My night was like a summer movie soundtrack.
A girl with eyes like the sea wearing my sweatshirt.
Leaning over the edge of a very high bridge. Climbing in the girders.
Dropping pennies into the trainyard. Wishing on them.
Forgetting things and driving backwards to get back to what we forgot.
Stars on a curvy backroad. Long grass whispering when I pass.
Watching the ants steal my food from the floor. I didn't want it anyway.
There was this spider with long legs and a tiny body, the color of his web. I could hardly see him or his web. An ant walked into it. I waited for the spider to run down and capture his prey. He didn't. Instead he reeled the ant in like a fisherman. The the spider tied the ant up. That's when I realized he didn't have a web. He was hanging from a single strand, and he lowered a single strand like a fishing line. I think he knew the ants would be there, so he came by to set up a chair and fish for ants. Smart spider.
June 29, 2006
June 26, 2006
I decided to climb the cliff.
his hands are like leather gloves
strong so you would trust them
to pull you out of a ravine
or to clean a wound
wrinkled like the desert
dry riverbeds where
his hand was stressed
where he's moved
the same motion again
and again he kneeds the rope
then wham and the rope is
snapped.
the sheep wobbles to its feet
wobbles after him, after the hands
that freed it, took it off the truck
bought it from the slaughter man
he crosses the road, sheep in tow
and the truck saunters on, one
less death slowing it down
one less meal for demons.
leathery hands lift a cup,
leathery hands are cracked
and bleeding into clay
a clay cup full of blood
rescuing hands
purchasing hands
liberating hands
bleeding hands
hold a cup of blood and
pour on the woolen head
"so the meat factory will
know you are mine"
the sheep is happy, but
it watches the truck.
watches the dust cloud
through the wash of blood.
leather face and peaceful eyes
see the lonely gaze, and, loving
the sheep, cracked lips offer
freedom to return.
"You can go. I bought you
so you'd be free. I want
you to choose to be
in this flock with me."
Poetic words tickle sheeply
ears sticky wet with blood
from cracked hands
open, letting go.
"You were worth it. Every
penny. Even if you leave.
If you stay I'll show you
why I chose you, I'll have time.
My flock is big; it fills a valley
just past that hill. You'll like it there
and you'll be one of many covered
with a red badge of freedom;
My blood that says you can leave --
a passport to liberty from me
and a sign, if you stay, that you
find me a just man, and wish to obey."
"It's a horrid path around that hill, but
I'll carry you through the worst spots.
Yes, there goes the truck. Which do you
choose now? The free ride on that truck?
Or a hard road with me, to where only
the few go -- only a few choose to walk
instead of ride, and few choose me
over that popular, bumpy ride
to the fattening farms. Sure the food
is the best you've had, but when you're
ready they'll strip you, of your wool and
your sheepness. They'll kill you twice.
They'll take your identity -- you'll look like
every other sheep. In my valley, the only similarity
you'll bear to the others is the blood that
tells wolves not to bite, or they'll deal with me.
Last chance, which will it be? A free ride or me?"
Leather hands stands to wait a sheepish reply.
Bloody head vaciliates, concatenates,
meets the Shepherd's eye.
Off they go, leather hand on bloody head,
Off they meander,
a sheep no longer in despair,
a sheep with a shepherd
leading to the lee of that hill.
strong so you would trust them
to pull you out of a ravine
or to clean a wound
wrinkled like the desert
dry riverbeds where
his hand was stressed
where he's moved
the same motion again
and again he kneeds the rope
then wham and the rope is
snapped.
the sheep wobbles to its feet
wobbles after him, after the hands
that freed it, took it off the truck
bought it from the slaughter man
he crosses the road, sheep in tow
and the truck saunters on, one
less death slowing it down
one less meal for demons.
leathery hands lift a cup,
leathery hands are cracked
and bleeding into clay
a clay cup full of blood
rescuing hands
purchasing hands
liberating hands
bleeding hands
hold a cup of blood and
pour on the woolen head
"so the meat factory will
know you are mine"
the sheep is happy, but
it watches the truck.
watches the dust cloud
through the wash of blood.
leather face and peaceful eyes
see the lonely gaze, and, loving
the sheep, cracked lips offer
freedom to return.
"You can go. I bought you
so you'd be free. I want
you to choose to be
in this flock with me."
Poetic words tickle sheeply
ears sticky wet with blood
from cracked hands
open, letting go.
"You were worth it. Every
penny. Even if you leave.
If you stay I'll show you
why I chose you, I'll have time.
My flock is big; it fills a valley
just past that hill. You'll like it there
and you'll be one of many covered
with a red badge of freedom;
My blood that says you can leave --
a passport to liberty from me
and a sign, if you stay, that you
find me a just man, and wish to obey."
"It's a horrid path around that hill, but
I'll carry you through the worst spots.
Yes, there goes the truck. Which do you
choose now? The free ride on that truck?
