Travelling Quietly, Writing

The False Boyhood; The Blank Page

2010-12-20T01:24:00.000-08:00

The page lay open and plain-white like pressed t-shirts hanging on the line when his mother used to wash his clothes as a boy. Except that was thrilling, running through the sheets, the laundry, the wind. Innocence was always on his lips and turmoil at his back, the way he shaped the tall grass with his feet as he ran past.

But those days, those engorged and fattened memories, were gone.

Many of them never even existed; they were only figments of his imagination, taken out of context or expanded like a hot-air balloon from a line in a book, twisted like ribbon to fit the path he wished his life had taken. In hindsight, he always remembered his house as being small - like a cottage - with shutters and laundry hanging outside on the line. The stark, harsh reality was that he lived in a rundown, one-room shack with single-pane windows that leaked when it rained and, if his mother ever did the laundry, the shirts and things hung inside so that they wouldn't catch the scent of burning trash.

So he found himself in front of a white, blank page again. Except now, it was white like the lies he told himself so that he could sleep more easily, dream like men should, finding ways to comfort himself with little, twisted ribbons.

Except now, like always, those lies paid the rent and he was running shy on gasoline to go from the Painful truth to the Pleasurable little ribbon. So he began to type and, instead of lying, he found the truth a cold, sharp blade against his wrists that welcomed him home with open arms.

Skin Tapestry

2010-12-20T00:56:00.000-08:00

The blind woman had hands rough and stone-hewn. They worked the loom, keeping it free of tangles and knots, her feet pressing the pedal in her own, natural rhythm. Her hands were calloused and bloodstained, but deft. Her face was perpetually turned to the paneless window, neither smile or grimace meeting the horizon. Day in and day out, she loomed, never pausing to eat or sleep, or rest.

As far back as Andrew could remember she was there, quietly looming away his own flesh. His skin peeled away from his musculature, always to her loom. The boy's memory did not go back so far that he could remember the details of his kidnapping, or even to a time that he could recall ever wearing clothes. He had always been in pain, naked and in the company of the Blind Loomer.

The tower had a single table, with a solitary lamp along its wall. The blind woman sat at the window while the tapestry continued its own construction behind her. Every year, it seemed the ceiling of the room stretched a little higher in order to accomodate the size of the giant mural. Andrew could make out no details of construction except, by some hidden magic, the tapestry needed no worker to continue; by a mind of its own, it threaded the ever-growing fabric into its own wall of substance.

Andrew's bed consisted of a blood-stained sheet, an old shoe that he used as a pillow, and a horse-blanket. Once a day, a slit at the foot of the door would reveal an outer wall; there, a hand would push in a jar of water and a green, earth-smelling pill. In the beginning - or what Andrew recalled as the beginning - he tried to communicate his emotion to the hand. He yelled at it, spit upon it, and once, without thinking, he stomped his entire weight upon it. Then, and only then, did the owner of the hand make any noise and with a terrible roar came these words from behind the door:

"You will pay for that, Skin-Reaper! Mark my words, you will pay!" Boots could be heard tramping down the stairs, echoing off the stone and mortar walls, echoing long after the man was out of the tower and across the muck-ridden water of the moat.

For the next three days, the slit at the foot of the wall did not open and, to Andrew's amazement, the skin that was being ripped from his body did not regrow as quickly as before. The pain began to nab at his mind. He found that he dared not walk around, lest a vibration sing up his spine and shake his insides. At noon of the second day, he noticed that he could push two fingers between his muscles and into his abdomonal cavity. By the dawn of the third day, he could plainly feel the bone of 4 ribs, make out the muscles and sinew of his side and, should he push hard enough, feel the expansion and compression of his lungs.

The pain was unbearable. He had no tears to cry, only blood to bleed. A sloppy, sticky puddle began to accumulate beneath him, eventually soaking the entire floor of the tower. When he got up to move, more skin would come loose, prying itself free of him, crackling and creaking like old paint.

During this time, the blind woman continued looming. Andrew's skin, the stuff that had caused a war only 2 decades before, continued from the boy's body to the loom in a never-ending thread. Where it pulled away from his frame, the blood would gleam bright red. As his skin entered the loom, the blind woman would turn it into thread and, as it worked its way out of the looming wheel, it fell into an ever-shrinking coil. It traveled next from coil to tapestry, each line of flesh finding its place in the grand mural.

By the time the slit opened at the foot of the door, Andrew could barely breathe. He ran a high fever; sweat beaded his brow and the skin being torn away from his back could now be heard inside his ears. His heart, finding trouble keeping up with the amount of blood loss, was resounding throughout his body, each beat pushing more blood onto the stone floor where it grew dry, sticky and iron-smelling.

For only the second time in his life, Andrew saw the door of his prison open. Through blurry eyes, he caught the soles of four black, polished boots stomping toward him. One man retched at the scent while the other kicked Andrew in his exposed ribs.

