Ke Kaiao O Ka La Mua

The Dawning of a New Generation


On Saturday, the halau (school) that I dance for (Na Meakanu O Laka O Hawaii) and the Ke Po'okela Cultural Foundation hosted a night of music and hula. Alongside our halau, 5 other schools had performers on stage ranging in age from as young as 4 to as old as... well, old.

I showed up at noon even though the show did not begin until 7 in the evening. There were plants to set up, a run-through to go through, people to meet, things to carry, etc. As one of the only men of the halau, I got a chance to serve the women, which was very cool. It is pretty amazing how many things a girl will bring to a performance.

Previously, we had all met here and there, made our own lei and kupe'e (wrist/ankle bracelets of ti leaf or kukui nut) and began forming the bonds of friendship. As a result, when everyone was there it was like we were all part of one very large 'ohana hula.

That part is true as well; our kumu hula (headmistress) taught each of the other kumu and gave them their title, effectually letting them teach others and pass on the knowledge of the kupuna (ancestors). This resulted in all of the kumu being close friends -- like family, and we, their students became family by association as well. Real hula has always been a matter of pride to the Hawaiian and we take our hula lineage seriously. This night -- The Dawning of a New Generation -- was Aunty Mohala's formal presentation of our halau to our new kumu hula, Mahiehie. It was Aunty Mohala's wish to present these new kumu as the new face of hula that we might begin to perpetuate our culture on our own.

The performance itself went off without a hitch; everyone danced well and we had a lot of fun. My favorite 2 parts, however, happened both before and after the show.

First - before the show - Polala (a man from Kauai) presented Aunty Mohala with some sacred gifts of the islands. Everyone was musing about in the lobby before getting to our dressing rooms when he asked her if he could present his makana (gifts) to him. When she said yes, he began a chant that was long, fluid and filled with ikaika (power). As soon as his voice began its rhythmic sway, the lobby became silent. All eyes turned to the exchange between him and her. She began crying as he told her in Hawaiian of how he climbed the mountain to get her gifts, of the making of her lei, etc. It was very touching.

Second - and equally important - was after the show when I got to introduce Az to my kumu, some aunties and fellow dancers. Everyone loved her straightaway and she fit in to this part of my family very nicely. It was very, very cool.

The above picture is of just a few of the dancers that performed in a piece called "He Inoa Kalani" -- a dance written by King Kamehameha II -- in which 60 people sat on stage, dancing and chanting. It was surreal.

Hula

"The following account is taken from the Polynesian Researches of the Rev. William Ellis, the well-known English missionary, who visited [Hawai'i] in the years 1822 and 1823, and whose recorded observations have been of the highest value in preserving a knowledge of the institutions of ancient Hawaii:

In the afternoon, a party of strolling musicians and dancers arrived at Kairua. About four o'clock they came, followed by crowds of people, and arranged themselves on a fine sandy beach in front of one of the governor's houses, where they exhibited a native dance, called hura araapapa.

'The five musicians first seated themselves in a line on the ground, and spread a piece of folded cloth on the sand before them. Their instrument was a large calabash, or rather two, one of an oval shape about three feet high, the other perfectly round, very neatly fastened to it, having also an aperture about three inches in diameter at the top. Each musician held his instrument before him with both hands, and produced his music by striking it on the ground, where he had laid a piece of cloth, and beating it with his fingers, or the palms of his hands. As soon as they began to sound their calabashes, the dancer, a young man about middle stature, advanced through the opening crowd. His jet-black hair hung in loose and flowing ringlets on his naked shoulders; his necklace was made of a vast number of strings of nicely braided human hair, tied together behind, while a paraoa (an ornament made of a whale's tooth) hung pendant from it on his breast; his wrists were ornamented with bracelets formed of polished tusks of the hog, and his ankles with loose buskins, thickly set with dog's teeth, the rattle of which, during the dance, kept time with the music of the calabash drum. A beautiful yellow tapa was tastefully fastened about his loins, reaching to his knees. He began his dance in front of the musicians, and moved forward and backwards, across the area, occasionally chanting the achievements of former kings of Hawaii. The governor sat at the end of the ring, opposite to the musicians, and appeared gratified with the performance, which continued until the evening.' (Vol. IV, 100-101, London, Fisher, Son & Jackson, 1831.)" -- Emerson, "Unwritten Literature of Hawai'i: The Sacred Songs of the Hula," 71, 72.

