In reply to

Unfold the tattered pages, stapled at the corner. Smooth the wrinkles, spread the words, smell the anticipation. Curious, with my first letter, a letter, a real letter. Written in ink, a pen's ink, in a flowing script I strain to read: this is not Times New Roman -- no, this is human. And what will I find today? I'll hold my breath and see.

"You are free now, you've been set free, you've been liberated." Is this what you've been looking for? Permission? "Please," reads my narrator, "Please, show me Saturn's rings, the butterflies' wings and how the faeries in Neverland sing." Someone saw, someone read, and responded. I stirred the broth, with a dash of basil and passion and rosemary and love. And now the soup satisfies with love.

"Would you compare a friend to a soup?" But aren't all friend's soup? A delicious blend of 70% water and all of life's ingredients? And they're comforting on a dreary day, awful at the wrong times, and if you stick them in the fridge they'll congeal and become stiff to you. People are soup, and writers stir the pot.

If you'll believe it, writers season the soup; if you'll understand, the soup inspires the writer. But here's the thing: writers are soup too. Therefore some soups are writers. And this soup, that's just strengthened me... no, he's not a writer. He writes. And that is far better.

Do you want to be a writer, or to write? A haunting question. One that stills the pen and tosses me upon my bed, that rolls about in my head like the ballast in a ship. And this ship will not stop rolling till the ballast settles.

I'm wide awake. I'm not sleeping.

Do you want to know? Mount Rainier is growing. So is the moon. No one will believe me; no one agrees. I tell you they are! Bigger by the sunset. Bigger at midnight. "We flatten things, put them on postcards," states my little black book. We consider the horizon a wallpaper. But it's real. It's not the edge of life. It's getting bigger. Look up from your couch. Look at your wallpaper. You live inside this, but it's not just for decoration. It's getting bigger. I tell you, the mountain and the moon -- they're growing.

Can I say: in Neverland, the streets aren't numbered. If you want to find me, you'll have to search. You can't dial my number. You have to walk the cobblestones, between the ivy on the alley walls. And after you find me, I won't answer your question on the doorstep. You'll have to come in for tea.

Do you understand how big this means?

It is not only my imagination: the winds on Jupiter really are like your breath on a gnat. And Saturn's rings get dust all over my shoes. And the moon guides the butterflies while it shepherds the sea.

I am on a planet they call earth, looking up, 90 degrees into the air. I have the distinct feeling the air does not belong to me. The air is black, thin; it looks like it isn't there. It isn't there. I see three planets. On the horizon is Venus, and in Orion's fist is Saturn. Mars watches from the middle of the sky. There are many stars. Many tiny dots. White dots in black air that isn't there. And I think to myself, "Really though, Mars is red. Saturn too. Venus is big and gold. And they are there. Not just as dots in my air, but there. Venus is bigger than my planet; it's a huge chunk of rock enveloped by clouds. It's very big. Bigger than the dot. It is bright. Bright because it reflects the sun. The sun is shining on Venus right now. Right now. And the light I see, looking through the air, the air that isn't mine, is the sun's light. It has traveled very far. The distance is inconsequential. It's too big to matter. Too far to make any sense in my head, which breaks road trips into sixty mile increments."

Saturn doesn't move. It is faster than any rocket ever made. It spins faster than any top a child has spun. Saturn is in the air, a white dot, and it was there in January, in Hawaii, clenched above Orion's head. It will be there a while longer and then it will not be there. It moves -- like my planet moves. They move together, to different places, but both move at once. They hurtle around another bright dot, the source of all light in my eyes. I see three planets, but no; I see three mirrors, one light, in my eyes tonight. They do not belong to me, but to their light. They orbit the light, as I do, and they are not mine.

They are not white dots, as White Out on black paper, but are like airplanes in the sky, which only look small because I'm not looking at them up close. If I were looking up close they would be big, bigger than me, bigger like this planet. I would see only the land six feet in front of my left foot and two miles out to sea. But now I see the whole thing, because they are farther away than I can understand. How far? You can't understand because you think "big" is the earth, which is only twenty-five thousand miles from here to the other side to here. Venus is far away like Greenland is from a crocodile. Saturn is far away like a penguin from the West Nile. Mars is far away like home is from Siberia.