"I told you that you would pay for that one," the punting officer said.
"Indeed," Andrew said through grit teeth.

Turning him over, the officers forced the earthen pill in his mouth and down his throat. Next, they dumped a pail of water onto the floor, little good it did.

"Tomorrow," the retching officer said, "we'll get some hay up here to soak up the blood. In no time at all, you'll be good as new." Andrew fell into a dreamless sleep as the officers turned on their heels, leaving the way they came. The lonely tower door clanged behind them. The last thing Andrew heard were the keys turning the tumblers in the lock.

The next day, he awoke to the grunting of the retching officer clamoring up the stairs. Turning his key in the lock, the officer pushed open the door just long enough to toss in a bail of hay and wipe his brow.

"You can feel free to soak up that blood, boy," he said and clanged the door shut. Andrew, for all the pain he had endured over the last three days, was now good as new - or as good as he could be - the skin coming off his frame easily and without pain.

Over the course of the next year, Andrew came to a few stark realizations. First, he would never escape and, whatever end the tapestry was being created for, it would surely result in his death. Secondly, the only help he could ever hope for could only come from himself - the Blind Loomer, as much as he thought of her as a fellow prisoner -- could just as easily be a table lamp or another stone in the wall for all the notice she took of him.

That afternoon, while the Blind Loomer continued to turn his flesh into skin, the boy rushed against the loom, hoping to deal a crushing blow to the wheel and, by his own strength, destroy his destroyer. As hard and repeatedly as he tried to turn the device to cinders, it continued to turn and spin, threading his very body into cordage. Furiously, he paced the floor, his heels sticking to the long-dried blood. He could come up with no solution save one.

In his mind, he settled the matter once and for all.

The next day , the slit at the foot of the door slid open and both water and earthen-pill made their way onto his floor. Andrew bit into the pill, only consuming half of it but drinking all of the water. The rest of the day, his skin tore a little easier, a little more painfully, but still he continued on.

He did this for the next fortnight so that, by the 15th day, Andrew had amassed eight whole pills. Carefully now, he took each one, naming them all the names of the friends he wished he would have had as a child. After the seventh whole pill, he felt like he could tackle the world. His skin sizzled and cracked; his head felt two times too large; his heart pounded in his ears, not like when it could not keep up with his blood loss, but this time in exhilaration. He took the eighth pill and named it Andrew, just like him.

Then, breathing heavily in anticipation, he took up the remaining cordage in his hand, went to the windowsill, and jumped. As he raced to the ground below, he whooped and hollered, flying and feeling free. The descent was longer than he anticipated as he quickly ran out of roped skin and his own flesh unraveled against his musculature. Ever faster, the skin ripped from his legs, now his back and abdomen, now his arms, never slowing his fall. As his grotesque frame slammed into the earth below, Andrew realized that he was now but a flying, breathing skeleton.

And then he was no more.

damascus

2010-09-28T18:31:00.000-07:00

Lord General Damascus Lee Osaka was ruthless. Hated by his contemporaries, he got all of the credit for ending the first war against humanity and kept his nose well above the stench of other Lord Generals. He was also the only reason his race didn't suffer the same fate as the original inhabitants of Terra 1. At the start of that conflict, the humans were on the brink of total extinction; the enemy were infiltrating the No Orbit Zone, had outmaneuvered humanity's best pilots and were reaching deeper into the Milky Way. But, like a savior, Damascus had shown up and thrown caution - and traditional tactics with it - to the wind. After 5 generations of peace, this man led humanity into war.

Early on, he captured a full squadron of beasties. He gleaned valuable information from them, breaking their minds in the process. They became known as Damascus's Dogs -- used against their own race, they were forced to fight for the Lord General's cause. Anti-propaganda, fear tactics, promises of power: they were all tools utilized to keep the DD in working order. However, Damascus had a secret weapon: when asked how he did it by the Arch-President, he noted, "Seize chips go a long way." The defense sector was stunned. More powerful than shock collars, the seizure-inducing chip could be implanted under the skin, unnoticed, and controlled remotely. It was rogue technology, black listed, illegal. Knowledge of the DD was kept to a bare minimal - the public remained in the dark. So, when Damascus killed his own men to make the Dogs look like they were working for their original cause, the public - as well as the enemy - were none the wiser. According to a report published by The Canid Ministry of Defense before they were absolved of power, "The 515th squadron has gone above and beyond all previous hopes. As a team, they are without equal. Each man utilizes the most extreme force and, without fail, comes back with more human deaths than we could have hoped. They are the terrors of human children. These men are the things of nightmares, with no eyes except for the war. Single-handedly, they are winning this conflict."