This Saturday, the halau (school) that I attend will be having a large performance in Redondo Beach. We are dancing with 5 other halau; this is one of the first shows of its kind as hula schools typically stay in competition with one another. The great thing is that our long-standing Kumu Hula -- Aunty Mohala -- was the teacher for each of the kumu hula from the other halau. During this time, she will also be formally passing the reigns to Kumu Hula Mahiehie, whom I have had the privilege of dancing under for the last six months.

The say that I am very excited about this event would be a gross understatement. As the days grow closer to Saturday, I find myself thinking about it more and more. E Ho'omau Hula!!! Imua!

Wrestling With Piper

Who would say that Herod's contempt (Luke 23:11) or Pilate's spineless expediency (Luke 23:24) or the Jews' 'Crucify, crucify him!' (Luke 23:21) or the Gentile soldier's mockery (Luke 23:36)--who would say that these were not sin? Yet Luke, in Acts 4:27-28, records the prayer of the saints:

"Truly in this city there were gathered together against your holy servant Jesus, whom you anointed, both Herod and Pontius Pilate, along with the Gentiles and the peoples of Israel, to do whatever your hand and your plan had predestined to take place."

People lift their hand to rebel against the Most High only to find that their rebellion is unwitting service in the wonderful designs of God. Even sin cannot frustrate the purposes of the Almighty. He Himself does not commit sin, but He has decreed that there be acts that are sin, for the acts of Pilate and Herod were predestined by God's plan. (Desiring God, 35-6)

Notice that Piper is not saying God allows sin. He says God decrees that there be acts that are sin, essentially that God Himself -- in all of his perfection and goodness -- wills that there be sin, without actually sinning. Is Our Great God a hypocrite? NO! He has made it so that in the end, we will see His Mercy and His Sovereignty, His Grace and His Judgment, and we will tremble with awe at the majesty of God! Yet this is something that is a hard hurdle to jump - a difficult idea to ponder, especially when coming to the conclusion that God is the ultimate causality of sin. Here is what Job said after losing his livestock and his family:

Naked I came from my
mother's womb,
And naked shall I return there.
The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away;
Blessed be the Name of the
Lord. (Job 1:21)

We all know that God let Satan enter into Job's life -- that he effectively stayed Satan's hand and did not let things happen to Job before its time -- but Job gives God the ultimate causality, not Satan. Job essentially says that it is because of God that he has lost his livelihood, his children and his livestock. And, instead of him being reprimanded, the very next verse says, "In all this Job did not sin nor charge God with wrong."

I am not coming to any conclusions about it at the moment, but I am trying to wrap my head around it, as much as God allows anyway. I know that His thoughts are far above my thoughts and His ways are far above my ways, but I would be hard-pressed not to think about it.

A Piece of a Chapter

There was a time in my life when the idea of beginning something new was both an intriguing and fearful premise: time before an elementary education, the promise of friendships, knowledge and a thirst for more. It was a time of togetherness, of family and of fortunes.

But it was not the fortunes of the wealthy or even that wealth couched in the memories of the elderly: these were the shining days of laughter, hope and smiles. Our fortunes were those of children hard at play and harder at the work of building into our dreams. Our wealth was found in the wink of a sapphire eye and the beat of a five year old heart, rusted with the joy of the young. Adam and I would be lost in the land of the imagination, which lay just beyond the grasp of our screen door when the others came home from school.