Or a hard road with me, to where only
the few go -- only a few choose to walk
instead of ride, and few choose me
over that popular, bumpy ride
to the fattening farms. Sure the food
is the best you've had, but when you're
ready they'll strip you, of your wool and
your sheepness. They'll kill you twice.
They'll take your identity -- you'll look like
every other sheep. In my valley, the only similarity
you'll bear to the others is the blood that
tells wolves not to bite, or they'll deal with me.
Last chance, which will it be? A free ride or me?"
Leather hands stands to wait a sheepish reply.
Bloody head vaciliates, concatenates,
meets the Shepherd's eye.
Off they go, leather hand on bloody head,
Off they meander,
a sheep no longer in despair,
a sheep with a shepherd
leading to the lee of that hill.
June 25, 2006
The road less traveled is a very tall cliff.
I see three roads leading out from where I stand. Below me, a trackless dune -- I could ski down it in my bare feet; but it's a dark sea at the bottom. Ahead of me, a wide path, which I'm on, at the base of a cliff -- the escarpment blocks the heat of the sun, but for a few places where the sun sneaks through; I'd like to eat lunch there in the sun, to warm myself; but it's a rocky, precipitous mile from here. And above me, a hard climb (I'll need chalk and shoes, or hinds' feet) but I see mountain meadows, and flocks of sheep. I hear the twitterpated birds and the bouncy children's song, the many voices, which never grow up. It's sunny up there, but shaded by fruit trees. And I see there are others there, picnic baskets in hand, eating brie and salami. The smell of Jasmine wafts down the face of this cliff -- I want to go there, but it is a tall cliff. Is it worth the work? The path ahead is not too rocky; I won't suffer too much between those rare sunny spots. I could be happy on this path; bearably at least. I could be loved on this path, and love. The suffering of this path will develop my character too, so it will be good in the end. I'll cling to this path, and with my hands cuffed, I'll navigate these rocks; and, if I'm strong and good and persistent, I will not slip off down the dune into the dark sea.
Laughter though... laughter bounces down this cliff to my side; it frolicks about me, taunts me. There is no laughter on this level path (laughter will not be obligated, or chained). All the laughter is from above, from the brooks in that sunny meadow, from the picnic baskets and the children's song. It's a hard climb, up that cliff, but the laughter navigates it so easily, and there are others there. A girl in bare feet, I saw her back a few miles; she climbed it -- a blonde girl in bare feet. I want to call to her, ask her to join me on this level path. With her company it could be more than bearable. Perhaps we could force laughter to join us. No, no. The delight in her face... the life in her eyes... she climbed this wall with bare feet -- and me with my shoes... I should climb it too. But she and I could be friends, her in the meadow, peering over the cliff, shouting to me on this path below. And I'll shout greetings back. It's not too far, we could be close, relatively. But she'd spend all her time with her back to the meadow, for me? No, no. I will not be so piteous. I will not chain her to me with my charm. So then, I will walk this rocky path alone. If I should fall? Who will lift me up? Well there's less risk of falling on this level path, than on that cliff. That cliff could kill me. But the meadow... she climbed it with bare feet. And what of those travelers on this path behind me? Should I say, this is the better road, don't risk that climb? There are sunny places where laughter may join us, though for a moment. They crane their necks, listening to the laughter from the orchards above us. No, I'll climb. The blonde girl with bare feet... the gardens where I can lay between the jasmine... the shepherd (I can hear his tenor soaring, like an albatross, out above the dark sea; it is mindful of the path below; it watches me).
I remember the shepherd from when I used to walk in that meadow, before I saw some wild cherries growing beside this level path. He was always laughing. This is his laughter around me now, floating around me like gnats. I would swat it away -- but I remember when it clothed me. Isaac, they almost called me, because laughter was my garment. Then I took this level path, for the sake of those cherries, and thus this sad burden I put on like a shirt -- and how! How should I climb that cliff to the meadow and to the shepherd and to that blonde girl with bare feet, how should I climb a cliff with this extra baggage? Who will hold this for me while I climb? And how would I lift it up this cliff to the meadow (there are no ropes up there). Those up there can't possibly expect me to leave my burden behind. This suffering is who I am! No one will pardon my mediocrity if they can't see this burden I carry. They will say to me, "What burden? What weight? Why should you be sad? You're as free as we are, and we are happy." Oh, happiness, cheerfulness, laughter... it's all too much work. Suffering is easier; it lets you off from the hard tasks. If you have a bad back, you don't have to help with the farming, or the warring, or with moving rocks to build a wall. People pity you when you're sick, and they leave you alone. They write you off, and they don't expect anything amazing out of you. You get to lay on the ground and moan. You may get muddy, but at least you don't have to think, or work, or help anyone, or create art, or prepare feasts. People will bring you the leftovers from their grand feasts and feed you in the mud. It's much better on this level path, with this burden... with this excuse. I'll not climb that cliff, because none of the others up there get to have any burdens. To be completely free and uninhibited, to have no excuse not to create masterpieces, not to write that epic novel, not to worship the numinous with stanzas... to even face the possibility of success and glory -- oh! it scares me. No, no. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I should possibly succeed. I'll carry this burden thank you; at least I know the weight of my fear -- and it's bearable, so long as I stay on this level path.
