was written due to the change in seasons, the fresh start at Autumn and because I have heard a few folk speak of how this time of year is their favorite. It has been a while since I have last written a sonnet, but I wanted to try my hand at something with a little more form.
When once the leaves of living green did sway
and take the color from August morning
to float or spin through Summer wind each day
falling to Terra for her adorning.
Now the vig'rous pigment drains from faces
brittling stems and turning green to golden,
they wither, break in the driest places
crashing quiet to the Earth beholden.
The children come, as they are want to do
to stampede neat piles into mulch and mire --
Scattered to the winds by high-kicking boots
leaves end up as martyrs, kindling for fire.
From bowered at branch to litt'ring the streets
high in the heavens to tramped under feet.
When once the leaves of living green did sway
and take the color from August morning
to float or spin through Summer wind each day
falling to Terra for her adorning.
Now the vig'rous pigment drains from faces
brittling stems and turning green to golden,
they wither, break in the driest places
crashing quiet to the Earth beholden.
The children come, as they are want to do
to stampede neat piles into mulch and mire --
Scattered to the winds by high-kicking boots
leaves end up as martyrs, kindling for fire.
From bowered at branch to litt'ring the streets
high in the heavens to tramped under feet.
Kakau -- Tattoo
Something I threw together. It is a work in progress. If you don't know about Hawaiian myth, this might be a little over your head. They believed that the spirit could be captured and forced back into the body through the sole of the foot, essentially slapping the spirit in. Also, Ka'ena is a place in Western O'ahu where the dead were said to jump into the Underworld (Po). Rowing is merely a symbol for the dead to continue in their activities that they participated in while still living. The last line simply means, "Remember Us."
Trace the symbols in blood and ink,
with fingertips and palms and eyes
perfect shapes of triangles
within triangles
within a greater portrait
to convey a greater meaning.
My leg and my shoulder
both tapestries to honor those
long dead
jumping from Ka'ena
or else floating down a quiet island stream
spirits too crisp, too strong
to head back through the feet
and the rowing goes ever on
and forever onward
I carry those generations in my flesh.
A constant reminder.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crimson seeps out and the black soaks in
sealing the present and the past
speaking in languages unheard
though understood beyond time,
when the ancestors drummed and chanted --
E Ho'omana'o Makou!
Trace the symbols in blood and ink,
with fingertips and palms and eyes
perfect shapes of triangles
within triangles
within a greater portrait
to convey a greater meaning.
My leg and my shoulder
both tapestries to honor those
long dead
jumping from Ka'ena
or else floating down a quiet island stream
spirits too crisp, too strong
to head back through the feet
and the rowing goes ever on
and forever onward
I carry those generations in my flesh.
A constant reminder.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crimson seeps out and the black soaks in
sealing the present and the past
speaking in languages unheard
though understood beyond time,
when the ancestors drummed and chanted --
E Ho'omana'o Makou!
8.28.2007
Standing Up
Jeff, my good friend, would never profess to being incredibly brave or courageous. His humility has a tendency to far-outshine these attributes and many a man would more quickly describe him as meek. However, this post is dedicated to him and his "intestinal fortitude," so to speak, in the face of danger and possible destruction.
Too often in our society, we men lie in beds of shame and fear while the world around us crumbles under its own dead weight. This story should prove itself an exception to those mornings of cold chill and colder hearts.
On August 27, 2007 Jeff woke up to the ring of his alarm clock at 4 in the morning. Such the creature of habit, he hit the sleep button, turned over and was comforted by the warmth of his wife by his side. They both teach at the high school level -- he crafting murals out of language, she creating fortresses out of paint and charcoal. A few minutes later, shots rang out in his apartment complex, jarring him awake where the alarm clock failed.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Pop. Pop.
Jeff, like many men, lay in bed and contemplated what he should do next. Continuing in his half-rest amidst twisted sheets, or getting up to continue in his normal routine, seemed the easiest and safest route to take. However, that is not what he did. He told Lindsey, his wife, that he was going to check it out and got dressed in his work clothes. Leaving the house and heading in the direction of the shots, he had his cell phone ready to dial the police. He entered a hallway and heard the muffled sobs, gasps and heavy breathing of an injured woman.
She stood propped against the wall, obviously in need of medical attention. She held a phone in her hand, but -- due to the trauma she had experienced -- she was unable to dial. She said she had been shot twice. Once in the arm. And once in the chest. Jeff hit the send button on his phone, gave directions to the police and moved forward to further evaluate the woman's injuries. As he did so, he noticed two men not far away, wrestling on the ground. The man on top yelled out,
"Help me pin him down. He shot her."
Jeff ran over and jumped on the bottom man's legs, holding him there for approximately 8 minutes until the police arrived, assault rifle in hand. All of the men (including Jeff) were handcuffed and questioned. When it was realized that Jeff called the police, they released him.
The woman lived, largely due to the fact that Jeff was there to dial for help. Being shot in the chest is sort of a big deal.
However, Jeff does not see it that way. When I told him he was a hero, he didn't believe me. He just did what he thought he should do, that's it.
I wish there were more men like this; men who saw these sorts of things that should be investigated and acted on them, even when that steel in the pit of your stomach is heavy and your mind says no. Don't go outside. It isn't worth it. Play it safe.
Just as important, I wish there were more women like Lindsey, who let Jeff take the risk. Who see the value in letting a man put himself out on the line. Who know the value of protection and the inherent danger of marrying a man of courage, valor and action.
So Jeff, thank you for being such a humble and brave example.
Too often in our society, we men lie in beds of shame and fear while the world around us crumbles under its own dead weight. This story should prove itself an exception to those mornings of cold chill and colder hearts.
On August 27, 2007 Jeff woke up to the ring of his alarm clock at 4 in the morning. Such the creature of habit, he hit the sleep button, turned over and was comforted by the warmth of his wife by his side. They both teach at the high school level -- he crafting murals out of language, she creating fortresses out of paint and charcoal. A few minutes later, shots rang out in his apartment complex, jarring him awake where the alarm clock failed.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Pop. Pop.
