www.sixminutestory.com
It's new. It's in beta. I need you to play with it so I can see what's wrong with it and fix it.
It's a creation of epic proportions (ie. 1 sporadic year in the making from conception to beta).
Let me know what you think. Use it for fun or out of duty to me. Send me ideas for new stories.
www.sixminutestory.com
September 1, 2006
These seperate sundressed paths
My ideal life stands outside the baggage claim at Sea Tac airport. Two bags, make that four, a smile -- reality gets checked into a coat closet and waits to be picked up again on the day we part. Eight dollar cigars, Johnny Cash and dissecting rastafarianism (and feeling rather ras tafar as we do), driving fast, past three hundred miles of street signs, an empty apartment and no plans awaiting us.
It's not that we're oblivious or in denial. We're quite aware we're both broke. But we're always broke. It just doesn't affect us like it affects other people. Our italian bread and cheese, our six dollar wine, sleeping on white sand beaches -- we've learned to live like kings. We may not have much money, but we have imagination, and where you'd bring your expensive wine, we bring exuberance and optimism and incorrigibility. You can't buy us off, because money never made us happy. We make us happy.
It's not that we're oblivious or in denial. We're quite aware we're both broke. But we're always broke. It just doesn't affect us like it affects other people. Our italian bread and cheese, our six dollar wine, sleeping on white sand beaches -- we've learned to live like kings. We may not have much money, but we have imagination, and where you'd bring your expensive wine, we bring exuberance and optimism and incorrigibility. You can't buy us off, because money never made us happy. We make us happy.
August 7, 2006
galen, continued
I've upped my doses of chamomile tea, and I think it's helping. I open my mouth to scream, but I can't ever. All I hear is a growl, like a wolf choked by a leash. I talk to myself at Starbucks, and other partners listen in and they interrupt my personal conversations. I've resorted to covering Julie Andrews songs, from the Sound of Music and Mary Poppins. Also the Beatles and a little Bob Marley. When I'm especially high on caffeine, I'll make up my own rhymes -- out loud and on the fly. I try to engage customers. I don't even look at them. I wake up from Africa and realize their double tall latte, however much they desire it, is insignificant. My job as a barista is not to make coffee; my job is to validate people. When you order a drink and I say "yes," I've given you control of my life. You are a higher human being because I've sold my time to you for three fifty four.
It's eighty degrees in my room. There's a court date tomorrow. I'll be back in court for Jury duty soon. Whitworth withdrew some of their financial aid. I don't know where I'm going to live in Spokane.
I'm twenty one and I want to smoke my pipe. I'm twenty one and fearless (I have nearly nothing to lose). I'm twenty one and I never answer my cell phone. I'm twenty one and I'm just that much closer. I need to go. My days are running together.
It's eighty degrees in my room. There's a court date tomorrow. I'll be back in court for Jury duty soon. Whitworth withdrew some of their financial aid. I don't know where I'm going to live in Spokane.
I'm twenty one and I want to smoke my pipe. I'm twenty one and fearless (I have nearly nothing to lose). I'm twenty one and I never answer my cell phone. I'm twenty one and I'm just that much closer. I need to go. My days are running together.
July 13, 2006
ascetism vs usefulness
Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something. - Henry David Thoreau
July 11, 2006
fly you seabird, but remember, everywhere is a place to land
My moods change like the sea, and maybe this storm will rain. There's a place in summer, I can never find. It's the edge of the rain. Leprechauns search for the end of rainbows; I search for the edge of the rain. I want to sail on the knifes edge, with lightning on one side of the mast, and sunshine on the other. I want to see the first drops of rain, to find the edge of the storm. I want to lay my nets along that edge. I want to catch the storm in a net, and tame it. Give it treats when it's good. Pat it on the head. And only let it out when I'm not busy, and have time to throw sticks for it. I want to drag it along behind my boat. I'll unleash it on ports that wont let me anchor. I'll unleash it on bigger boats that laugh at me. I'll turn it loose right above me, and I'll challenge it, and ask it questions and taunt it; I'll tell it I've tamed it. It can do its worst -- I'm impervious. I have my poncho on. My boat was made for the sea, and I was too. My moods are worse than the storm, and I'll scream and that storm will cower in its net. It will be afraid of me. But I'll be nice to it. I'm not bitter about the storm. It's a storm, so it has to rain and thunder all the time, or it wouldn't be a storm anymore. I'm just tired of how long it's lasted, tired of not seeing land, tired of there being no one else out here, on this open sea, no one else chasing the edge of the rain with me.