The sunny spot is not too far; I know there will be some joy on this path. When I have joy, even with this iron shirt on, then I WILL laugh. I will mock those on the burns and hills above. I will shout to them, "I did not toil up that cliff, and I did not sacrifice my burden, and I'm still happy." They will look at me and envy me, for I will be happy, and had an easier time of it too. I will turn my back to them and they will wish they had followed me. They will wish they had kept their burdens too. No, no. They will not even hear me. My shouts will be drowned by that dark sea whose waves crash beside this path. My taunts will be smothered by the laughter and the songs which are flowing over the edge of the cliff like a summer breeze.
They will not even see me to envy me. I will be invisible to them, to the shepherd, to the girl with bare feet. I can't stand to be invisible. I can't stand to not be heard; I hate to have to shout to be noticed. Up there they all have friends. All their imperfections are obvious, naked; and overlooked, covered. They are known, and still loved. They doff their iron shirts and take on linen. They dress for the constant seaside summer. They sing and laugh, drink fine wines with their fancy feasts. They never are alone. Even solitude is not lonesome, for it is voluntary -- it is play, like a child who enters an imaginary world for the car ride to a friend's.
I want to want to climb that cliff; I think I belong there. I miss the blonde girl and her eyes like the sea. I miss the Shepherd who always led me to sunny meadows. How will I tell my muddy hands and my wayward feet to turn and grip this cliff? I am afraid of heights, irrationally so, but still my palms will sweat and I may die. But perhaps death and failure are worth the risk -- for if I should fail, should catapult off that rock... I should die and then the Shepherd will come and carry me to the high places (for only in dying do I become useful). And now I remember his promise. I shall attain the heights, if I should turn my way to tackle this cliff. I will not need chalk, nor shoes, for the girl with bare feet began without shoes, and ended with feet like a mountain goat; this cliff will not frighten her again. I stand at these three roads, a gimp, unresolved, but knowing should I face this face, I'll find mine, and the Shepherd will ensure I reach the top, and he will call me Isaac again, and will give me a towel for my wounds, and will give me a linen shirt, which is light.
And I hear his words to Cain: thou mayest.
Now, to want, to want to climb. Oh, Jesus, friend, be my desire.
Laughter though... laughter bounces down this cliff to my side; it frolicks about me, taunts me. There is no laughter on this level path (laughter will not be obligated, or chained). All the laughter is from above, from the brooks in that sunny meadow, from the picnic baskets and the children's song. It's a hard climb, up that cliff, but the laughter navigates it so easily, and there are others there. A girl in bare feet, I saw her back a few miles; she climbed it -- a blonde girl in bare feet. I want to call to her, ask her to join me on this level path. With her company it could be more than bearable. Perhaps we could force laughter to join us. No, no. The delight in her face... the life in her eyes... she climbed this wall with bare feet -- and me with my shoes... I should climb it too. But she and I could be friends, her in the meadow, peering over the cliff, shouting to me on this path below. And I'll shout greetings back. It's not too far, we could be close, relatively. But she'd spend all her time with her back to the meadow, for me? No, no. I will not be so piteous. I will not chain her to me with my charm. So then, I will walk this rocky path alone. If I should fall? Who will lift me up? Well there's less risk of falling on this level path, than on that cliff. That cliff could kill me. But the meadow... she climbed it with bare feet. And what of those travelers on this path behind me? Should I say, this is the better road, don't risk that climb? There are sunny places where laughter may join us, though for a moment. They crane their necks, listening to the laughter from the orchards above us. No, I'll climb. The blonde girl with bare feet... the gardens where I can lay between the jasmine... the shepherd (I can hear his tenor soaring, like an albatross, out above the dark sea; it is mindful of the path below; it watches me).