Within the next 6 months, the 515th squadron were being awarded medals for incalcuable valor. They dressed in their best, went to meet their Supreme Emporer and, as the Ace shook his hand, they murdered him in cold blood.

Damascus had kept his fleet out of reach, just beyond the largest moon. In the ensuing chaos, he moved in, took over the planet, and forced everyone into Packing Ships. He sent them -- all of them: men, women and children -- to the sun. Every living member of the race that humans came to know as the beasties died at the hand of Lord General Matsuzaka.

Now, 30 years later, he stood at the bridge of "Light Destroyer," surveying the carnage as it played out on 12 holo screens before him; surveying his empire. 35 years of war had hardened his character; the terrors of deep space tempered his resolve. He looked on with a smile on his face. It was good to be king.

Of course, that wasn't his official title. He still answered to the Planetary Conglomerate of Governments and Corporations, but, without him, they would have all died a long time ago. Even as things currently stood, he might still kill them and take over. Chuckling to himself at the thought, he gripped the railing of the bridge until the tightened skin over his knuckles turned white. One day. One day.

----

In the middle of a corn field, there are no shadows. The boy crouched low, stalking his prey. He had been out here for over an hour, bent over low, countless scratches criss-crossing his arms and face. Sweat trickled down his brow and he let it slide down the slope of his nose, accumulate, and then drop to the floor below. In his left hand, he held a blade as long as his hand, its hilt weighted and wrapped so as to cut down on blisters. Only 11, he had it as long as he could remember. Somehow, over the course of his stay on Terra 1, he'd managed to keep the pigsticker a secret. If he were caught with it, he would lose layers of skin and be forced to work well past dark.

To his right, he heard his prey break cover and begin moving again. Centering himself and keeping his breath stable, the boy kept low and walked in the larger prints left before him, careful not to alert the ringbeast. He began gaining ground, occassionally sniffing the air for track or stopping to listen. The ringbeasts were intelligent, but the boy always found a way to keep his scent hidden, eventually ending upwind of them, circling them in, ending in a war of attrition.

He knew that part was coming soon - the war - and he reveled in it. These horned pig-like beasts - they had been the bane of his young existence, thrashing about in the corn fields, killing children, shrinking profit. And if there was any one thing his magisterate could not tolerate, it was a shrinking profit. He could always find more Warphans, the way the Lord Generals commanded the armies these days. Careful not to let his thoughts get the best of him, the boy continued circling, tighter and tigher, until he was nearly on top of the ringbeast. He caught sight of it then and became only slightly alarmed; it was larger than the rest of the beasts he had previously killed and its 6 horns were all blood bolted, dark and shining.

Slinging the blade overhead, he let it fly, end over end, slicing through the air until it found its mark. The boy's aim was true - the blade embedded itself deep into the gut of the beast and it howled and thrashed. Jumping out of the way and onto the back of the ringbeast, the boy took hold of the ringbeasts' horns like handlebars and, pulling his blade from its gorey side, he continued the assault, repeatedly stabbing it until the blood flowed and the beast fell snout forward, sliding on its front legs.

Making for the Shore

2010-06-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

From the shore, the lake looked as large and far-reaching as the Pacific. The sun, past its zenith but no where near setting, cast a line of reflected light across the water that ended at the feet of Tyson. Untying his boots, he shucked them off like old skin, stretched his toes in the hot sand, lifted one and then the other, checking for blisters from the days' work and then, without a backward glance to the old truck, placed them in the cool water, right where the sun came to kiss his frame. He covered his toes, then his ankles. Before long, he was knee deep in the lake. He pulled his shirt over his head, threw it on the shoes and dove headfirst.

He thought his heart would stop, the temperature change was so violent. While the shallow water was cool enough not to gasp, the depths were anything but warm. Tyson came up for air as he swam farther from his life of work and toil and sweat, then dove below the surface again, kicking like a dolphin and clamping his eyes shut against the muck below. He continued to move North and the sunlight's pitter-pattered feet continued to mark his progess, it following him as he swam like a beacon in the darkness.

His arms began to throb, but still he swam. His lungs began to wheeze and whine, but still he moved onward, stroke for stroke, kick for kick. As a child, he competed in events for a club swim team and, as he now headed for the opposite shore, still invisible, the form of a natural-born swimmer returned to him, his muscles remembering to pull his arms tight to his ears, his kicks becoming less violent and more refined. His breathing improved, no longer taking great gasps, but only moving his head over to the side in line with his shoulders, taking small, controlled breaths so that he could keep up the 1 2 3 rhythm of the stroke.

An hour later, the pain in his side was so terrible that he considered quitting. The calm, controlled breathing felt labored; his legs hurt and occassionally, he'd find them dragging behind him until he forced them into propelling him forward, keeping him on course. At one point, he swam over a bed of lakeweed and his legs, tangling in the stuff, pulled him backward. Grunting, Tyson stopped his forward motion, grabbed at his ankles and unhitched himself from the underwater garden. He stopped, breathing heavily, egg-beatering to stay afloat.