When you really think about it... but then, maybe don't. It might make you stop breathing. It might make you hug the next stranger who asks you to take their picture. Because Venus is far away like you are from Joseph and Mary. And right now, basking in the light the sun glares on Mars right now, the light that is not warming me right now, these three planets are closer to me than you are. And that scares me. But I'm not afraid, because there is no man on the moon. There is only the moon, a ball of gray dust, and it's really eighty long walks around the earth away, and the dust would filter through my fingers and fall, because the moon is really there. When you really think about it, it makes you put your hands in your pockets and say, "Ah." It's day on Saturn and I wish you were here, to hold my dusty hands, and wonder and be...

The highlights of my day were:

Buying Nalgene knock-offs for $2/ea.
Seeing a girl from across church.
Hugging Grandma Ware.
Shakespeare in Love.
Finding out a dear friend is lesbian.

Ok, now what?

I was wrong about Will Shakespeare.

If you have not yet seen Shakespeare in Love, do so quickly,
for it does the bard well and renews my faith in poetry
and passion and love and swords and a grave bit in comedy.

Periodic sentences are my friends. I need none but them.

is role-switching a sin?

no really. I want to know.

role-conflict is a pain in the ass.

but is it a sin?

heeeeeeeeeeeelp

AIDS, Hunger, Traffiking, Genocide, Terrorists, Wars, Empirialism, Globalism.
College, Scholarships, Proposals, Papers, Research, Research, Research.
Legislatures, School Boards, Church Boards, Live8, G8, Communities, Students, Friends.
Futures, Destinies, Plans, Opportunities.

It's all very overwhelming.

I'm being presented many opportunities, which are rather ideas right now:
MTV Grants to tackle global issues: $1k in exchange for a very good proposal.
Writing the legislature to encourage state grants for students (the Promise Scholarship was canceled this year).
Travel this fall.
Work on a ship this fall.
Go to Whitworth this fall, or Green River.
Learn to cook, sail, photograph, fly this fall.
Start a small group with the younger guys at youth group: someone needs to lead them.
Start volunteering otherwise, now.

It's all very overwhelming. What do I do? Where do I start? Do I start at all?

Playing Paused

It's 9 o'clock. My life is on pause. The trees blow past me in the wind. I follow the sun as it sets, and I think, "My foot isn't touching the ground." A friend runs past, like the roadrunner, dust flying twelve feet in the air. I shout, but my breath puffs like a balloon and pops. I think, "If only I could inhale." I think, "'If only' is synonymous to 'should'." I should inhale, but there is only to do or to not do.

My name is Galen and my life is on pause. I think, "I'll catch a train to Princeton. I'll get up early to get to the station in time to catch the train." I think, "I may be only quoting a friend." I hold my foot aloft, like I'm in a marching band, but I don't play the trumpet. Instead I watch a small fish chase a large fish in a TV in a shop. The smiling clerk speaks in clipped sentences. I hear the music, but I don't play a trumpet. I hear the bass, the dialogue, the score and the silence. The movie plays till the credits, and they roll by like a bus.

I see a bus, a brown bus; I see a child in a brown sweater, seventies style with the popped yellow collar and rose colored glasses. He carries a guitar which weeps, and the tears blur my eyes. He plays and I think, "My fist is clenched. My face is wet." The wind blows a sign, a bag and a dirty man who smiles with twelve teeth. I think, "He gets a lot of smile from each tooth." I think, "I would smile if I had twelve teeth." I would smile, but there is only to smile, with thirty-eight teeth, or not.

On my couch, my life is on pause. My finger hovers on the remote and I think, "If only I could push play." If only I could.

Won't you? The dog is barking, the rain falling, the leaves blowing and it's September now. Push play, before Labor Day, or I'll miss the first day of school, or I'll miss my plane.