maybe this storm will rain
Mom's going back to the hospital. Random. I'm thinking about the dolphins I saw on Flipper. They headbutted sharks. I always liked their silver bodies wooshing in clear water, their pointy noses blamming into shark bellies, and those gray hammerheads bleeding next to blue and yellow fish.
I like the way dolphins are always laughing. Smartest animals on earth.
I'm wishing I had an $800 sailboat and enough confidence to sail to warmer waters, to see the dolphins killing sharks.
Who do I tell this to?
PS. It's not that I hate sharks for being sharks. If they didn't do sharkish things, they wouldn't be sharks at all and no one wants to lose their identity. I don't blame them. What I hate is that you can't tackle a shark. You can't use kung fu. It has the advantage, every time. Sharks always surprise you and then you're fighting just to stay alive. They're like a disease that way.
I'd hate to be a lifeguard -- it'd be like being a doctor, but on a beach. Some sunny day, "Ah yes, I'm sorry sir, but there's a shark right behind you. You have six minutes to live, with a 7% chance of survival. There's nothing you can do to defend yourself. We'll wring our hands for you, and maybe say a prayer before that monster drags you down into the gray sea." And then they'll rub some tanning oil on their chest and they'll take off their white coats and they'll climb into their Mercedes and drive out of that parking garage and leave her behind; they'll leave her behind for those sharks, those hungry sharks. And all the time I'm swimming against the waves, knowing I have no hope to save her, I'll feel the sun on my back and I'll think it's ironic that the sun should shine on such a stormy day.
I like the way dolphins are always laughing. Smartest animals on earth.
I'm wishing I had an $800 sailboat and enough confidence to sail to warmer waters, to see the dolphins killing sharks.
Who do I tell this to?
PS. It's not that I hate sharks for being sharks. If they didn't do sharkish things, they wouldn't be sharks at all and no one wants to lose their identity. I don't blame them. What I hate is that you can't tackle a shark. You can't use kung fu. It has the advantage, every time. Sharks always surprise you and then you're fighting just to stay alive. They're like a disease that way.
I'd hate to be a lifeguard -- it'd be like being a doctor, but on a beach. Some sunny day, "Ah yes, I'm sorry sir, but there's a shark right behind you. You have six minutes to live, with a 7% chance of survival. There's nothing you can do to defend yourself. We'll wring our hands for you, and maybe say a prayer before that monster drags you down into the gray sea." And then they'll rub some tanning oil on their chest and they'll take off their white coats and they'll climb into their Mercedes and drive out of that parking garage and leave her behind; they'll leave her behind for those sharks, those hungry sharks. And all the time I'm swimming against the waves, knowing I have no hope to save her, I'll feel the sun on my back and I'll think it's ironic that the sun should shine on such a stormy day.
July 2, 2006
The Marks that Name Us
In a diner. Steaming cups of coffee and a waitress who chews gum. Stereotypical like that, you know, with a jukebox and all. A guy and a girl at a table, watching an unshaven man at the bar. The two are talking in hushed tones, and of course, like the movies, no one finds their collusion at all suspicious. "Do you see his hand? The mark. See it?"
The guy looks, "Yeah I see it. The bear?"
"Everyone says it's a goat."
"It looks like a bear to me."
"But what if it is a goat?"
She thinks a bit, and then, "Do you think he's in a cult?"
He looks at her with one of those looks that judges her for judging people. Ironic, and the realization flashes behind his eyes. He blinks, hides it. She notices the flash, but hides that she saw. They're two people who are friends, who lie to each other with their eyes.
Her eyes are blue. Aren't they always? His are a deep brown, but not inscrutible brown. His eyes are his enemy: they tell all kinds of secrets about him. She knows, and uses it against him. And has for the three months they've been friends.