Jeff, like many men, lay in bed and contemplated what he should do next. Continuing in his half-rest amidst twisted sheets, or getting up to continue in his normal routine, seemed the easiest and safest route to take. However, that is not what he did. He told Lindsey, his wife, that he was going to check it out and got dressed in his work clothes. Leaving the house and heading in the direction of the shots, he had his cell phone ready to dial the police. He entered a hallway and heard the muffled sobs, gasps and heavy breathing of an injured woman.
She stood propped against the wall, obviously in need of medical attention. She held a phone in her hand, but -- due to the trauma she had experienced -- she was unable to dial. She said she had been shot twice. Once in the arm. And once in the chest. Jeff hit the send button on his phone, gave directions to the police and moved forward to further evaluate the woman's injuries. As he did so, he noticed two men not far away, wrestling on the ground. The man on top yelled out,
"Help me pin him down. He shot her."
Jeff ran over and jumped on the bottom man's legs, holding him there for approximately 8 minutes until the police arrived, assault rifle in hand. All of the men (including Jeff) were handcuffed and questioned. When it was realized that Jeff called the police, they released him.
The woman lived, largely due to the fact that Jeff was there to dial for help. Being shot in the chest is sort of a big deal.
However, Jeff does not see it that way. When I told him he was a hero, he didn't believe me. He just did what he thought he should do, that's it.
I wish there were more men like this; men who saw these sorts of things that should be investigated and acted on them, even when that steel in the pit of your stomach is heavy and your mind says no. Don't go outside. It isn't worth it. Play it safe.
Just as important, I wish there were more women like Lindsey, who let Jeff take the risk. Who see the value in letting a man put himself out on the line. Who know the value of protection and the inherent danger of marrying a man of courage, valor and action.
So Jeff, thank you for being such a humble and brave example.
8.21.2007
A Closeness to Death
Taken from the most current issue of the Paris Review, in an interview with Norman Mailer. This portion is in reference to Ernest Hemingway. (whom I consider a fundamental influence on my writing.)
INTERVIEWER
Do you remember where you were when you heard Hemingway had killed himself?
MAILER
I remember it very well. I was with Jeanne Campbell in Mexico and it was before we got married. I was truly aghast. A certain part of me has never really gotten over it. In a way, it was a huge warning. What he was saying is, Listen all you novelists out there. Get it straight: when you’re a novelist you’re entering on an extremely dangerous psychological journey, and it can blow up in your face.
INTERVIEWER
Did it compromise your sense of his courage?
MAILER
I hated to think that his death might do that. I came up with a thesis: Hemingway had learned early in life that the closer he came to daring death the healthier it was for him. He saw that as the great medicine, to dare to engage in a nearness to death. And so I had this notion that night after night when he was alone, after he said goodnight to Mary, Hemingway would go to his bedroom and he’d put his thumb on the shotgun trigger and put the barrel in his mouth and squeeze down on the trigger a little bit, and—trembling, shaking—he’d try to see how close he could come without having the thing go off. On the final night he went too far. That to me made more sense than him just deciding to blow it all to bits. However, it’s nothing but a theory. The fact of the matter is that Hemingway committed suicide.
First and foremost, please note that I do not have an infatuation with the morbid or macabre, nor do I run that little test of will that Mailer would like to believe Hemingway did to prove his bravery, courage and stupidity. However, I wish that I might stand close to death unblinking -- perhaps that is why I write so much, or bring myself to the wilderness of my thoughts time and again; why I find life in the most absurd, perhaps stupid events of adrenaline-rushing goodness. Perhaps that is why I enjoy love so much, because I feel no more fear, no more joy, no more closer to death than when I am loving a woman unbridled.
INTERVIEWER
Do you remember where you were when you heard Hemingway had killed himself?
MAILER
I remember it very well. I was with Jeanne Campbell in Mexico and it was before we got married. I was truly aghast. A certain part of me has never really gotten over it. In a way, it was a huge warning. What he was saying is, Listen all you novelists out there. Get it straight: when you’re a novelist you’re entering on an extremely dangerous psychological journey, and it can blow up in your face.
INTERVIEWER
Did it compromise your sense of his courage?
MAILER
I hated to think that his death might do that. I came up with a thesis: Hemingway had learned early in life that the closer he came to daring death the healthier it was for him. He saw that as the great medicine, to dare to engage in a nearness to death. And so I had this notion that night after night when he was alone, after he said goodnight to Mary, Hemingway would go to his bedroom and he’d put his thumb on the shotgun trigger and put the barrel in his mouth and squeeze down on the trigger a little bit, and—trembling, shaking—he’d try to see how close he could come without having the thing go off. On the final night he went too far. That to me made more sense than him just deciding to blow it all to bits. However, it’s nothing but a theory. The fact of the matter is that Hemingway committed suicide.
First and foremost, please note that I do not have an infatuation with the morbid or macabre, nor do I run that little test of will that Mailer would like to believe Hemingway did to prove his bravery, courage and stupidity. However, I wish that I might stand close to death unblinking -- perhaps that is why I write so much, or bring myself to the wilderness of my thoughts time and again; why I find life in the most absurd, perhaps stupid events of adrenaline-rushing goodness. Perhaps that is why I enjoy love so much, because I feel no more fear, no more joy, no more closer to death than when I am loving a woman unbridled.
8.17.2007
More Car Stuff
The Jetta has a new engine in it -- its actually a rebuilt engine with only 50,000 miles on it -- and it cost a total of $2600 to repair (including the initial thermostat and work involved.) It is running like a champ, gets good gas mileage and is in great condition. Oh, and I am selling it.
During the Jetta's hiatus, I bought a 2005 Subaru WRX.