He wiped his brow and took slow breaths, opening his eyes to see what lay before him.

The distant shore was no longer distant, but a mammoth of mesas and shoreline stretched out before him. The boy cried, silently, to himself. He continued on, kicking and paddling again, head down.

As the sun sank below the waters, the moon came up to greet him, marking his place in the lake like a pin on a map. It was high overhead when Tyson finally found the shallows and collapsed in a heap on the far shore, now his new home. Gasping and spitting, his fingers and toes long water-wrinkled, he hugged dry land and his chest heaved again and again. Chuckling, he kept his eyes open until they hurt, he ogling the rock-pocked shore of his new home.

He had done it. He swam to Sanctuary.

A late lesson

2010-05-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

"This goddamn chair is goddamn uncomfortable."

"What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain, Clinton?" Howard stood over the fire, warming his hands, while his 17 year old son sat on one of the tri-pod chairs they had brought. They were sold cheap and made cheaper, with very little material used for the buttocks and no back at all. They are goddamn uncomfortable, Howard thought. He looked at his boy, measuring him. Strong build and average height, but with a streak of mean in him that would sprout up unexpectedly. He's more like my father than I ever had a right to be, Howard reasoned.

They had gotten into the National Forest well after dark the night before. Howard practically had to drag the young man from the house, turning off the computer while Clinton was playing his favorite video game. The moon was high and full when they finally made camp, but at least they had some light to go by. While Clinton was raised working with his hands, he had never pitched a tent, cut firewood or made a fire. This will be his coming into manhood, Howard believed. This will give us something to talk about. Already though, they were trudging through great marshes of silence, with Clinton only speaking occasionally and only then to complain. Raising the boy, Howard and Clinton never saw eye to eye. Howard thought Clinton a mama's boy; Clinton thought his father an asshole. Finally beginning to put a picture of himself together as his son saw him, Howard looked at the boy again, eyeing the way his hands played over the divets in an oak branch.

"These goddamn seats are goddamn uncomfortable, though," he said aloud. The boy looked up, unsure what to make of his father. Howard gave a slight smile and pressed forward. "You ever wonder what God would say if he were to hit his thumb with a hammer. What if he has the hammer at the ready," Howard grabs a similar branch to Clinton's, bends over and pretends to nail, "and then BAM! He hits himself. You think he'd go 'Medamnit!'?" The older man chuckles and eyes his son.

"You're trying too hard, Pop."

"Ah, I see. Well, just trying to lighten the mood," says the elder. He tosses the wood into the fire and the embers float up with the smoke, dissipating in the the cover of the California black oak. "No harm, no foul, I suppose."

"I suppose not. Hey, can I ask you something,?"

"Of course."

"What makes these divets here, in the wood?" Clinton hands the branch to Howard, who turns it over in his hand, feeling the grooves left behind.

"You ever see the half-eaten leaves after a caterpillar gets done feeding? This is similar to that only, instead of a caterpillar doing the chomping, it's a bark beetle. These pesky things get into a forest and can kill 200 year old trees quicker than you'd think. Where a caterpillar eats until they're ready to cocoon, beetles just eat and eat and eat, destroying whole forests. Their grooves make pretty designs in walking sticks, though." Howard hands the branch back to Clinton, who takes it and looks again at the grooves, this time a little more thoughtfully.

"Thanks," he says.

"Yep." They sit in silence a little longer, both looking at the fire as it smolders.

"How'd you learn all this, anyway?"

Howard chuckles half to himself and says, "Well, I had this idea as a kid that a man should be able to track and hunt and know his way around a forest. I didn't realize that a man really needs to know how to work a job, play well with others and know his way around a city. Anyway, I bought lots of books as a kid and spent a lot of time behind your grandpa's house in the woods. Not to mention, I also watched a lot of National Geographic before it was cool to do so and even spent my summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada."

"Wait, what?"

"What what?"

"You spent your summers in college hiking across the U.S. and Canada?!"

"Well, yeah. That's how I managed to meet your mother in Oregon. I'm surprised she never told you."

"Come on, Pop, we're close, but we don't talk like that. That's awesome. So, you have a lot of knowledge of this kind of thing. What got you into hiking and how'd you decide to hike across the U.S.? And why Canada of all places? Why not some South American rainforest?"

"OK OK. Haha. For the second question, that's easy enough. I didn't go to the rainforests for two reasons. First: money. Second: language. I hiked Canada for the same reasons I didn't hike South America. And I don't know what got me into hiking. I think it was a combination of just who I was and the books I read, etc."

The silence crept in again and the men continued examining the fire, then their feet, then the soil.

"So," Clinton finally said, "can you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"You know. To be a man. Like you said. Will you teach me?"