But this isn't about them. The mark on his hand does look like a bear. Or a goat. Depending on the current conspiracy. Black cats are plentiful in this town, and just yesterday the waitress with the gum found her vanity mirror broken in her purse. She cut her finger on the shards and said "Damn" and blew a bubble. She sees the mark on his hand too.
He pays his tab, with a twenty, puts his hand in his pocket and leaves. Everyone watches him go. They all notice that he's hiding his hand.
"He always walks with his hand in his pocket!"
"Yeah? So do I. Leave him alone. Everyone in this town freaks out when a new person comes. He's probably messed up just like the rest of us."
"But the cats?"
"It's summer so all the kittens are coming out. They've always been here anyway; just everyone's noticing now, now that he's here."
"Ok but everyone knows he talks to Ellen."
"Probably because she's the only person who will talk to him without sounding scared."
"Ok but Pastor said he came into town when her husband was killed."
"Oh, so now he's her husband reincarnated? You don't actually think people come back from the dead do you? Are you Hindu now?"
"NO!" -- and here she looks around ashamed at his coarse joke -- "But Pastor says the dark arts can do things like that."
"Yes, and Jesus did things like that too."
"That's sacreligious."
"So is judging people."
"Oh shuttup, like you're any different. Have you talked to him?"
"No. But I'm inviting him to go climbing on Thursday."
"Ooooh so he can show his hand to everyone at the gym? Or so you can drop him when he starts trying to convert you to witchcraft."
"HE'S NOT" -- he says the next part quieter -- "a witch."
"I don't know. I think you're being stupid. He does talk to Ellen a lot."
"I'm not really worried about it."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"You don't even like climbing."
"But I could protect you if he tries to cast a spell."
He starts laughing and between gufaws -- and she looks hurt by the laughter -- he manages to spit out: "What, are you going to quote John 3:16 at him? Or are you planning on shouting -- he says this in a evangelistic tone -- "in the NAME of JESUS."
She's mad, and everyone's looking at them. She's red like a cartoon, and she's holding something back. Her head is like a balloon about to explode at her mouth. But he stops laughing in time.
"Sorry. I know Jesus is powerful, but I just don't think Jesus plans on doing whatever you want him to."
"Pastor says whatever we ask in faith will be ours if we just believe."
"Which is why your mom is still sick..."
"Pastor says I just need to keep having faith, and she'll be healed."
"What if he wants her to die?"
"She won't. The whole church is praying."
"Are they? Because they always tell me they're praying for me, and I still can't walk."
"You just need to have faith."
He looks annoyed, and lashes back, "Yeah, and maybe I just need to get up in front of church and whine like your dad does every Sunday."
She gives him this self-pitying look, sort of like nurses give to their patients, as if they will "forgive that insult, because you're sick and you need me."
"I'm not a little kid. You think my accident means I need you."
She smiles at him sweetly. She's counting her money. She puts a few bills on the table with some coins and pulls his wheelchair away from the table. She still has that nurse-look and he's peeved at it. He wheels himself through the door and bumps down the steps to the street.
Their breath freezes like thoughts in a comic strip. He's still wheeling himself and she's pretending to push. If anyone sees them they'll pity him and applaud her.
-----------
At a climbing gym. He's in a wheelchair, and he's belaying a teenager on the wall. He doesn't look at all angry that he can't climb anymore. He has peace in his eyes. The guy with the mark on his hand stands next to him. He's laughing nervously. "I think I should start on an easy one -- Just to warm up.
"Yeah, that's what I used to do. I'll get you up on the wall as soon as David is done."
"Ok. So you just use your legs to go up, and your hands are just to hold you there?" He pantomimes as if he's climbing a wall, like he knows what he's doing.
A couple of the staff watch from a distance as the guy with the mark ropes in. They talk quietly as if they expect him to fly to the top of the wall. The guy in the wheelchair is watching them and thinking, "If he could fly, why would he rope in?"
----------
"How was climbing with the witch boy?"
"He's not a witch."
"Why's he hide the mark on his hand then?"
"Probably because everyone judges him based on the mark before they get to know him."
"Did he try to convert you?"