I remember the shepherd from when I used to walk in that meadow, before I saw some wild cherries growing beside this level path. He was always laughing. This is his laughter around me now, floating around me like gnats. I would swat it away -- but I remember when it clothed me. Isaac, they almost called me, because laughter was my garment. Then I took this level path, for the sake of those cherries, and thus this sad burden I put on like a shirt -- and how! How should I climb that cliff to the meadow and to the shepherd and to that blonde girl with bare feet, how should I climb a cliff with this extra baggage? Who will hold this for me while I climb? And how would I lift it up this cliff to the meadow (there are no ropes up there). Those up there can't possibly expect me to leave my burden behind. This suffering is who I am! No one will pardon my mediocrity if they can't see this burden I carry. They will say to me, "What burden? What weight? Why should you be sad? You're as free as we are, and we are happy." Oh, happiness, cheerfulness, laughter... it's all too much work. Suffering is easier; it lets you off from the hard tasks. If you have a bad back, you don't have to help with the farming, or the warring, or with moving rocks to build a wall. People pity you when you're sick, and they leave you alone. They write you off, and they don't expect anything amazing out of you. You get to lay on the ground and moan. You may get muddy, but at least you don't have to think, or work, or help anyone, or create art, or prepare feasts. People will bring you the leftovers from their grand feasts and feed you in the mud. It's much better on this level path, with this burden... with this excuse. I'll not climb that cliff, because none of the others up there get to have any burdens. To be completely free and uninhibited, to have no excuse not to create masterpieces, not to write that epic novel, not to worship the numinous with stanzas... to even face the possibility of success and glory -- oh! it scares me. No, no. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I should possibly succeed. I'll carry this burden thank you; at least I know the weight of my fear -- and it's bearable, so long as I stay on this level path.
The sunny spot is not too far; I know there will be some joy on this path. When I have joy, even with this iron shirt on, then I WILL laugh. I will mock those on the burns and hills above. I will shout to them, "I did not toil up that cliff, and I did not sacrifice my burden, and I'm still happy." They will look at me and envy me, for I will be happy, and had an easier time of it too. I will turn my back to them and they will wish they had followed me. They will wish they had kept their burdens too. No, no. They will not even hear me. My shouts will be drowned by that dark sea whose waves crash beside this path. My taunts will be smothered by the laughter and the songs which are flowing over the edge of the cliff like a summer breeze.
They will not even see me to envy me. I will be invisible to them, to the shepherd, to the girl with bare feet. I can't stand to be invisible. I can't stand to not be heard; I hate to have to shout to be noticed. Up there they all have friends. All their imperfections are obvious, naked; and overlooked, covered. They are known, and still loved. They doff their iron shirts and take on linen. They dress for the constant seaside summer. They sing and laugh, drink fine wines with their fancy feasts. They never are alone. Even solitude is not lonesome, for it is voluntary -- it is play, like a child who enters an imaginary world for the car ride to a friend's.
I want to want to climb that cliff; I think I belong there. I miss the blonde girl and her eyes like the sea. I miss the Shepherd who always led me to sunny meadows. How will I tell my muddy hands and my wayward feet to turn and grip this cliff? I am afraid of heights, irrationally so, but still my palms will sweat and I may die. But perhaps death and failure are worth the risk -- for if I should fail, should catapult off that rock... I should die and then the Shepherd will come and carry me to the high places (for only in dying do I become useful). And now I remember his promise. I shall attain the heights, if I should turn my way to tackle this cliff. I will not need chalk, nor shoes, for the girl with bare feet began without shoes, and ended with feet like a mountain goat; this cliff will not frighten her again. I stand at these three roads, a gimp, unresolved, but knowing should I face this face, I'll find mine, and the Shepherd will ensure I reach the top, and he will call me Isaac again, and will give me a towel for my wounds, and will give me a linen shirt, which is light.
And I hear his words to Cain: thou mayest.
Now, to want, to want to climb. Oh, Jesus, friend, be my desire.
June 19, 2006
why dreaming sucks
Snugly tucked in down, he toodles round the town. His dream is shining bright, full of green and sunlight. It's a canvas of a happy painter, with ducks on the shore of a crystal lake, laughing babies in perambulators, kites soaring on the breeze, and vast swaths of grass checkered by picnic blankets and wicker baskets. He sees himself on a bench, the only comfortable park bench he's ever sat in, and his arm around a certain girl. Her hair is golden in the sun, and she is his delight.
The paint begins to run, in drips and smears, racing pel-mel down the happy painter's canvas. Tucked snugly in, he begins to sweat; now he's hiding round the town from flying sinks like battleships in the sky. They're raining sludge in the crystal lake -- solid strings of sewage preserved like fossils in glass. Flooded baby perambulators are sticking in the mud and all the picnic blankets are stained dark and deserted, like a back alley chessboard champ kicked over in defeat. There is no breeze. His bench is empty. He runs with one arm out to his side, wrapped around his memory of her, like gauze around a mummy, of what his dreams were to be.
The paint begins to run, in drips and smears, racing pel-mel down the happy painter's canvas. Tucked snugly in, he begins to sweat; now he's hiding round the town from flying sinks like battleships in the sky. They're raining sludge in the crystal lake -- solid strings of sewage preserved like fossils in glass. Flooded baby perambulators are sticking in the mud and all the picnic blankets are stained dark and deserted, like a back alley chessboard champ kicked over in defeat. There is no breeze. His bench is empty. He runs with one arm out to his side, wrapped around his memory of her, like gauze around a mummy, of what his dreams were to be.