As a result of said purchase, I am parting with the Jetta -- hopefully -- so that someone will get a nice car and will be able to just take over my payments. The car blue books for 5k, though I only owe four on it (and that is not if you call and just get a pay off quote.) At any rate, my new car is blue, fast and awesome. Her name is Scoops. (as she has a turbocharger and is inter-cooled -- hence a hood-scoop.)
During the Jetta's hiatus, I bought a 2005 Subaru WRX.
As a result of said purchase, I am parting with the Jetta -- hopefully -- so that someone will get a nice car and will be able to just take over my payments. The car blue books for 5k, though I only owe four on it (and that is not if you call and just get a pay off quote.) At any rate, my new car is blue, fast and awesome. Her name is Scoops. (as she has a turbocharger and is inter-cooled -- hence a hood-scoop.)
7.25.2007
Jetta Update.
It's dead.
I blew a head gasket and it is going to cost $600 just to see what else might be wrong. I just can't afford this, so I am a at a bit of a loss. It looks like I am going to fix it, sell it for blue book, pay off the difference of what I owe and then buy a new car.
But as of right now, I'm pretty near broke. Keep praying.
I blew a head gasket and it is going to cost $600 just to see what else might be wrong. I just can't afford this, so I am a at a bit of a loss. It looks like I am going to fix it, sell it for blue book, pay off the difference of what I owe and then buy a new car.
But as of right now, I'm pretty near broke. Keep praying.
7.24.2007
Damon
Johnny Damon is .... well ... sucking right now. I know the Yanks are on a hot streak, but they need to put Cabrera at the top of the order and let Johnny take a rest and figure out where his swing went. Otherwise, I don't know how long this awesome streak can last.
Living on Grace While Life is on the Fritz
Life sucks; its an axiom.
My car started acting up a couple of days ago -- overheating where it used to run cool. I took it in to the shop, payed $300 and they changed the thermostat, flushed the coolant system and replaced a couple of hoses. Unfortunately, they didn't fix the problem. As it turns out, I also blew a head gasket and, as the mechanic mentioned consulting his machinist before giving me a quote some time today, I may have also cracked a head.
Not good.
I have been living in God's grace for the past couple of months, waiting for a job, waiting to get back on my feet, waiting to pay back my friends who have so graciously given me money to pay rent, etc. But its trying.
Sometimes I feel as though I am not living out God's purpose for my life because I am unable to provide for all of my needs, or handling life's financial curve balls proves to be difficult. But I know in my heart of hearts that God is good, that He is much bigger than me or my situation, that He has my back where everyone else would have walked away. Here are two examples of God's goodness, proven to me yesterday.
1. I'm driving home in my sister's car and the sky opens up clear and bright. Seriously clear in Los Angeles. There were a few clouds here and there, all wispy like pulled-cotton against the powder-blue backdrop. I took a picture of it on my phone and felt comforted by God, knowing beyond basic knowledge that God is good. I nearly cried.
2. On the same drive home I called a couple of friends to begin creating a prayer network to get the Jetta fixed. One of the people I called was my good friend April. She's pretty cool -- we climb, surf and hike together. We would snowboard together too, if she could get down the mountain fast enough. Anyway, she fixes the fences at gated communities and works at Starbucks for a living. I tell her what's going on, she says she'll pray and that's that. Or so I thought. Later in the evening I went to the gamers' cafe with Jeff and April called. She said she was stopping by my place to see if I was there and, as I wasn't she left me a note. I didn't think much of it. It sort of happens from time to time. Upon getting home I notice the note she mentioned, tucked inside of an old cardboard cd case. Inside was a list of things to bring for the backpacking trip we are taking this weekend and a check for $400. There was no note, no explanation, just open-hearted generosity.
God, if this is what you have in mind for the rest of my life -- learning to lean into You, to trust you as you provide for my needs, even while I walk, hands forward in the darkness -- count me in.
My car started acting up a couple of days ago -- overheating where it used to run cool. I took it in to the shop, payed $300 and they changed the thermostat, flushed the coolant system and replaced a couple of hoses. Unfortunately, they didn't fix the problem. As it turns out, I also blew a head gasket and, as the mechanic mentioned consulting his machinist before giving me a quote some time today, I may have also cracked a head.
Not good.
I have been living in God's grace for the past couple of months, waiting for a job, waiting to get back on my feet, waiting to pay back my friends who have so graciously given me money to pay rent, etc. But its trying.
Sometimes I feel as though I am not living out God's purpose for my life because I am unable to provide for all of my needs, or handling life's financial curve balls proves to be difficult. But I know in my heart of hearts that God is good, that He is much bigger than me or my situation, that He has my back where everyone else would have walked away. Here are two examples of God's goodness, proven to me yesterday.
1. I'm driving home in my sister's car and the sky opens up clear and bright. Seriously clear in Los Angeles. There were a few clouds here and there, all wispy like pulled-cotton against the powder-blue backdrop. I took a picture of it on my phone and felt comforted by God, knowing beyond basic knowledge that God is good. I nearly cried.
2. On the same drive home I called a couple of friends to begin creating a prayer network to get the Jetta fixed. One of the people I called was my good friend April. She's pretty cool -- we climb, surf and hike together. We would snowboard together too, if she could get down the mountain fast enough. Anyway, she fixes the fences at gated communities and works at Starbucks for a living. I tell her what's going on, she says she'll pray and that's that. Or so I thought. Later in the evening I went to the gamers' cafe with Jeff and April called. She said she was stopping by my place to see if I was there and, as I wasn't she left me a note. I didn't think much of it. It sort of happens from time to time. Upon getting home I notice the note she mentioned, tucked inside of an old cardboard cd case. Inside was a list of things to bring for the backpacking trip we are taking this weekend and a check for $400. There was no note, no explanation, just open-hearted generosity.
God, if this is what you have in mind for the rest of my life -- learning to lean into You, to trust you as you provide for my needs, even while I walk, hands forward in the darkness -- count me in.