America the Gray

I was having a discussion with Azina about fruit and it dawned on me how shielded Americans are. Everyone is protecting the general populace from all forms of knowledge and experience. There are thousands of varieties of fruit in the world, yet the grocer only sells ten. We get apples, bananas, pineapples, mangos, kiwis, oranges, grapes, pomegranates, some berries and the occasional apricot. How boring. When researching Thailand I learned there are fruits there that we've never tasted; that disappoints me. How much have I been sheltered from, living this "good" life in the US? In this land of plenty, of materialism, where I can have whatever I want, what are we missing?

Isn't there something amiss... doesn't it make you think, and even terrify you, that even the grocer is hiding something from you?

And this is just fruit. What else don't we know? We who are so superior?






(Don't any of you go and tell me that tomatoes are a fruit. They were omitted for dramatic impact.)

free write

I want to write so badly. It aches inside me. My laziness is a dam holding back a flood of words and life and hope. Laziness the Dam. Damn Laziness. Write first, edit later. Write what? Edit what? Words. Which words? There's a lot of them. Take one: desert. Desert. Place it next to another: town. Desert Town. Two more: and here's the hard part, because settings are easy -- we see them all the time, but we refuse to see stories, because we're looking at ourselves in every situation -- but here we go anyway: old man. Desert Town, an old man, stumbling from an old car, carrying an old crutch. Is it windy? No, that's cliche. Well, nothing is rather boring. Ok, it's raining. In the desert? Sure. It rains in a desert? Don't you think that's a little unusual? Isn't an old man in an old car in a desert town a little unusual? -- he is stumbling. Why is he stumbling (I concede the rain)? He's dying. Of what? He's only one leg, amputated, he's dying because there's a cancer eating at this other leg. He'll soon be without any legs. That sucks. Yea, he's limping on one crutch and a bad leg. Don't take your fingers off the keys: you'll never start again. Relax, I know where this is going. He's from the West, and he's heading East. He's from California, San Joaquin Valley, 93, One legged, with cancer eating the other. He stumbles on one leg in the rain. He reels as he slams the door: it's an old car with heavy doors. What do you mean by reels? I mean he sort of hopskips, like someone just shot at his foot. He uses the crutch to prop himself, but it takes a few hops to get it right. Ok, now he's... standing in the rain? Yes. He's looking at the closed gas station. And? And the rain drips off his silver hair, onto his face. It channels through the wrinkles on his face, and runs down off his chin. It looks like he has a water beard. It's raining that hard? It rains hard in the desert. How long does he stand there? Not long. There's an elderly woman who yells at her daughter to get that man out of the rain. She's in a house behind him. The daughter looks out the large plate glass window, the one streaked with rock chips from the highway that's only been there 20 years. Does that matter? Yes. This is a story about letting go. Oh. So what does the daughter do? Gets the man inside? Yes, of course. He turns slowly. Then limps a few hops in her direction. When she sees his leg, or lack thereof, she runs into the rain. It soaks her obviously, soaks her cashmere sweater. Sweater? I thought this was the desert! When's the last time you went to Arizona in the winter? It snows in Arizona. More than it snows in Seattle. You're crazy. You're ignorant. I'm you. Not right now. Fine; so she gets soaked. And... Helps the grandfather into the house. It takes them a few minutes, and they're both shivering when they get inside. The old woman has a walker, one of those metal ones with tennis balls on the feet. She lifts it and sets it down with a clunk, steps twice and does it again. It takes her almost as long as the man to get into the kitchen. She smiles at the scene, but he hasn't seen her yet. Do they know each other? Is this a lucky coincidence? No, they don't know each other. He wasn't looking for her. Do they end up in love? That's so predictable. No, no, not in love. But love. You'll see. You know where this is going? Yes, sort of. Can you tell me? Sure, the joy of this sort of story isn't the suspense, but the process. Ok, then what happens? The man came to the town, the desert town, in search of an old brother and sister, who'd lived their whole lives in this town. They're both older than him, and had left when he was still a boy... That'd make them in their hundreds. Yes, and he's angry that they left him behind in Mississippi. He's come to finally confront them about the bitter life they condemned him to when they left him with their alcoholic father. Another cliche! No, no, not this time. This time it's true. This really happened. It did? When? About 5 years ago. To whom? My Grandfather, and my father, and me, and to you. Me? I was there? Yes, the critic is always there. You are the whole reason the brother and sister left this boy behind, and went west. Me? Yes. Criticism is potent. Now the grandfather has come searching for his siblings, to confront them, but he won't ever find them. Why not? They're dead. I knew it! You were right. So end of story? Nope. He finds her instead, and her daughter. He'll stay there for a few days while he searches for his siblings, and during that time, they'll love on him, and compliment him and encourage him and make sacrifices and he'll be loved. And love will erase all wrongs, blah blah blah, blah blah. Yes. He'll be loved, and he'll let go. And end of story? Still no. He'll work his own magic. The old woman has clung to her dear old house for the 20 years since the highway came through. It's getting busier and busier as evidenced by the every multiplying scratches on the window. The daughter keeps telling her to move. It's too noisy. The old days are gone. But the house is where her husband lived with her for 49 years. She'd almost given in, when the man arrives. She'll die at the end of the story. In the house? No, she'll have sold the house and moved to California with the man. Aren't they a bit old for... that? Not everything is about sex. Somethings are about affection and love. Love. It's an amazing reality. Reality? Yea, it's more than a concept. It's enough to teach him to let go of his bitterness, and her to let go of her memories. Instead of letting these anchors drown them, they'll cut the chains and be able to truly love their dead relations, instead of loving -- or hating -- their memories. It's about forgiveness, about forgiveness for the abandonment they both experienced. They're starting over. They're kind of old, don't you think, to be starting over? No, and that's what this story is about. It's never to late to forgive, and to let go.