June 13, 2006
Aloe Avoidance Addictions
There's this aloe vera plant, quite a large one actually, just outside the door to my room. It sits on top of a bookshelf about eye level, and its branches grow all over the place like a slow-motion monster. One branch, an especially long branch, is growing horizontal. At eye level. Just outside my door. The first few times I left my room I nearly poked my eyes out. Now I'm used to it. Every time I leave my room I dodge my head to the left and escape unassailed. I no longer think or consider the branch. My head just sort of jerks left and then rights itself. I wonder now if this is how addictions form. We repeatedly do the same thing to the point that we no longer think while doing it. If the aloe vera plant is moved, I have a feeling my head will still snap left and then right. Isn't that like addiction? The original reason is gone, and yet we go through the motions as if it were still somehow propelling us.
So if the Aloe Plant is moved... and I still go through the motions of avoiding it... how do I form a new habit that doesn't involve the aloe branch? Just sheer willpower and always being aware of what I'm doing when I leave my room? How can I make sure I'm never preoccupied? Never too tired to care? Perhaps I need a new reason to keep my head still... something on the other side so I won't lean left. Something painful? A new aloe plant? Or perhaps something to look ahead towards, to keep my head focused -- a painting at the end of the hall? I like that idea better.
Now, for the aloe plants in my life, once I've moved them, with what do I fill their void? As MacDonald wrote, "Only good where evil was, is evil dead." What good can I place before me upon which to fix my eyes, so I won't lean left for reasons I no longer see?
So if the Aloe Plant is moved... and I still go through the motions of avoiding it... how do I form a new habit that doesn't involve the aloe branch? Just sheer willpower and always being aware of what I'm doing when I leave my room? How can I make sure I'm never preoccupied? Never too tired to care? Perhaps I need a new reason to keep my head still... something on the other side so I won't lean left. Something painful? A new aloe plant? Or perhaps something to look ahead towards, to keep my head focused -- a painting at the end of the hall? I like that idea better.
Now, for the aloe plants in my life, once I've moved them, with what do I fill their void? As MacDonald wrote, "Only good where evil was, is evil dead." What good can I place before me upon which to fix my eyes, so I won't lean left for reasons I no longer see?
June rains inspire haikus
Some Haiku I wrote this morning, while chatting with Amber. They're not all technically Haiku. I wasn't counting my morae. It's a neat form though. I used to hate it for it's restrictions, but it's really beautiful when done right (read some real Japanese Haiku). Also it's kind of nice that you only get 17 morae. That means you won't have to come up with many words. Or be loquacious. As I'm doing right now. Anyway, cheers!
---------
Summer has come
large toads follow
crossing roads
[ Added later. I think this is better. But then again, no one likes my edits :P
Summer has come
large toads cross
rainy roads
]
Sea in spring
happy water levels rising
float boats
June rains
all over Japan and Covington
and on me
May flowers
were early because now
June showers
June rains
but I'm warm inside
by the fire
June rains
but I'm very cozy here
with Rosy
Haiku rhymes
are frowned upon sometimes
nickles and dimes
Rainy season
makes the leaves drip on me
and I leave
Moon viewing
is very nice and fun in June
though impossible
Shining leaves
covered in shiny rain clothes
ogres in gowns
---------
Summer has come
large toads follow
crossing roads
[ Added later. I think this is better. But then again, no one likes my edits :P
Summer has come
large toads cross
rainy roads
]
Sea in spring
happy water levels rising
float boats
June rains
all over Japan and Covington
and on me
May flowers
were early because now
June showers
June rains
but I'm warm inside
by the fire
June rains
but I'm very cozy here
with Rosy
Haiku rhymes
are frowned upon sometimes
nickles and dimes
Rainy season
makes the leaves drip on me
and I leave
Moon viewing
is very nice and fun in June
though impossible
Shining leaves
covered in shiny rain clothes
ogres in gowns
June 9, 2006
Build bridges on borders, not walls
I'm reading in the papers that Congress is debating passing a bill stating that English is the "offical langauge" of the United States. I'm reading in the papers that a Seattle area restaurant has instated a policy that requires all meals to be ordered in English. I'm hearing my Grandmother state that she doesn't mind if people speak their own language at home or in private, but at the grocery store or at the bank they had better speak English, because this is America, and in America we speak English. When did we stop being a land of immigrants and become a land with only one culture? What makes us think our langauge or culture is somehow better than any other? Why should someone who comes to our country be required to speak "our" language? What is "our" langauge anyway? The majority of our citizens speak english, but only a simple majority. The number of spanish speakers is growing. There are thousands of other languages spoken here. Each of us knows someone who speaks another language fluently, or should.
Any of us who has attempted to learn a second language knows how difficult it is. So, why should any of us expect another to learn english before immigrating to our country? How can we expect a Chinese family fleeing religious persecution (for this is the principle we avow gave rise to our country), how can we expect them to bother learning a new language when they are in risk of losing their lives? If this is our requirement for immigration, or for citizenship, or even to buy groceries, how can we expect anyone to want to immigrate to our land?