7.12.2007
The longest one
I have been working on this poem today. It is still unfinished, but I thought it might be nice to get some feedback. It is a love story (Surprise!)
Your name has reached me
on the sea-salt winds --
it has entwined itself in my bosom
& stretched deep into my heart
building up a little tower
a stronghold
and, pushing into my blood,
grows roots
with every breath of my body.
You and I
we walked together
along the sun-bronzed shore
and down the muddied lane --
staining our feet with the landscape.
We would meander through the paved
and cobbled streets
where the baker's scent found us
in the goldenrod afternoon
and we pulled apart his sweet bread
with sticky fingers
to taste its flesh upon our mouths.
Do you remember those soporific days, my love?
Do you remember stopping
in that alley to let
time slow,
just a step,
that we might kiss
under the amber light of dawn?
I remember.
I cannot forget.
I recall the night I sped to your open arms
when the glow of your lamplight shone
through your window
and the shock of your touch sent me reeling.
How, with meteor and steel
your comet searing lips made their way
through those unnamed corridors
of oblivion
and I tensed at its burning.
Then I mapped the coastline
and gave special care to your wild places,
breathing in your wheat and honey skin,
expanding your name in my bosom
and navigating through the sea of your eyes,
floating and sinking, living in them,
living on them and their sustenance.
In the Spring,
in the Spring
our outcropping of a life will grow
and our love with it,
so that, when we share the fire
you will sleep in my shadow and keep warm.
In the cold and harsh times
when life is but a dormant memory,
when the eucalyptus ceases its growth
we will go on.
It will be so because your name is on
the sharp Northern wind
and it rakes away the lonely leaves
and gives us strength
to create anew.
It is in these times, my love,
when we will see with honest eyes
and the scent of jasmine and youth
will cause our smiling.
In the dancing shadows of windy Winter,
when your naked silhouette shivers
in the mist
these arms will cover you;
they will cover your perfect breasts,
they will massage away the fear
gripping Spring tightly in both hands
and pulling firmly on the sun
so that the tapestry of my skin will calm your
fragile form.
Then, my love, we will
go walking as before.
And again the roses and junipers,
the ash and pines,
rocks and mountains --
they will say a name,
an unknown and lovely sound,
for it is our Love-Name;
it will be written
on the humped-backs of the waves
roiling forth toward the earth,
and in the stardust
and the moonlight.
The wind will whisper it
in a long-forgotten tongue
so that we will be tied to creation
even as I am tied to you.
Your name has reached me
on the sea-salt winds --
it has entwined itself in my bosom
& stretched deep into my heart
building up a little tower
a stronghold
and, pushing into my blood,
grows roots
with every breath of my body.
You and I
we walked together
along the sun-bronzed shore
and down the muddied lane --
staining our feet with the landscape.
We would meander through the paved
and cobbled streets
where the baker's scent found us
in the goldenrod afternoon
and we pulled apart his sweet bread
with sticky fingers
to taste its flesh upon our mouths.
Do you remember those soporific days, my love?
Do you remember stopping
in that alley to let
time slow,
just a step,
that we might kiss
under the amber light of dawn?
I remember.
I cannot forget.
I recall the night I sped to your open arms
when the glow of your lamplight shone
through your window
and the shock of your touch sent me reeling.
How, with meteor and steel
your comet searing lips made their way
through those unnamed corridors
of oblivion
and I tensed at its burning.
Then I mapped the coastline
and gave special care to your wild places,
breathing in your wheat and honey skin,
expanding your name in my bosom
and navigating through the sea of your eyes,
floating and sinking, living in them,
living on them and their sustenance.
In the Spring,
in the Spring
our outcropping of a life will grow
and our love with it,
so that, when we share the fire
you will sleep in my shadow and keep warm.
In the cold and harsh times
when life is but a dormant memory,
when the eucalyptus ceases its growth
we will go on.
It will be so because your name is on
the sharp Northern wind
and it rakes away the lonely leaves
and gives us strength
to create anew.
It is in these times, my love,
when we will see with honest eyes
and the scent of jasmine and youth
will cause our smiling.
In the dancing shadows of windy Winter,
when your naked silhouette shivers
in the mist
these arms will cover you;
they will cover your perfect breasts,
they will massage away the fear
gripping Spring tightly in both hands
and pulling firmly on the sun
so that the tapestry of my skin will calm your
fragile form.
Then, my love, we will
go walking as before.
And again the roses and junipers,
the ash and pines,
rocks and mountains --
they will say a name,
an unknown and lovely sound,
for it is our Love-Name;
it will be written
on the humped-backs of the waves
roiling forth toward the earth,
and in the stardust
and the moonlight.
The wind will whisper it
in a long-forgotten tongue
so that we will be tied to creation
even as I am tied to you.
7.11.2007
Daniel.
There are times in my life when I wish that my pockets went a little deeper, or that my heart were a little bigger. A couple of Sundays ago, I had one of those experiences.
I am currently attending services at CA (Christian Assembly) in Eagle Rock, CA. I stand abreast of them theologically, appreciate the applicable, exegetical style of preaching and have found myself steadily building a community which I am able to help support and vice-versa. For all intents and purposes, I am already beginning to think of CA as "home."
But sometimes you want to punch your brother right in the face.
The evening service, called Fusion, is the service I usually attend; it is geared more or less toward the 18-35 demographic, though the worship and sermon for the day do not change. At any rate, I really enjoy it. So there I am, sitting next to Azina in the 3rd row from the back, minding my own business, listening to the message being given when POW!, in comes a guy, totally late, obviously drunk, disheveled, and maybe a little off his rocker. I imagined he was homeless, or close to it. He came into my row, politely garbled an "excuse me," stepped on my unshoed feet in passing and sat down next to Azina.
To show her comfort -- as I could tell she was obviously uncomfortable -- I put my arm around her.