The Exchange

2010-05-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

The pain in his gut was so intense it made his head buzz. He lay on the cold concrete, his warm blood seeping beneath him and staining the ground, his clothes, his backside.

"And my mom said to always wear clean underwear," he thought. "Good use that's doing." He smiled to himself, thinking of his mother: her warm cocoa eyes, her smile to him when he was a child, the way her hands made soup for him when he was sick.

"Now don't worry, Joshie," she would say, "this is going to warm you up and put you good as new in no time. Just you watch." She would hand him the soup in an overgrown Papa Smurf mug, he laying bundled in blankets on the cinnamon-colored couch in the living room. She'd bend down to him, the back-side of her palm touching his forehead, then cheeks. A quick warning of the soup's heat and then she'd slip two ice cubes in like skinny dippers. He loved hearing the ice crack under the heat of the soup, the cold cubes touching his lip as he sipped, the warmth of the broth seeping down his throat, cascading into his adbomen. "You know," she said once, "I never can tell what your temperature is with my hands, especially after holding that chicken noodle," and she bent over and kissed his forehead.

"Definitely feverish," she said, "but definitely mine." She smiled down at him and he smiled back - feverish, sick and happy.

Now he lay dying in a pool of his own blood on the cold concrete ground outside the elementary school. Perkins said they should meet here and Josh brought the package, as demanded. They met just out of range of the streetlight, each man hiding his wickedness in the shadows. He gave Perkins the brown paper bag and, upon inspecting its contents, Perkins gave him 2 slugs from his .45 for his troubles.

"Thanks mate," the sluggish Aussie said. The streetlight showed the man's shadow lumber back to the Lincoln Towncar. The engine started and then receded into the night.

His breathing was beginning to come in gasps and he could taste the blood in the back of his throat. "Nothing like mom's chicken noodle," he mused. Closing his eyes, breathing through his nose, he thought of her and what she might think of him tonight, bleeding out in the chilly evening.

In the barn

2010-05-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

Just a writing exercise to keep me writing...

-----------------------

We lay in the haystacks, breathing heavily. The deep shade from the barn loft hid the seawater of her eyes from me. Sweat began to glisten and stick below my t-shirt. I lay there, panting. In, a maelstrom of cool air into my nose. Out, a tornado of warmth out my mouth. She rolled onto her side, propping up her head with an arm, looking at me.

Not staring, just casually observing.

We lay like that a while. I, on my back, mostly staring at the roof of the barn, counting the spiderwebs and chips in the paint. She, on her side, observing me with a grin in her eyes until I could stand it no longer. I rolled to my side and matched her posture.

"May I help you?," I asked.

"Oh, you already have, darlin'. Though, I could always use a little MORE help."

Women are not supposed to talk this way, I figured. At least, I had never heard such. She grinned at me, her black hair falling into her eyes, she sweeping it away with her hand.

The Wolves

2010-03-31T18:05:00.001-07:00

There was a raging in his heart, like an earthquake, and the waves of his emotions overran him. As a child, he didn't fit in; his father called him wild and his mother, vibrant. If he had an outlet as he grew, he reflected, he may not have ended up on a mountain, in the wilderness, alone.

That isn't true, he told himself. He always had a wolf inside him, and things could be no different.

He sat against a sugar pine, in the middle of the cold winter weather, a fire dug out of the earth, with warming stones in place for the long rest of the evening. He heard the wolves in the darkness, baying. Smiling to himself (for there was no one else to smile to), he whittled at the manzanita branch he found hiking earlier. His hands worked methodically to keep the cold away, scraping here, pruning there. From the raw branch, he began the work and turned it, slowly, into what would be a whistle. It had little shape now, but he saw it, deep down, the whistle in the wood. The potential. The shape within the shapeless.

He kept at it, the working, the whittling. It kept the cold, and the lonelisness, away. The pack he brought into the mountains was now much lighter than when he left the city - he was coming to the point when he would only be able to rely on his own arms and legs and heart for nourishment.

It has come to this, he thought. Soon, I will be a man.

Hours later, he let the fire sink down to embers and covered himself, looking through the pine needles to the expanse of stars above. We never saw these at home, he thought. The Milky Way had begun its sojourn across the night sky and he knew without knowing that it was past midnight. The wolves had gone quiet a while ago and the night animals were all away, tending to their own needs.

Sleeping would be the need most at hand, he reasoned. And yet, he could not sleep. The moon's light was too bright - the woodland was too quiet. His mind wandered too briskly. He called to mind his mother, his sister, his dad. He wondered where they were, what their beds were made of, who they kept for company in the night.

As for me, I have the wolves.