Or is that the intent: to stop immigration, especially from Mexico and from the middle east? If we impose intense language rules, will we not keep out the illegal immigrants and the terrorists we so despise? Perhaps, but it's doutbful. The illegals are already risking their lives, and the terrorists will learn the language. However, we will punish the Indians, the Chinese, the Eastern Europeans, the Sudanese who arrive on our shores in hopes of prosperity, of freedom of thought, of a new chance, of freedom from oppression and violence. By building political walls against our "enemies" (and not all Mexicans or Middle Easterns are enemies), we also inhibit our friends. By damming the rivers we stop the salmon. And these friends are our greatest admirers. When I stand in awe of the prejudice of Americans, and lose my hope for a peaceful nation, I remind myself of this land's virtues by considering the immigrant. They come here because they hope for our way of life -- free to think, to speak, to prosper, to pursue happiness. They flatter us by their persistence in crossing our borders. They admire us, and then, sadly they become us. A hundred years after the Irish immigration, and four hundred years after the English colonized, we are all Irish, all English. Those Anglos who built America are so watered down now, that they consider themselves indigenous, and forget that others were here first. We forget that we were forbeared with long enough to send roots into this ground and establish ourselves; we converted from immigrants to Americans. During our transition we spoke our own languages, practiced our own traditions. And now we mock those immigrants who speak their own langauges and follow their own customs, as if we ourselves have never been different, never needed acceptance by an preceding culture. Those immigrants we oppress daily -- by noticing their robes, by stereotyping their turbans, by asking them to speak "our" language -- they will be like us someday, turning to oppress the next flood of immigrants who would flatter them. They will become Americans and then they will become snobs, like us.
Why do we attempt to make them into us? We tell them "become like us, or don't come." What high opinion of ourselves do we hold that convinces us they should be like us? On second thought, I'm not so sure we think so highly of ourselves. I think we're worried they have a better way and we will all adapt to be like them. I think really we're afraid we'll change, or our beloved country will change. Then what will be of our old country tis of thee? What will it be like? I don't know, but I can assure you, if we welcome the immigrants and welcome their languages and their diversity and their wisdom, we will be better for it. We as people will improve, and likewise our nation will improve. When the parts are better, the whole is better.
We should not, and cannot, ask immigrants to change to be like us, to speak our language. It is like how the whites belittled (and still belittle) the blacks and the asians for their differences. Asking a Mexican man to learn english so he'll be like the majority is a bit like asking a black woman to become white so she'll be like the majority. If we're asking them to learn english so they'll succeed, that is empowering. But if we pass a policy or bill that REQUIRES one to speak English, we show preference for one language, culture, and identity over others, and therefore oppress. This is the race problem with a new face. None of us would think today of judging a person based on their skin color, so why will we judge (and even legislate against) a person based on their language? Are not race and language a gift from one's parents? Do we choose our first language, or our skin color? Then how can we be punished for that which is not by our volition?
Our preference for our language over all others is unhealthy, it is oppressive, it is anti-social and it must stop. There is a principle in the Starbucks mission statement that expresses the desire to "embrace diversity." I like this because it does not hope that we might "tolerate" diversity, or be patient with it while it adapts to be like us, but rather it gives the image of hugging those who are different and finding ways to combine our strengths so that all langauges and all creeds and all colors might be considered American and might consider "American" something we want to be. And I think in the chaos that results from so many differences, from the absence of a homogenous face, from the teeming, huddled masses, we will see arising an America that is not afraid of change, not afraid of other cultures; we will see an America that is matured, and wiser, and willing to understand and accept people that are not white and english. This America will befriend the cultures it will no longer fear, and we may see an America that can support Muslim nations, and that can champion the efforts of so many Mexicans who cross our southern borders for the good of their families. We will thus befriend our enemies, and make them family. By this change and only by this befriending can we ensure America maintains its way of life and its identity: a land of immigrants who are free.
Any of us who has attempted to learn a second language knows how difficult it is. So, why should any of us expect another to learn english before immigrating to our country? How can we expect a Chinese family fleeing religious persecution (for this is the principle we avow gave rise to our country), how can we expect them to bother learning a new language when they are in risk of losing their lives? If this is our requirement for immigration, or for citizenship, or even to buy groceries, how can we expect anyone to want to immigrate to our land?