We resume listening to Mark explain whatever it was he was explaining. (Honestly, I was thinking of that guy sitting next to my girl, wondering about the last time he had a meal, or a shower, or a meal and a shower in the same day.) Then, this guy -- he begins agreeing with Mark from where he is sitting with slurred words and joy! I don't mean that sort of joy mixed in with religiosity and a cool "I love Jesus, but I know when its time to say 'Amen'" sort of joy. I mean real, unbridled, rising-above-the-human-condition sort of joy. The sort of joy you only get to hear about.
Then, people begin looking back, staring. Gaping. Judging.
Men and women alike craned their necks to peer at this man, to silently mock him, to scream "Shut up!" with their eyes, to mingle in their hate of anything "other" with that of their faith in Jesus. A guy about my age at the end of my row came and sat down next to the joyful one, putting his arm around him and whispering for him to be quiet. An apology was given and the man became quiet, somber, ill-at-ease. But soon, very soon, really, he got back to agreeing with Mark, to making his presence known, to exclaiming that he understood. I felt a joy rise up in me for this man. I agreed too. Why was I the quiet one?
So another, older man looks back and retreats up the stairs into the foyer of the sanctuary. Remember, we are seated in the sanctuary, where everyone should feel safe. This is where criminals used to grab the horns of the altar and seek forgiveness. But not this time. An usher came and excused the inebriated man from the rest of the crowd, relegating him to the back of the building. At this point, Mark looked up from his teaching and saw the man escorted out of the sanctuary; he didn't say a word.
It was then that I felt a fury in my bones and I wished to God for violence.
I cannot tell you what the remainder of the service was about because I had stopped paying attention. I had started planning. When all was said and done I got up from my pew and told Azina I would catch up to her. I found the man as he came back in and grabbed him in an embrace.
"Hey brother," I said.
"Hey!," he said.
I found out his name is Daniel. He lives with his brother and has been actually staying sober. (He wasn't drunk after all -- just damaged from all the alcohol and hard times of his life.) We walked across the street to the cafe, I got him some food and we talked. He told me about his time in Viet Nam, his love for Jesus, his brother. I told him about when I was a kid, being homeless, motel life, Jesus, my brother. Even sitting down and talking, people continued to gawk. I couldn't believe it. We departed for the evening, but I know that I will see Daniel again; I hear he is a bit of a regular attender at CA.
Yet I do not understand the men and women of Modern Christianity. Didn't Jesus say that we should clothe the needy, give them food and drink, a place to rest, visit the prisoners, have pity on the widow? Didn't he say that if we did that to them, we were doing it to him? Aren't the poor in spirit blessed? Are these people reading a different Bible than me?
So, I can only do what I have been called to; I am very grateful that I am not responsible for any others' salvation, because -- by this point -- I would have braided myself a cord of leather. I understand that violence is not the answer, though sometimes it seems the easiest route.
The only thing I can say is to remember not to put a limit on your generosity. Who cares what the homeless man does with your dollar? It was never yours to begin with. If you don't have the time to teach the man to fish, why do you withhold the bit of extra that you do have? I understand that it could lead to building a welfare state, but everything you are entrusted with doesn't amount to much if you go hoarding away all of your talents.
Didn't the early Church believe that withholding charity from the poor was the same as thievery?
I am currently attending services at CA (Christian Assembly) in Eagle Rock, CA. I stand abreast of them theologically, appreciate the applicable, exegetical style of preaching and have found myself steadily building a community which I am able to help support and vice-versa. For all intents and purposes, I am already beginning to think of CA as "home."
But sometimes you want to punch your brother right in the face.
The evening service, called Fusion, is the service I usually attend; it is geared more or less toward the 18-35 demographic, though the worship and sermon for the day do not change. At any rate, I really enjoy it. So there I am, sitting next to Azina in the 3rd row from the back, minding my own business, listening to the message being given when POW!, in comes a guy, totally late, obviously drunk, disheveled, and maybe a little off his rocker. I imagined he was homeless, or close to it. He came into my row, politely garbled an "excuse me," stepped on my unshoed feet in passing and sat down next to Azina.
To show her comfort -- as I could tell she was obviously uncomfortable -- I put my arm around her.
We resume listening to Mark explain whatever it was he was explaining. (Honestly, I was thinking of that guy sitting next to my girl, wondering about the last time he had a meal, or a shower, or a meal and a shower in the same day.) Then, this guy -- he begins agreeing with Mark from where he is sitting with slurred words and joy! I don't mean that sort of joy mixed in with religiosity and a cool "I love Jesus, but I know when its time to say 'Amen'" sort of joy. I mean real, unbridled, rising-above-the-human-condition sort of joy. The sort of joy you only get to hear about.
Then, people begin looking back, staring. Gaping. Judging.
Men and women alike craned their necks to peer at this man, to silently mock him, to scream "Shut up!" with their eyes, to mingle in their hate of anything "other" with that of their faith in Jesus. A guy about my age at the end of my row came and sat down next to the joyful one, putting his arm around him and whispering for him to be quiet. An apology was given and the man became quiet, somber, ill-at-ease. But soon, very soon, really, he got back to agreeing with Mark, to making his presence known, to exclaiming that he understood. I felt a joy rise up in me for this man. I agreed too. Why was I the quiet one?
So another, older man looks back and retreats up the stairs into the foyer of the sanctuary. Remember, we are seated in the sanctuary, where everyone should feel safe. This is where criminals used to grab the horns of the altar and seek forgiveness. But not this time. An usher came and excused the inebriated man from the rest of the crowd, relegating him to the back of the building. At this point, Mark looked up from his teaching and saw the man escorted out of the sanctuary; he didn't say a word.
It was then that I felt a fury in my bones and I wished to God for violence.
I cannot tell you what the remainder of the service was about because I had stopped paying attention. I had started planning. When all was said and done I got up from my pew and told Azina I would catch up to her. I found the man as he came back in and grabbed him in an embrace.
"Hey brother," I said.
"Hey!," he said.