"No, turns out he's a normal guy though."
"Mike said he practically flew up the wall" -- she snickers.
"Yea, turns out he ran track in high school. He's built for climbing. He's really strong."
"Oh did you think he was cute?"
He throws her a look and it occurs to him that he doesn't like being around her. "It's those damn blue eyes," he's thinking.
"He's coming over tonight. Come over for dinner."
"Shouldn't you two have some time alone?"
"Oh please. My parents are cooking and everything. David's coming too."
"My parent's didn't like that you took him climbing."
"Your parents don't like me anyway."
"Yes they do! They're always asking when you're going to come over."
"You never invite me."
"You're always too busy. And when you're free you're hanging out with witches."
"He's NOT --"
"I'm talking about Ellen. Chris told me he saw you and her at coffee."
"Does that make you jealous?" -- he's testing the waters.
"No" -- he's shot down -- "I just find it weird that you hang out with Ellen when everyone knows she's a Wiccan."
"Her mom was Wiccan, but she doesn't practice."
"You realize that she has a generational curse on her. Your children will have rashes on them if you marry her."
"Ok, but she has a choice. And she chose not to practice Wiccan, so there's no curse on her."
"Is that why everyone likes her so much?" -- she's being semi-sarcastic here. The thing about Ellen is she's hilarious, so people love to be around her, even though they worry the whole time that someone will see them. Ellen has no real friends, and people avoid her in public. Some say she carries a curse that repulses people, even though everyone knows she's popular.
"Would it bother you to know that I was at her house last night? With Micah."
"What!? Who's Micah?"
"Micah is his name. Funny that you knew he was a witch but didn't know his name."
"What were you doing there?"
"We were playing cards and drinking tea."
"Just tea?"
"Yes. Just tea. Ellen showed me her horses. Did you know she's been riding since she could walk?"
"Riding brooms?"
"What is your problem? You talk bad about her, but she only says good things about you. Who's the sinner now?"
"What good things does she say about me?"
"She says you're really loyal to your church, and that you have a servant's heart."
"How would she know?"
"Apparently she's psychic."
"Probably."
"No, ok you know what, let me tell you what she told me last night. Ellen and I got talking about her mom's Wiccan. Turns out Ellen doesn't have anything to do with it, and gets into spiritual warfare all the time with her mom. Yea, like 'in Jesus' name' spiritual warfare. Turns out Ellen knows Jesus. But she doesn't go to church because people at church always make her really uncomfortable. People like you. Why don't you give someone a chance before you blow them off."
"She's not a Christian if she's given up meeting with believers. Paul made it clear that we have to love each other or else no one will know we're Christians."
"You're unbelievable. You're soo... blind. You can see Micah's mark, but you can't see how uncomfortable you make him by staring at it. You can hear about Ellen's mom, but you can't hear the lonliness in Ellen's voice. You don't even care do you? You just want to be a Christian so you can go to heaven. Do you even want to know Jesus? Some people do. And most of them don't go to church."
He has a funny look on his face.
"What?" she asks.
"I just realized I was asking myself the same question."
The guy looks, "Yeah I see it. The bear?"
"Everyone says it's a goat."
"It looks like a bear to me."
"But what if it is a goat?"
She thinks a bit, and then, "Do you think he's in a cult?"
He looks at her with one of those looks that judges her for judging people. Ironic, and the realization flashes behind his eyes. He blinks, hides it. She notices the flash, but hides that she saw. They're two people who are friends, who lie to each other with their eyes.
Her eyes are blue. Aren't they always? His are a deep brown, but not inscrutible brown. His eyes are his enemy: they tell all kinds of secrets about him. She knows, and uses it against him. And has for the three months they've been friends.
But this isn't about them. The mark on his hand does look like a bear. Or a goat. Depending on the current conspiracy. Black cats are plentiful in this town, and just yesterday the waitress with the gum found her vanity mirror broken in her purse. She cut her finger on the shards and said "Damn" and blew a bubble. She sees the mark on his hand too.
He pays his tab, with a twenty, puts his hand in his pocket and leaves. Everyone watches him go. They all notice that he's hiding his hand.