A Hobo's Nap

2009-09-03T18:47:00.000-07:00

He showed up to town dirt-covered and his hair whispy in the wind. Keeping it under wraps with an old bandana, beat up and earth-smelling, he came into town disheveled and looking for a shady place to lie his head. Ahead, not more than a mile away, there grew a dogwood tree, plenty shady with a nice lawn below it, perfect for sleeping. The stranger drew up to the tree, measuring it with his eyes, taking in height, girth and all-around build of the lumber. This will do, he thought. I'm no Hawthorne, but this will do nicely.

He lay down his head, pulling off the old neckerchief from his head and putting it over his eyes. Squirming into a comfortable position, he clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and sighed with relief. Within minutes, he lay there, sleeping contentedly and snoring softly for all to hear.

Passersby stopped to watch the new town hobo, gawking quietly to one another just at his feet, taken aback that such a sight as he would dare nap under their beloved dogwood. A crowd began to gather, not impolitely or loudly, to bear witness to this new feat. For, in the town, no one had ever seen a hobo, a bum, or a homeless man before. Begging, pan-handling and soliciting just weren't done, weren't mentioned, weren't thought of.

Mrs. Flannery, bless her heart, felt poorly for the old fellow and left a jar of her homemade preserves just at his feet. Following suit, Mickey left his old cap next to them and, by evening, the cap was filled with small trinkets, coins and even a few dollar bills.

When the hobo woke a few hours later, he found he rested well and, even more surprisingly, at his feet lay such gifts as to take him aback unawares. "This is the best nap I've ever taken," he reasoned. With that, he picked up his belongings old and new, gave a nod to the dogwood, and continued on his way into the west.

His First Game

2009-09-03T12:44:00.000-07:00

The stadium loomed before them. Coming down the back entrance in the station wagon, Mikey sat in the front seat, his dad's arm over the seat, left hand tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. Over the radio, Credence played "Put Me in Coach." Mikey was singing along, had just gotten through "I'm ready to play," when they came around the bend and he caught his first up-close-and-personal glimpse of Angel Stadium. His voice caught and he stopped cold.

"Cat got your tongue, kiddo?," his father asked. His dad looked over at him, smiling the way he did when funny, memorable things happened to his only son. Mikey blushed, turned his head and kept staring intently at the shrubs as they moved slowly past. The music continued playing, but Mikey's dad turned it way down, slowly idling forward toward the parking booth. "This is her." Mikey turned back to look at the monolith, the embarrassment apparently forgotten. "You know, I first came to a game here when I was about your age? Yep, the stadium opened in '66 and I was maybe 7 or 8. I've come to more games here than I can count, champ, but this is going to be the best one yet."

"Yeah, you know it!" The boy fidgeted in his seat, hunted out his glove and clutched it in his lap.

Pulling up to the the parking booth, Mikey's dad paid the 8 dollars and turned to the right, parking in the same area he had always parked in. As it was a day game, the two put on sunscreen, sunglasses and ballcaps. Mikey shoved his hand in his glove and drove his opposite fist into the web repeatedly, whistling the Darth Vader tune all the while. They locked up and began making their way to the stadium entrance, Mikey taking 2 steps to his dad's one. The boy got a new feeling up his neck, tingly and happy, making him bounce a little more and talk a little less. He didn't know what to expect of his first ballgame. Outside of baseball and hot dogs, everything was so new.

They came to the ticket-takers and Mikey's dad handed him his own ticket. Feeling it in his hands for the first time, the boy grew more and more excited. People were everywhere, the scents were new and, as they walked into the shade of the stadium a breeze met him in the face, pushing his bangs into his eyes. They got hot dogs, huge sodas and nachos. Mikey carried the gloves and his dad managed to handle everything else. They sat at the very top of the stadium, down the right field line. The boy couldn't believe how large everything was, how the stadium shook with the roar of the crowd, how it seemed like it was its own animal.

In the fourth, they got cotton candy; in the fifth, it was peanuts. In the seventh, they moved down two levels, the boy very quiet and scared of being caught, his father dragging him forward, telling him to be confident and "be cool. Just ... just be cool." They sat down much lower than their original seats and, this time, Mikey could make out the faces of the players, read the numbers on the backs of their jerseys and could see them spit through their teeth. The two sang all of the fight songs, stomped their feet and participated in the wave.

The Angels won that day, beating the Red Sox 12-0. On the way out of the stadium, the boy reasoned he was now a "real fan" since he had now been to a baseball game. His dad, naturally, agreed. "It's true, Mikey. There's no turning back now."

That night, Mikey dreamed he lived in the stadium, his uncles were the starting line-up and his dad managed the whole thing.

The Sweet and Pungent Odor of Gasoline

2009-09-02T16:12:00.000-07:00

The lights were too bright for his eyes, making him squint into the otherwise perfect darkness. Two headlights, blinding him, shot against the elm and past it, into the high-grassed valley below. But the way the hill dropped off, all he could picture was the elm, a few feet of grass in relief, each blade casting its own shadow, and then nothing. Just the blackness past the blades' individual shadows. But he was facing the lights of the Jeep, hands tied behind his back, standing without his shoes. Where the lights went after him was only his imagination.