I found out his name is Daniel. He lives with his brother and has been actually staying sober. (He wasn't drunk after all -- just damaged from all the alcohol and hard times of his life.) We walked across the street to the cafe, I got him some food and we talked. He told me about his time in Viet Nam, his love for Jesus, his brother. I told him about when I was a kid, being homeless, motel life, Jesus, my brother. Even sitting down and talking, people continued to gawk. I couldn't believe it. We departed for the evening, but I know that I will see Daniel again; I hear he is a bit of a regular attender at CA.
Yet I do not understand the men and women of Modern Christianity. Didn't Jesus say that we should clothe the needy, give them food and drink, a place to rest, visit the prisoners, have pity on the widow? Didn't he say that if we did that to them, we were doing it to him? Aren't the poor in spirit blessed? Are these people reading a different Bible than me?
So, I can only do what I have been called to; I am very grateful that I am not responsible for any others' salvation, because -- by this point -- I would have braided myself a cord of leather. I understand that violence is not the answer, though sometimes it seems the easiest route.
The only thing I can say is to remember not to put a limit on your generosity. Who cares what the homeless man does with your dollar? It was never yours to begin with. If you don't have the time to teach the man to fish, why do you withhold the bit of extra that you do have? I understand that it could lead to building a welfare state, but everything you are entrusted with doesn't amount to much if you go hoarding away all of your talents.
Didn't the early Church believe that withholding charity from the poor was the same as thievery?
7.10.2007
My God
Something I am working on. Maybe something like a psalm.
Give me Your Name in fire
in meteor steel, in windy whispers
Bruise my calloused, thick-skinned body
with the all-consuming wieght of Your touch;
Brush against my face with the tenderness
of Your fingertips
Cause me, O Faithful One, to remember
the glory of Your back as You walk past --
and I uncover my eyes to glimpse
Your Radiance;
Help me to recall my true name
The name You have called me by since
darkness, since time unending
Tattoo me with Your Love,
That I might not forget,
that Your Name will always remain
On these lips, in this heart, even in murky, milky
silence.
Give me Your Name in fire
in meteor steel, in windy whispers
Bruise my calloused, thick-skinned body
with the all-consuming wieght of Your touch;
Brush against my face with the tenderness
of Your fingertips
Cause me, O Faithful One, to remember
the glory of Your back as You walk past --
and I uncover my eyes to glimpse
Your Radiance;
Help me to recall my true name
The name You have called me by since
darkness, since time unending
Tattoo me with Your Love,
That I might not forget,
that Your Name will always remain
On these lips, in this heart, even in murky, milky
silence.
A More Commodious Space, Though Now I Have to Flush the Toilet
The new job is working out pretty well; I actually get a cubicle which I can "decorate" however I choose, as opposed to the "Desk in the Round" setting of the old job, which felt a little 3rd grade-ish. As a result, it is a little more commodious (spacious) though there are a couple of drawbacks. They are as follows:
1. We are sort of situated in the hood.
2. The bathroom isn't nearly as nice -- I have to actually push the handle to flush the toilet.
3. No more free soda. :(
4. The "kitchen" also doubles as the supply closet.
We should be moving to a new office on the 8th floor within the next 2 months and renovating a lot, which I am looking forward to. As I said, this is a pretty cool place; thus far, I really like the people and am getting along quite well. When the dust settles, I hope to move up fairly effortlessly.
1. We are sort of situated in the hood.
2. The bathroom isn't nearly as nice -- I have to actually push the handle to flush the toilet.
3. No more free soda. :(
4. The "kitchen" also doubles as the supply closet.
We should be moving to a new office on the 8th floor within the next 2 months and renovating a lot, which I am looking forward to. As I said, this is a pretty cool place; thus far, I really like the people and am getting along quite well. When the dust settles, I hope to move up fairly effortlessly.
7.09.2007
The Start of Something New
Today is a funny day; I dragged myself out of bed at 7 am to turn on the shower and breathe in the steam from the hot water. I'm not usually up this early in the morning, at least not on a regular basis. (Granted, sometimes I stay up until about this time, but then I can just go to bed and wake up sometime post-meridian.)
At any rate, I'm up with a bit of free time before I leave in 15 minutes. I'm beginning a new job and am currently in that ambivalent state somewhere between excitement and dread. I'm very happy that I can work on something new, utilizing the gifts I have been given on a more regular basis, but I sort of fear that I won't live up to expectation -- having more experience on the desk than most of the editors currently employed by this new company -- Prime Newswire. As it turns out, I have been out of work for over a month now, though I knew I had locked this job in after my first (and only) interview that lasted more than 3 hours -- which took place over a month ago at this point as well.
I heard that this company was a little unorganized, but I had not realized how true that actually was. I would get calls asking me if I had spoken with so and so and, when I answered in the negative, I was told someone would call me back. Through this job, God is already quickening my patience and giving me this sense that I am in for an exciting, though bumpy ride.
Anyway, I begin the new job, essentially doing the exact same thing I was doing at PRN, though the possibility for growth within the company is drastically improved, it is a little farther away and I will now be on the day shift. Since I don't mind hard work, driving and hanging out with my friends at night, I think this is a good move.
At any rate, I'm up with a bit of free time before I leave in 15 minutes. I'm beginning a new job and am currently in that ambivalent state somewhere between excitement and dread. I'm very happy that I can work on something new, utilizing the gifts I have been given on a more regular basis, but I sort of fear that I won't live up to expectation -- having more experience on the desk than most of the editors currently employed by this new company -- Prime Newswire. As it turns out, I have been out of work for over a month now, though I knew I had locked this job in after my first (and only) interview that lasted more than 3 hours -- which took place over a month ago at this point as well.
I heard that this company was a little unorganized, but I had not realized how true that actually was. I would get calls asking me if I had spoken with so and so and, when I answered in the negative, I was told someone would call me back. Through this job, God is already quickening my patience and giving me this sense that I am in for an exciting, though bumpy ride.