Or is that the intent: to stop immigration, especially from Mexico and from the middle east? If we impose intense language rules, will we not keep out the illegal immigrants and the terrorists we so despise? Perhaps, but it's doutbful. The illegals are already risking their lives, and the terrorists will learn the language. However, we will punish the Indians, the Chinese, the Eastern Europeans, the Sudanese who arrive on our shores in hopes of prosperity, of freedom of thought, of a new chance, of freedom from oppression and violence. By building political walls against our "enemies" (and not all Mexicans or Middle Easterns are enemies), we also inhibit our friends. By damming the rivers we stop the salmon. And these friends are our greatest admirers. When I stand in awe of the prejudice of Americans, and lose my hope for a peaceful nation, I remind myself of this land's virtues by considering the immigrant. They come here because they hope for our way of life -- free to think, to speak, to prosper, to pursue happiness. They flatter us by their persistence in crossing our borders. They admire us, and then, sadly they become us. A hundred years after the Irish immigration, and four hundred years after the English colonized, we are all Irish, all English. Those Anglos who built America are so watered down now, that they consider themselves indigenous, and forget that others were here first. We forget that we were forbeared with long enough to send roots into this ground and establish ourselves; we converted from immigrants to Americans. During our transition we spoke our own languages, practiced our own traditions. And now we mock those immigrants who speak their own langauges and follow their own customs, as if we ourselves have never been different, never needed acceptance by an preceding culture. Those immigrants we oppress daily -- by noticing their robes, by stereotyping their turbans, by asking them to speak "our" language -- they will be like us someday, turning to oppress the next flood of immigrants who would flatter them. They will become Americans and then they will become snobs, like us.
Why do we attempt to make them into us? We tell them "become like us, or don't come." What high opinion of ourselves do we hold that convinces us they should be like us? On second thought, I'm not so sure we think so highly of ourselves. I think we're worried they have a better way and we will all adapt to be like them. I think really we're afraid we'll change, or our beloved country will change. Then what will be of our old country tis of thee? What will it be like? I don't know, but I can assure you, if we welcome the immigrants and welcome their languages and their diversity and their wisdom, we will be better for it. We as people will improve, and likewise our nation will improve. When the parts are better, the whole is better.
We should not, and cannot, ask immigrants to change to be like us, to speak our language. It is like how the whites belittled (and still belittle) the blacks and the asians for their differences. Asking a Mexican man to learn english so he'll be like the majority is a bit like asking a black woman to become white so she'll be like the majority. If we're asking them to learn english so they'll succeed, that is empowering. But if we pass a policy or bill that REQUIRES one to speak English, we show preference for one language, culture, and identity over others, and therefore oppress. This is the race problem with a new face. None of us would think today of judging a person based on their skin color, so why will we judge (and even legislate against) a person based on their language? Are not race and language a gift from one's parents? Do we choose our first language, or our skin color? Then how can we be punished for that which is not by our volition?
Our preference for our language over all others is unhealthy, it is oppressive, it is anti-social and it must stop. There is a principle in the Starbucks mission statement that expresses the desire to "embrace diversity." I like this because it does not hope that we might "tolerate" diversity, or be patient with it while it adapts to be like us, but rather it gives the image of hugging those who are different and finding ways to combine our strengths so that all langauges and all creeds and all colors might be considered American and might consider "American" something we want to be. And I think in the chaos that results from so many differences, from the absence of a homogenous face, from the teeming, huddled masses, we will see arising an America that is not afraid of change, not afraid of other cultures; we will see an America that is matured, and wiser, and willing to understand and accept people that are not white and english. This America will befriend the cultures it will no longer fear, and we may see an America that can support Muslim nations, and that can champion the efforts of so many Mexicans who cross our southern borders for the good of their families. We will thus befriend our enemies, and make them family. By this change and only by this befriending can we ensure America maintains its way of life and its identity: a land of immigrants who are free.
June 5, 2006
must we beach our coracles no more, redux
I rewrote this a bit differently. Let me know which way you like better. Just an experiment with words.
1.) "He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, on the other side of the glass, there was Pooh, passing between two parked cars. And now Pan, hands on his hips two stories above the street, looking for an open window. Snoopy tore past with Linus' blanket and Toad bowled through traffic in a Jalopy. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked away, watching the leaves float about in his tea, wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
2.) "He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the letters, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, Pan, hands on his hips, looking for an open window. Just there, dodging the pedestrians, the families on a walk, the children with their eyes wide and adults with their shopping bags, there was Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic, Toad, in a jalopy, horn blaring and dusty goggled face howling with laughter as he wrecked car after car. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself. He caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
OR #3?
3.) "He studied the letters on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the paint, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, hands on his hips, Pan, looking for an open window. Just there, flying down the sidewalk, Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic in a jalopy, Toad. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself, caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
1.) "He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, on the other side of the glass, there was Pooh, passing between two parked cars. And now Pan, hands on his hips two stories above the street, looking for an open window. Snoopy tore past with Linus' blanket and Toad bowled through traffic in a Jalopy. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked away, watching the leaves float about in his tea, wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
2.) "He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the letters, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, Pan, hands on his hips, looking for an open window. Just there, dodging the pedestrians, the families on a walk, the children with their eyes wide and adults with their shopping bags, there was Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic, Toad, in a jalopy, horn blaring and dusty goggled face howling with laughter as he wrecked car after car. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself. He caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
OR #3?