Starting over

mat. 6.33

"Seek first the kingdom of God and his Righteousness and all these things shall be provided for you."

ie. Look God in the eye and he'll be so very happy that he'll make absolutely sure that your hunger will not distract you.
ie. Care about God and you won't have to care about that other crap.
ie. Love God. Period.

"And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor." (Signed by 56 men on July 4, 1776).

Wow. I don't think I've understood the weight of that line before. It ends the Declaration of Independence and it's quite the pledge: "In life and death, in wealth and poverty, in popularity and disgrace, I've got your back. My life is yours, my money is yours, my honor is yours."

I want to say that some day.

Happy Independence Day! Happy Birthday USA.

Are you my hero?

The message of America is of hypocrites and sinners helped by God to change the world. This should inspire us. For if our heroes were not perfect, then we need not be perfect to be heroes. And so, we may consider that each of us has the same potential to change the world heroically; as Jefferson and Franklin did for our ancestors, so we can do for those dying from AIDS, ethnic cleansings, slave labor and hunger. God helped those broken citizens become heroes; therefore, no one is exempt from their duty to love and protect their neighbor. With God's help, we all might change the world, we all might be heroes.

"Looking? You mean catching. No, I haven't caught anything yet."

I didn't belong on that pier. I don't like the slime of fish, nor the taste of salt. I can't stomach hours tying tedious knots, lit by sodium lights, my hands numb and bleeding from the wire traps and raw ropes. I'm not one to spend half a chicken to catch a few crabs. So, I put my face to the breeze and inhaled the adventures collected by the centuries, carried by the wind. And I wondered: if not here, then where? Where do I belong?

Who am I?
Who will I be?
What will I do?
What are my talents?
Where will I go?
Where am I needed? Wanted?
Why will I at all?
Who will I know?
What way will I dress?
Why will I care?
What if aliens invaded?
What would I do?
Would I survive?
Would I be devestated? Or excited?
What if I won Lotto?
Would I be the same?
Would I use the money to stay in school?
Or would $11M be an excuse to drop out?


What will I dream of in twenty years? Will my dreams be the same as I dream tonight? Is that a travesty -- or is that humanity?