Anyway, I begin the new job, essentially doing the exact same thing I was doing at PRN, though the possibility for growth within the company is drastically improved, it is a little farther away and I will now be on the day shift. Since I don't mind hard work, driving and hanging out with my friends at night, I think this is a good move.
6.19.2007
The advent of death in a dying world
It has been nearly a month since my last blog and I am somewhat ashamed about it. However, the past week has been difficult as my grandmother on my father's side passed away and I flew out to New Jersey with Pualani to be with the family. I had not seen many of them since I was nine.
My grandmother lived a good, long life and passed away at the ripe old age of 90. She would have been 91 on the 30th. She was charming, outspoken, a great cook and a lover of the WWE. (seriously.) I got to help out with the obituary and such, as my knowledge of language is a bit far-spread compared with most of the family -- and because I have a basic understanding of how the media works. At any rate, I was out in the pines of New Netherlands feeling both a sense of mourning and joy.
It was nice to see family and all that, but I never realized how different I am from the rest of them. I thought this might be the case, but I had no idea of the actual truth of the matter! My family would readily say yes, they are a bunch of motorcycle-riding pineys (hill billies, mostly.) As a kid, I worshipped my family and their chosen profession of truck-driving. How different I turned out, though! (Thank God for California!)
One last thing: this has been weighing heavily on me. My grandmother was a Lutheran and professed Christian for a long time. Then, at the end of her life, she decided to convert to Mormonism. I am filled with a lead-burden at her choice and have experienced a sorrow beyond words. I hate it when people say, "she is in a better place." It is unfortunate, but I do not think that is true. Her allegiance lied elsewhere. I won't speculate one way or another if I will see her in heaven, but I have never experienced God's sovereignty in such a heart-wrenching way.
My grandmother lived a good, long life and passed away at the ripe old age of 90. She would have been 91 on the 30th. She was charming, outspoken, a great cook and a lover of the WWE. (seriously.) I got to help out with the obituary and such, as my knowledge of language is a bit far-spread compared with most of the family -- and because I have a basic understanding of how the media works. At any rate, I was out in the pines of New Netherlands feeling both a sense of mourning and joy.
It was nice to see family and all that, but I never realized how different I am from the rest of them. I thought this might be the case, but I had no idea of the actual truth of the matter! My family would readily say yes, they are a bunch of motorcycle-riding pineys (hill billies, mostly.) As a kid, I worshipped my family and their chosen profession of truck-driving. How different I turned out, though! (Thank God for California!)
One last thing: this has been weighing heavily on me. My grandmother was a Lutheran and professed Christian for a long time. Then, at the end of her life, she decided to convert to Mormonism. I am filled with a lead-burden at her choice and have experienced a sorrow beyond words. I hate it when people say, "she is in a better place." It is unfortunate, but I do not think that is true. Her allegiance lied elsewhere. I won't speculate one way or another if I will see her in heaven, but I have never experienced God's sovereignty in such a heart-wrenching way.
6.03.2007
My Mother
This is being penned partly in response to a comment I received from Azina regarding "Running the Gauntlet," a fictional piece I wrote and posted here about a week ago. This story is true.
I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.
On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.
At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.
Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.
At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:
"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.
I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.
Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.
Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.
I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.
On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.
At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.
Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.
At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:
"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.
I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.
Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.
Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.
5.25.2007
Running the Gauntlet
*Another story with graphic language. Please be forewarned.
“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.
I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.
“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.
“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.
“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.
“Got your ass beat again, huh?”
“Yeah. Stupid dog.”
“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.
“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”
“Momma gonna hear you!”
“So, I take whatever she got.”
“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?
“Say it again.”
“Huh?”
“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”
“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“
I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.
“Told you,” I said.
“What you said?”
“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”
“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”
“You’re a nothing.”
“You gonna turn off the faucet?”
“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”
“I‘ll watch out.”
“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”
“OK.”
“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”
“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”
“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”
“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”
“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.
“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”
“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.
“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”
“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”
“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.
When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”
“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”
“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.
Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.
“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”
“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.
I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.
“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.
“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.
“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.
“Got your ass beat again, huh?”
“Yeah. Stupid dog.”
“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.
“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”
“Momma gonna hear you!”
“So, I take whatever she got.”
“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?
“Say it again.”
“Huh?”
“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”
“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“
I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.
“Told you,” I said.
“What you said?”
“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”
“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”
“You’re a nothing.”
“You gonna turn off the faucet?”
“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”
“I‘ll watch out.”
“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”
“OK.”
“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”
“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”
“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”
“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”
“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.
“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”
“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.
“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”
“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”
“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.
When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”
“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”
“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.
Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.
“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”
5.22.2007
The Quiet Life -- and Death -- of Harold Gaines
**Please note that this story contains strong language. Thanks ahead of time.
“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”
“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.
“Another.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.
His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.
He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.
“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”
“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”
“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.
“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.
It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.
He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.
His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.
He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.
I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.
“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”
“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.
“Another.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.
His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.
He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.
“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”
“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”
“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.
“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.
It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.
He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.
His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.
He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.
I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.
5.14.2007
Something Calling
I have this deep desire inside me, placed there when I was just a boy with battered knees and broken lungs; I long to be a dad, to raise kids, to have a family of my own.
I want my sons (and daughters) to grow passionately into holy men and women, caring for the poor, the widow, the fatherless. I want to spin a destiny for my children so their lives are a reflection, not of me, but of my Father. I want them to cast big shadows and have strong shoulders: to be men of the earth, to use their hands for glory and their words to build kingdoms.
I want my daughters to be raised knowing their worth without burdens placed on their physical appearance; for them to know they are a loved beyond measure daughter of the King, princesses in his castle, precious thoughts to God Himself. I want them to grow into women of faith, character, tender-hearted strength.