"He always walks with his hand in his pocket!"
"Yeah? So do I. Leave him alone. Everyone in this town freaks out when a new person comes. He's probably messed up just like the rest of us."
"But the cats?"
"It's summer so all the kittens are coming out. They've always been here anyway; just everyone's noticing now, now that he's here."
"Ok but everyone knows he talks to Ellen."
"Probably because she's the only person who will talk to him without sounding scared."
"Ok but Pastor said he came into town when her husband was killed."
"Oh, so now he's her husband reincarnated? You don't actually think people come back from the dead do you? Are you Hindu now?"
"NO!" -- and here she looks around ashamed at his coarse joke -- "But Pastor says the dark arts can do things like that."
"Yes, and Jesus did things like that too."
"That's sacreligious."
"So is judging people."
"Oh shuttup, like you're any different. Have you talked to him?"
"No. But I'm inviting him to go climbing on Thursday."
"Ooooh so he can show his hand to everyone at the gym? Or so you can drop him when he starts trying to convert you to witchcraft."
"HE'S NOT" -- he says the next part quieter -- "a witch."
"I don't know. I think you're being stupid. He does talk to Ellen a lot."
"I'm not really worried about it."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"You don't even like climbing."
"But I could protect you if he tries to cast a spell."
He starts laughing and between gufaws -- and she looks hurt by the laughter -- he manages to spit out: "What, are you going to quote John 3:16 at him? Or are you planning on shouting -- he says this in a evangelistic tone -- "in the NAME of JESUS."
She's mad, and everyone's looking at them. She's red like a cartoon, and she's holding something back. Her head is like a balloon about to explode at her mouth. But he stops laughing in time.
"Sorry. I know Jesus is powerful, but I just don't think Jesus plans on doing whatever you want him to."
"Pastor says whatever we ask in faith will be ours if we just believe."
"Which is why your mom is still sick..."
"Pastor says I just need to keep having faith, and she'll be healed."
"What if he wants her to die?"
"She won't. The whole church is praying."
"Are they? Because they always tell me they're praying for me, and I still can't walk."
"You just need to have faith."
He looks annoyed, and lashes back, "Yeah, and maybe I just need to get up in front of church and whine like your dad does every Sunday."
She gives him this self-pitying look, sort of like nurses give to their patients, as if they will "forgive that insult, because you're sick and you need me."
"I'm not a little kid. You think my accident means I need you."
She smiles at him sweetly. She's counting her money. She puts a few bills on the table with some coins and pulls his wheelchair away from the table. She still has that nurse-look and he's peeved at it. He wheels himself through the door and bumps down the steps to the street.
Their breath freezes like thoughts in a comic strip. He's still wheeling himself and she's pretending to push. If anyone sees them they'll pity him and applaud her.
-----------
At a climbing gym. He's in a wheelchair, and he's belaying a teenager on the wall. He doesn't look at all angry that he can't climb anymore. He has peace in his eyes. The guy with the mark on his hand stands next to him. He's laughing nervously. "I think I should start on an easy one -- Just to warm up.
"Yeah, that's what I used to do. I'll get you up on the wall as soon as David is done."
"Ok. So you just use your legs to go up, and your hands are just to hold you there?" He pantomimes as if he's climbing a wall, like he knows what he's doing.
A couple of the staff watch from a distance as the guy with the mark ropes in. They talk quietly as if they expect him to fly to the top of the wall. The guy in the wheelchair is watching them and thinking, "If he could fly, why would he rope in?"
----------
"How was climbing with the witch boy?"
"He's not a witch."
"Why's he hide the mark on his hand then?"
"Probably because everyone judges him based on the mark before they get to know him."
"Did he try to convert you?"
"No, turns out he's a normal guy though."
"Mike said he practically flew up the wall" -- she snickers.
"Yea, turns out he ran track in high school. He's built for climbing. He's really strong."
"Oh did you think he was cute?"
He throws her a look and it occurs to him that he doesn't like being around her. "It's those damn blue eyes," he's thinking.
"He's coming over tonight. Come over for dinner."
"Shouldn't you two have some time alone?"
"Oh please. My parents are cooking and everything. David's coming too."