An hour and a half previous, he was sleeping alongside his wife in their dowry bed. She, seven years younger than he, awoke first at the pounding on the door and, in turn, awoke him. He was groggy for only a moment, until he heard the balled, angry fists against the oaken entrance. Wiping his eyes and pulling up his khakis, he shouted, "I'm coming, you Charlatans. I'm coming." He shoved his nightshirt haphazardly into his pants, tied his belt, and pushed back the lock of hair as it hung in his face. He kissed his wife once, on the bridge of her nose and motioned for her to remain where she was, tucked neatly under the covers and shivering from her fear.

Plodding to the door in his bare feet, he heard his own clipped footsteps reverberating on the masonry, resounding each time his heel his the tile. I will miss these squares, he thought, and the people that helped lay this floor. Oh, the work that went into this home! But do not think of that, he thought. Those thoughts will only end in your death, anyway. But that is where I am going, is it not? Am I not tramping to my death at this late hour? Again, do not think of it. Ok, I will put it away then.

His guests, only three men, waited for him to open the door and, when he did, they pulled him outside by the collar of his nightshirt. "Kiss your wife, Old Man. You will not be returning."

"That I have done and more this night," he said.

"Then turn, arms behind you." Peter did as he was told, taking a final look at the oak door he carved by hand, it's smooth edges and fine grain. Tying telephone cord around his wrists, they led him back to the jeep in the blackness of the night. It was a new moon and hiding behind the clouds. Even it, he reasoned, did not wish to see this unfold.

They drove for more than an hour over the bumpy road. The air was stifling, the engine loud and he smelled the sweet and pungent odor of gasoline in his nostrils. His arms chafing, he turned to one of the men, Smith - a miner, he remembered, and asked for a scratch. The man chuckled, squinting at the old lord. "Even as you go to your death, you still find the need to have someone scratch your itch? Oh, you dog. You will pay for this." With a rush, Smith gave Peter the back of his hand, swooping downward and scraping his knuckles across the old man's cheekbone, then mouth, then clear. Pursing his lips, Peter tasted the sweet-iron of blood. It had been too long since last he bled, he reasoned. Another reason for this game.

"Why didn't you kill me back there, in my home?"

"It would have been too easy. We wanted you out in the farmland, in the air where you beat those who worked for you. We wanted you to die in the land that made you wealthy, not in the comfort of your home where you enjoyed your riches. There must be justice."

"You speak of justice as though you are intimate with her."

"Soon," spoke the driver, "you will be familiar with her, too."

They pulled up to the elm, leaving the Jeep running. By the sound of it, there was an exhaust leak. Each getting out in turn, they pulled him out, dropping him on the hard soil. It was mid-spring and he felt the wind whistle under the truck and move the hairs on his toes. Now he stood facing the Jeep, looking into its lights, breathing lightly. This is easier than I thought, he reasoned. This is but a small thing. Just do not dwell on it, and things will be fine. Just do not dwell on it.

The three men walked to the back of the truck, opened it, and each pulled out a carbine. The bolts went into their places with the familiar pop-slide of his youth. Each would take responsibility for the death, he thought. Not one man would be free of this sin. Walking back around, the man who was in the passenger seat - Frank, he believed - a farmhand, took him behind the wrists, led him until he faced the elm and kicked him behind the knees, leveling him. I was right, he thought. The lights go off into the darkness. It seems a great cliff, this tiny knoll in the darkness. But I remember it well; it is a place I used to tumble as a boy. His head was placed against the jigsaw-puzzle bark of the tree, eyes looking down. Not much longer now, he thought.

The cold iron of the carbines found the back of his neck, at the base of the skull. One. Two. Three. Yes, he could feel each one pleasantly against his neck, contrasting the warmth of the night. He breathed in long, slow sobs now, ready for it to be over. The men looked at one another, each giving a curt nod, and squeezed the triggers nearly simultaneously. The echo resounded off the trees into the still, quiet night.

The man's body slumped forward, head backward, leading with the neck. The bullets found homes in the tree at different angles and his blood, dark as the night now, washed over the fresh wounds of the elm. The three assassins got back in the Jeep and, calmly putting the truck into gear, drove back the way they came. Peter remained on his knees, in the darkness, until he was found the next dawn by a neighbor who heard the shots and woke in the night.

The Earthling

2009-08-31T15:05:00.000-07:00

I stood at the height of the sand, looking down at the waves as they came in. Behind me, the lifeguard's tower held up a yellow sign, with a black circle in the center. No surfing, the symbol signed. Undertow. The surfers called it being black balled, hating the guards for keeping them at bay. I stood there in the afternoon sun, children and families swirling about me. And yet in that moment, I counted myself alone.