In Hawaiian tradition, the naming of a child holds the weight of their destiny; the meaning of their name casts the die over their life, so to speak. A child is meant to grow into their name, much the same way we grow into our Manhood. That being said, I have not picked out names for my children, though there are a couple that I hold more dear than others. It is my hope that my wife will be okay with her children having Hawaiian names -- even if it is only the middle name -- as I think the continuance of my culture important; I hope it remains important to my children.
I do not remember my dad playing catch with me as a boy -- not once, not ever. I was talking to a good friend of mine this weekend while we were building a fence and I told him that I was very excited about playing catch with Azina at the park. (Azina being the awesome girl in my life, with perfect words always at the ready.) He was oddly interested at my excitement and told me I was acting like I had never played catch with my dad before. It was like I, a 24 year old man, had reverted to my 6 year old days. It was then I realized I hadn't. It was sort of an odd moment: epiphanaic. A couple of times we went fishing, I think, and I ended up eating the corn we were using for bait. I can recall a camping trip, some wrestling on the living room floor, the hugs after work. Everything physical sort of ended abruptly due to my asthma as a child, though we would eventually get together again to tickle, wrestle and fight. But that ended at my folks separation when I was but a child; I was one of those men without any sense of proper masculinity until taken in by my hanai father. It was then that he honed the skills and sense of honor that was already a part of me.
So now, years later, this sense of paternal longing is beginning to call to me in a sort of ebb and flow. At times it will be almost too much to bear -- the way I want to raise someone to see God with clear eyes and an open heart. At other times, though, its just... normal. I know I want kids but the desire isn't gripping me like a vice. Today is one of those vice-gripping days.
I want my sons (and daughters) to grow passionately into holy men and women, caring for the poor, the widow, the fatherless. I want to spin a destiny for my children so their lives are a reflection, not of me, but of my Father. I want them to cast big shadows and have strong shoulders: to be men of the earth, to use their hands for glory and their words to build kingdoms.
I want my daughters to be raised knowing their worth without burdens placed on their physical appearance; for them to know they are a loved beyond measure daughter of the King, princesses in his castle, precious thoughts to God Himself. I want them to grow into women of faith, character, tender-hearted strength.
In Hawaiian tradition, the naming of a child holds the weight of their destiny; the meaning of their name casts the die over their life, so to speak. A child is meant to grow into their name, much the same way we grow into our Manhood. That being said, I have not picked out names for my children, though there are a couple that I hold more dear than others. It is my hope that my wife will be okay with her children having Hawaiian names -- even if it is only the middle name -- as I think the continuance of my culture important; I hope it remains important to my children.
I do not remember my dad playing catch with me as a boy -- not once, not ever. I was talking to a good friend of mine this weekend while we were building a fence and I told him that I was very excited about playing catch with Azina at the park. (Azina being the awesome girl in my life, with perfect words always at the ready.) He was oddly interested at my excitement and told me I was acting like I had never played catch with my dad before. It was like I, a 24 year old man, had reverted to my 6 year old days. It was then I realized I hadn't. It was sort of an odd moment: epiphanaic. A couple of times we went fishing, I think, and I ended up eating the corn we were using for bait. I can recall a camping trip, some wrestling on the living room floor, the hugs after work. Everything physical sort of ended abruptly due to my asthma as a child, though we would eventually get together again to tickle, wrestle and fight. But that ended at my folks separation when I was but a child; I was one of those men without any sense of proper masculinity until taken in by my hanai father. It was then that he honed the skills and sense of honor that was already a part of me.
So now, years later, this sense of paternal longing is beginning to call to me in a sort of ebb and flow. At times it will be almost too much to bear -- the way I want to raise someone to see God with clear eyes and an open heart. At other times, though, its just... normal. I know I want kids but the desire isn't gripping me like a vice. Today is one of those vice-gripping days.
5.08.2007
The Decay of "I love you"
I was talking to this amazing girl last night on the phone, as has become a bit of a habit, and we fell to discussing the effect that language has on the human heart. I found myself telling her that, when a woman tells me she loves me, I am happy and content for a moment. However, the words eventually grow thin in meaning and decay inside my bosom so that the weight of the words is diminished, as am I with them. In their repetition do we find stale meaning.
But lo, when that same woman tells me that I am strong, courageous, fierce, compassionate, even tempered, brave, tender, righteous, etc., I find my heart grow in size so that my hands are not big enough to wrap themselves around this thing inside me and I fall and float, ecstatic. These words translate more fully as love to me than those old words of consumption. Further, they are not used nearly as often so that, when they are, I am leaded with their meaning, boltered in the downpour of its effect on my masculinity. For, though only masculinity can bestow masculinity, the feminine hand and mind was made to help conjure it when it is most needed, not out of thin air, but out of the wild hearts of the men in her life.
Even still, it could be said that women may come to loathe "I love you" as much as I when its bright filigree has faded and it sits in decay in our hearts, empty ashes of words flying from our mouths when fire is due. To them, I hope things like, "you are worthy to be loved," "you do not go unnoticed," and "I count you as a blessing in my life" weigh as heavily and shine as brightly in their hearts as being told I am fierce shines in mine.
But lo, when that same woman tells me that I am strong, courageous, fierce, compassionate, even tempered, brave, tender, righteous, etc., I find my heart grow in size so that my hands are not big enough to wrap themselves around this thing inside me and I fall and float, ecstatic. These words translate more fully as love to me than those old words of consumption. Further, they are not used nearly as often so that, when they are, I am leaded with their meaning, boltered in the downpour of its effect on my masculinity. For, though only masculinity can bestow masculinity, the feminine hand and mind was made to help conjure it when it is most needed, not out of thin air, but out of the wild hearts of the men in her life.
Even still, it could be said that women may come to loathe "I love you" as much as I when its bright filigree has faded and it sits in decay in our hearts, empty ashes of words flying from our mouths when fire is due. To them, I hope things like, "you are worthy to be loved," "you do not go unnoticed," and "I count you as a blessing in my life" weigh as heavily and shine as brightly in their hearts as being told I am fierce shines in mine.
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