Books would go slamming and bags flying. School clothes would come down like the long hair of the islands, held aloft all day at the top of the head, while play clothes would be shimmied into at my mother's call to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Emotion filled our tiny home as our older sister rushed headlong through the lawn, taking no heed of us. And we would go one, Adam and I, in the jungle of our minds with G.I. Joe, sound effects and dirt clods. We were the safari hunters rambling through the honeysuckle in search of our great lion; we were the Tarzans of the white sycamores, the knights of the front lawn, the samurai of Mother's rock garden. Kings amongst children, we played; the living amongst the fantasy, we laughed. Then, in a flash, our glass house came crashing to the ground with the uttering of one frail sentence:

"In three months," Mother said, "you'll be joining your sister in school."

Were it not for the Kool-Aid and sunshine, I would have died there on the spot. But Mother knew that the time for learning was drawing near and the age of ignorance was coming to an end; after all, it was she who taught me best of all.

She told me as I sat barefoot and cross-legged on the kitchen floor, light coming through the window, while I sipped on my grape drink and played with my Hot Wheels. Standing over the stove, she said it nonchalantly as she stirred the green beans and double-checked the heat of the rice.

"Huh?," I said, looking up unbelieving, a purple Kool-Aid moustache developing on my upper-lip.

"This is it, little man. Soon, you'll be in school and making friends, coming home for lunch and wearing a backpack!"

"I don't wanna make friends. I wanna hang out with Adam."

"Well, Adam has a whole 'nother year at home with me, but you guys will still get to play in the afternoon."

With that, I felt the very first twinges of envy, fear and wide-eyed excitement. I mean, she did mention a backpack!

The Weird Lady at Work

Her name is Liz. Older. Totally nutters.

Here is only one example of the craziness that is her life:

I am downstairs at the local cafeteria, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast and she is ahead of me in the line. She orders the breakfast special, sans hash browns and toast. I immediately think "Atkins" and continue in my waiting. This is pretty normal, right?

Then, the guy gives her the total and she loses it! She becomes upset because he did not deduct the price for her unwanted potatoes and bread. She says, "You're not going to give me a discount?" as though that is what happens everywhere. He replies, "Uh. no." and she decides that this isn't worth her time, so she gives him this maniacal sneer, turns on her heels and huffs out, without so much as a good morning to me when she sees me.

Let me ask: when you order your fast food and request no onions, no tomato, etc., do you expect the burger to be cheaper? NO! So what's the deal with crazy Liz at work, looking for a discount on her already "special" breakfast? Totally weird.

Barn Builders, a Bildungsroman -- page One

"Goddammit!" Blood came rushing from his finger, it now smashed and turning a sickly dark color. He released the hammer – threw it more like – and proceeded to sit on the 4x4 he had been working on. He sat some 28 feet in the air, legs straddling the beam and dangling in the void. The hammer careened into the side of a trashcan below.

"Be careful, man. You’ll hurt someone otherwise." The man from the bottom looked up, craning his neck and shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun as it continued its descent westward. His hardhat had been worn out with scratches of overuse so he covered them with yellow nail polish. The polish was brighter than the rest of the hat, giving it streaks of cleanliness amidst the dirt.
"Whatever."

"What did you say to me? I thought I heard you say 'Whatever.' Perhaps my ears deceive me, boy. Don't pretend you're a man because you can climb up and hammer in some joists. It isn't your time, son. Not yet." The man's voice began hard and sharp but, by the end, had softened so that the boy had to strain his ears to hear him. The elder man looked down, knowing that he would have to show his son to the wilderness for a season, that he would have to experience the pitfalls of his manhood rather soon. But he didn't want to think about it. It seemed only yesterday that Cody was carousing around the backyard in his diaper, cheering on the dog at its digging. That was nearly 15 years ago.

"Ok Pop, I get it."

"Do you?"

"I think so. Yeah, I do. I get it."

"Don't play with me. I will knock you down from that beam quicker than you can scream for help. I promise you that."