"My parent's didn't like that you took him climbing."
"Your parents don't like me anyway."
"Yes they do! They're always asking when you're going to come over."
"You never invite me."
"You're always too busy. And when you're free you're hanging out with witches."
"He's NOT --"
"I'm talking about Ellen. Chris told me he saw you and her at coffee."
"Does that make you jealous?" -- he's testing the waters.
"No" -- he's shot down -- "I just find it weird that you hang out with Ellen when everyone knows she's a Wiccan."
"Her mom was Wiccan, but she doesn't practice."
"You realize that she has a generational curse on her. Your children will have rashes on them if you marry her."
"Ok, but she has a choice. And she chose not to practice Wiccan, so there's no curse on her."
"Is that why everyone likes her so much?" -- she's being semi-sarcastic here. The thing about Ellen is she's hilarious, so people love to be around her, even though they worry the whole time that someone will see them. Ellen has no real friends, and people avoid her in public. Some say she carries a curse that repulses people, even though everyone knows she's popular.
"Would it bother you to know that I was at her house last night? With Micah."
"What!? Who's Micah?"
"Micah is his name. Funny that you knew he was a witch but didn't know his name."
"What were you doing there?"
"We were playing cards and drinking tea."
"Just tea?"
"Yes. Just tea. Ellen showed me her horses. Did you know she's been riding since she could walk?"
"Riding brooms?"
"What is your problem? You talk bad about her, but she only says good things about you. Who's the sinner now?"
"What good things does she say about me?"
"She says you're really loyal to your church, and that you have a servant's heart."
"How would she know?"
"Apparently she's psychic."
"Probably."
"No, ok you know what, let me tell you what she told me last night. Ellen and I got talking about her mom's Wiccan. Turns out Ellen doesn't have anything to do with it, and gets into spiritual warfare all the time with her mom. Yea, like 'in Jesus' name' spiritual warfare. Turns out Ellen knows Jesus. But she doesn't go to church because people at church always make her really uncomfortable. People like you. Why don't you give someone a chance before you blow them off."
"She's not a Christian if she's given up meeting with believers. Paul made it clear that we have to love each other or else no one will know we're Christians."
"You're unbelievable. You're soo... blind. You can see Micah's mark, but you can't see how uncomfortable you make him by staring at it. You can hear about Ellen's mom, but you can't hear the lonliness in Ellen's voice. You don't even care do you? You just want to be a Christian so you can go to heaven. Do you even want to know Jesus? Some people do. And most of them don't go to church."
He has a funny look on his face.
"What?" she asks.
"I just realized I was asking myself the same question."
June 29, 2006
so these are summer nights
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.
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 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.
May 23, 2006
A recent day in the life of Galen
3:15 (AM!!) - Fall out of bed.
3:20 - Wake up Again.
3:45 - Shower
3:50 - A knock on the bathroom door. Pull on the pants and open the door.
3:51 - Rachel (gasping): "The house is on fire. THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE."
3:51 - Galen (thinking): Then why is everyone standing around?
3:52 - Mom (in the hall, panting on the phone): "Yes, I'd like to report a house fire."
3:52 - Open door to my Mom's deck so Dad can place a smoking microwave outside the house (which isn't actually on fire).
4:02 - Leave for work. Drive past two fire engines and an aid car headed toward my house. Laugh all the way to work.
4:12 - Driving 68mph, notice headlights catching up.
4:14 - Notice those headlights have bars in front of them. Notice lightbar. Notice speed is 74mph. Let off gas.
4:15 - State Trooper drives past me at 74mph. Sigh of relief. Back to 70mph.
11:15 - A man asks for a water. Happy to oblige I take a cup and step towards the ice. Reconsider. Step back to the counter. He's holding his hand inside his coat now. Consider the possibilities. Notice the tip jar is gone. Notice large square plastic bulge beneath his coat. Look customer in the eye and say, "Can I have that back please?" He thinks for a few seconds, then puts it back. Says he needs a dollar for bus fare. I search my pockets. No go. Says he just needs a dollar for bus fare because he just got out of jail. I think: Stealing again? And so bad at it? No wonder you were in jail. Apologize profusely but the tips aren't my money so I can't give him a dollar. Offer him his ice water anyway. He takes his water and leaves.