3.) "He studied the letters on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the paint, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, hands on his hips, Pan, looking for an open window. Just there, flying down the sidewalk, Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic in a jalopy, Toad. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself, caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
one must learn, even from bad movies
Titanic was in theatres for twelve months. During that time 128,000,000 American's paid to see it. It grossed 600 million dollars... 50 million dollars a month. After rentals it's made almost $1 billion dollars ($924.5M to be exact).
Most of the people I know now didn't see it in theatres, but I remember a lot of the girls
I knew then did -- multiple times. There were all kinds of jokes and comics (FoxTrot especially) that mocked how many girls saw Titanic repeatedly. I remember my friends loved bragging about how much they sobbed in that oh so cliche scene when Jack and Rose part. They quoted those lines, "I'll never let go Jack," with gravity and that... song... was a part of my daily social life.
But let's be honest: it's not that good. The plot is star-crossed-lovers at its basest (rich girl falls for the wild boy); the dialogue is predictable; the graphics aren't convincing; the acting is forced and the even the climaxes don't hold my attention. So why did 128 million people see it in just one year? And why did all the girls go again and again and again? With what did they identify so deeply? The kitchsky romantic lines? The contrived love affair? Nah, I have a better opinion of all those girls.
I think they identified with something way better than Rose and Jack's romance. I don't think they cared about that much at all. I think what the girls identified with was Rose's lifelong devotion to Jack. Even in her last years, she remembers him, and has kept him dear to her. She still loves him, 80 years later. I think the girls I knew, and those I know now, want to be that devoted to something.
I'm realizing girls are prone to devotion. It's one of their strongest qualities. It's the reason they can focus their entire lifetimes on nurturing their families, raising their children and supporting their husbands. It also makes them incredible humanitarians and wonderful teachers. They thrive in customer oriented businesses and in the church they are the truest worshippers. They are devoted to their God, their friends, the men in their lives and their children. On the other hand they can be stubborn about sticking with guys who are abusive, or just deadbeats. They are sometimes incredibly faithful to lost causes and bad ideologies. Still though, I think God really appreciates devotion, especially since devotion is basically the english word for holiness. When a person devotes themselves to something they set apart themselves for that thing and are faithful to it and focus their energies upon it. All of them is committed to that one object or cause. Of course, a thing is not good or bad in itself, but in how it is used. So, from what I've seen, girls are also wise and choose good things upon which to focus their hearts. I think this is one of my favorite parts about girls, and I see this in Amber, that when she makes up her mind, she is faithful to her choice, and devotes herself to whatever or whoever is in front of her at the moment. I want to learn that sort of devotion: I'm sure it pleases Jesus.
Most of the people I know now didn't see it in theatres, but I remember a lot of the girls
I knew then did -- multiple times. There were all kinds of jokes and comics (FoxTrot especially) that mocked how many girls saw Titanic repeatedly. I remember my friends loved bragging about how much they sobbed in that oh so cliche scene when Jack and Rose part. They quoted those lines, "I'll never let go Jack," with gravity and that... song... was a part of my daily social life.
But let's be honest: it's not that good. The plot is star-crossed-lovers at its basest (rich girl falls for the wild boy); the dialogue is predictable; the graphics aren't convincing; the acting is forced and the even the climaxes don't hold my attention. So why did 128 million people see it in just one year? And why did all the girls go again and again and again? With what did they identify so deeply? The kitchsky romantic lines? The contrived love affair? Nah, I have a better opinion of all those girls.
I think they identified with something way better than Rose and Jack's romance. I don't think they cared about that much at all. I think what the girls identified with was Rose's lifelong devotion to Jack. Even in her last years, she remembers him, and has kept him dear to her. She still loves him, 80 years later. I think the girls I knew, and those I know now, want to be that devoted to something.
I'm realizing girls are prone to devotion. It's one of their strongest qualities. It's the reason they can focus their entire lifetimes on nurturing their families, raising their children and supporting their husbands. It also makes them incredible humanitarians and wonderful teachers. They thrive in customer oriented businesses and in the church they are the truest worshippers. They are devoted to their God, their friends, the men in their lives and their children. On the other hand they can be stubborn about sticking with guys who are abusive, or just deadbeats. They are sometimes incredibly faithful to lost causes and bad ideologies. Still though, I think God really appreciates devotion, especially since devotion is basically the english word for holiness. When a person devotes themselves to something they set apart themselves for that thing and are faithful to it and focus their energies upon it. All of them is committed to that one object or cause. Of course, a thing is not good or bad in itself, but in how it is used. So, from what I've seen, girls are also wise and choose good things upon which to focus their hearts. I think this is one of my favorite parts about girls, and I see this in Amber, that when she makes up her mind, she is faithful to her choice, and devotes herself to whatever or whoever is in front of her at the moment. I want to learn that sort of devotion: I'm sure it pleases Jesus.
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