"Ok, Ok. I get it."

"Good. Now get down here and get the hammer you threw away."

"Yes, sir."

The young man came quickly down the scaffolding, swinging from pipe to pipe, jumping full floors at a sprint, much like an ape-man. This was his favorite part, when he could go as fast as possible. His dad didn’t mind too much; he said if he hurt himself, he would be paying the bills. And besides, he smiled, a little adrenaline is good for you. The trouble is that Cody was addicted to it. That’s why he went all the way to the top of the structure, hammering and such as he went: that is why he came tumbling down headlong at breakneck speed – he was secretly a bit fearful of heights and this was how you got the most excitement. Landing in the dirt, he patted himself off, rubbed his hands into one another, grabbed a bottle of water and retrieved the hammer. Looking West, the sun had dipped below the tree line. He rubbed the back of his neck with the calloused palm of his hand, then turned to his father.

"How long you think till we're done?"

"Can't tell for certain. We're done for today though, if that's what you're asking."

"Yep. And no. I mean, how long till you think this barn's going to be finished?"

"A year or more the way we're working. It's just you and me and a lot of fresh air. So... I don't know really. We're already at it for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week. We have other priorities, too. And you need to make your trip into the woods some time between now and when this is finished."

"I know that. Just curious."

"You got other plans?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Like college, Cody. What are you doing after this?"

"Working with you, I guess. I wouldn't leave this for more school. I like the work. It suits me."

"Ok. Suits me fine, too."

They gathered the tools into the pickup, tossing in the trash of the day and climbing into the cab. They drove home in silence, only a half-mile away over a dirt road, with corn field and ash trees aplenty.

The Letter

Dear Dad,

This is a hard letter to write, but I suppose it has been a long time coming. I do not know how to soften the blow for you, to cradle your fall so that you feel less pain, or to write in a tone that would signify that I am a caring, human-hearted individual. The hard, bare truth is the only thing I can come up with -- you have been replaced and I am none the worse for wear.

When you and Mom separated that fateful night -- do you remember it? -- I thought I was being torn in half. Even then, during that thunderstorm and your continuous cries in the darkness, I knew what it was like to be something other than a child. Did you know that memory has haunted me nearly every night since its occurrence? It has taken up entirely too much of my life, making it so sleep is a difficult animal to pin down. I know you will say that it is not your fault -- that Mom had been drinking again and overreacted, that she should not have changed the locks, that when you cried out to me to open the door, I should have listened to your voice and taken the wrath of her, though she lay not 10 feet from me. And perhaps you are right. But you cheated. You traded us in for something -- no, someone else. You fucked that up, even if you married Mom because she was pregnant.

And why did you tell Pua that? You think its easy to know that your dad was around an extra 9 years and created 4 more children because of his first mistake, manifested in your very own flesh and blood and bone? You think that doesn't fuck with her head? I exist because you were too much of a coward to leave in the first place. You made me a product of your cowardice. I suppose I should say 'Thank you.'

After you vacated the premises, I put you on this pedestal. I was glad to bear your name, to be called 'Junior,' or 'Keithy,' or 'Little Keith.' I defended your actions -- or lack thereof -- to everyone. Keoki and I fought constantly because of it. But do you know he was right? I still hate to say it, but it is true. I realized how you were still running.

Even from the beginning, I was to be different from them. I look like you, have a similar build, speak in a similar fashion. I am a constant reminder of your fear. Where my siblings got a Hawaiian name -- something that spoke to their character, their spirit, their heart -- I got your name instead; the name of my runaway father. When you ran off with Marie, you took my masculinity with you. I resented you a long time for it.

I was taken in at 14; you know that. I call that man 'Pops' because dad has such a negative connotation in my mind. He helped usher me into manhood where you did not try. So yes, Father, you have been replaced. I don't hate you for your mistakes, though you have shown me what it means to be a bad father. Because of you, thank God, I know what not to do.

Progress

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.