11:16 - Becky sees me holding two tip jars and asks what I'm doing. I explain. Much laughing. It is expressed that she didn't know I had it in me to catch a thief. I explain I was nice about it -- I did say "Please" after all. :) Receive small award for saving the tips. Feel like a hero.
1:00pm - Amber arrives. Change clothes and set out upon more adventures.
12:15am - Get home. Talk to Mom since she can't sleep.
1:33am - Go to sleep.
7:33am - Get up.
At least I'm not wasting my life asleep :P It was a 22 hour day, but it sure was exciting and fun. I love these supposedly mundane days that really are adventures in themselves. I love having a family and coworkers that can laugh about minor crises. I love having Amber along for it all. She's a great one with whom to share these days.
3:20 - Wake up Again.
3:45 - Shower
3:50 - A knock on the bathroom door. Pull on the pants and open the door.
3:51 - Rachel (gasping): "The house is on fire. THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE."
3:51 - Galen (thinking): Then why is everyone standing around?
3:52 - Mom (in the hall, panting on the phone): "Yes, I'd like to report a house fire."
3:52 - Open door to my Mom's deck so Dad can place a smoking microwave outside the house (which isn't actually on fire).
4:02 - Leave for work. Drive past two fire engines and an aid car headed toward my house. Laugh all the way to work.
4:12 - Driving 68mph, notice headlights catching up.
4:14 - Notice those headlights have bars in front of them. Notice lightbar. Notice speed is 74mph. Let off gas.
4:15 - State Trooper drives past me at 74mph. Sigh of relief. Back to 70mph.
11:15 - A man asks for a water. Happy to oblige I take a cup and step towards the ice. Reconsider. Step back to the counter. He's holding his hand inside his coat now. Consider the possibilities. Notice the tip jar is gone. Notice large square plastic bulge beneath his coat. Look customer in the eye and say, "Can I have that back please?" He thinks for a few seconds, then puts it back. Says he needs a dollar for bus fare. I search my pockets. No go. Says he just needs a dollar for bus fare because he just got out of jail. I think: Stealing again? And so bad at it? No wonder you were in jail. Apologize profusely but the tips aren't my money so I can't give him a dollar. Offer him his ice water anyway. He takes his water and leaves.
11:16 - Becky sees me holding two tip jars and asks what I'm doing. I explain. Much laughing. It is expressed that she didn't know I had it in me to catch a thief. I explain I was nice about it -- I did say "Please" after all. :) Receive small award for saving the tips. Feel like a hero.
1:00pm - Amber arrives. Change clothes and set out upon more adventures.
12:15am - Get home. Talk to Mom since she can't sleep.
1:33am - Go to sleep.
7:33am - Get up.
At least I'm not wasting my life asleep :P It was a 22 hour day, but it sure was exciting and fun. I love these supposedly mundane days that really are adventures in themselves. I love having a family and coworkers that can laugh about minor crises. I love having Amber along for it all. She's a great one with whom to share these days.
May 22, 2006
when everything happens at once
"No words can express how much the world owes to sorrow. Most of the Psalms were born in a wilderness. Most of the Epistles were written in a prison. The greatest thoughts of the greatest thinkers have all passed through fire. The greatest poets have "learned in suffering what they taught in song." In bonds Bunyan lived the allegory that he afterwards indited [wrote], and we may thank Bedford Jail for the Pilgrim's Progress. Take comfort, afflicted Christian! When God is about to make pre-eminent use of a person, He puts them in the fire." (George MacDonald)
May 2, 2006
Let me stay here, safe, for a while.
I want some company now.
A good conversation. An affectionate touch.
Someone to settle my soul.
Uninterrupted. Safe. Sanctity.
-------
I read that to judge is to cast someone out of your company. I'm tired of being watched. Of hoping to please.
A good conversation. An affectionate touch.
Someone to settle my soul.
Uninterrupted. Safe. Sanctity.
-------
I read that to judge is to cast someone out of your company. I'm tired of being watched. Of hoping to please.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)