There was an onshore wind flattening the waves and blowing in my face, but the currents continued to swell and batter the shore just the same. A girl no more than eight had pulled a rope of bull kelp from the shore, probably dislodged from some underwater forest far away, and swung it about her like a whip, keeping her boyish mate in tow, they playing tug-o-war, or she slapping the waves in her glee. The two of them danced and hopped over the shallows, running into the water and retreating just as quickly. In my mind, I thought up little poems and lines about the girl with the bull whip of bull kelp, slaughtering the sea with its currency.

The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and, as I had come ill-prepared, they began to redden and burn. I pulled off my tank top and walked down the little hill toward the Pacific. Her foam kissed my toes and sent a shiver up my spine. It made me pause half a second, just a touch fearful of the cold. It's a wonder the things we become afraid of as we tramp off into the all-powerful ocean. I kept walking, ankle-deep, now calves immersed, now up to my knees. Every few moments, another wave would come tumbling toward me and I, like a deer in the headlights, had to give pause until it roiled past me.

Once knee-height, I bent forward and grabbed great scoops of sea water, splashing my chest and shivering in the sun. O sea, how I missed thee! Now came a taller wave, not yet broken, not yet succumbing to that on-shore wind. I peered at her, put my right foot back and dove into her foam, feeling engulfed in her weight and letting her roll over my back. All the time, my eyes were shut tight, my legs dolphin-kicking like a true swimmer until I emerged, unscathed.

I looked back and noted the shore's distance. Who needed the old earth, I said to myself, when we have the sea to comfort us. I turned and saw the next wave coming. Planting my feet, I gave her my back and she spread her arms around me, pushing me half a step forward. O sea, how I love thee! Now swimming for my worth, I dove through wave after wave, resting just before her depths were too much for my height to reach sandy bottom. Gasping for air, my lips tasting of salt, I heaved great gasps, calming myself into the rhythm of the waves. I gave the earth one last glance, breathed deeply again, and kept swimming toward the sun.

And that, my neighbors, is how I came to Atlantis.

The Unwed Bride

2009-08-21T04:04:00.000-07:00

Black suit exposed, trench coat slicking in the rain, he stood leaning on his umbrella, it closed and spike firmly planted in the quickening mud. Hair bolted to his scalp, the water ran between his glasses and face, making it hard to see. But it didn't matter. His eyes were closed anyway. Thinking. He stood surrounded by people he had rarely seen, let alone met. But she had. These were the ghosts of her relationships, and she was the shatter-point; the reason they were all gathered in the rain, shoes going the hell in this downpour.

She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.

Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.

The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.

They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.

Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.

The Warming House

2009-08-18T16:34:00.001-07:00

His favorite part of the day was the early morning. He'd awaken just before the sun would light the sky, cold in his longjohns, pulling his socks from the foot of the bed, having kept them warm under the covers. Next, he hauled the jeans into shape from the cold, hard floor and, standing, tugged them up, buttoning, zipping and leaving the suspenders to dangle. He'd pull on another shirt, right the suspenders, throw on the heavy flannel jacket, goose-down hat and black scarf. The doorknob would be deathly cold, but he'd grit his teeth, touch the knob once, then twice, then wrestle it until the old oaken door pried ajar, just far enough for him to get his body out, without awakening his sleeping wife who lay quietly bundled up in blankets and nightclothes. The lantern guttered in the wind, then resumed its strength as the passed through the doorway and closed the guardian behind him.

The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.

Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.

By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.

The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.

For the 50

2009-06-23T18:44:00.000-07:00

I have not the memory of your sunbeam smile as it caressed
and enveloped
the western horizon, casting fires of red and orange over
the humpbacked
arc of the waves. I have only heard the stories of your
current-changing love
or how the winds of your voice blow cool refreshment to
the weary soldiers,
reviving them, relieving their suffering and stanching
their mortal wounds.

But I have traced the curvature of your ribs in starlight,
and followed the line
of your abdomen to the little cave of your belly. I have seen
your firefly eyes in
the wild darkness and at the first paint-strokes of the dawn;
I have been to the
warm and radiant center of your self, liquid in all its perfect
alchemy, and I have
taken refuge in the raven-dark tangle of your mane. Consuming
fire, you have

crested the impossibility of myth and set down at the foot of
my ever-malleable
reality. O dearest love, you are both human and inhuman in these
frail eyes. My
goddess of the flesh, my tamer of titans, it is your naked truth
that comes shining
as a sword, it is the sweet scent of your mouth that leads me
into war.

Broke

2009-05-15T17:56:00.002-07:00

There isn't much time, he thought, before the rest of my life looks like my wallet: empty. Nothing there but laundry lint and, as he folded up the battered leather and returned it, ass-shaped and thin, to its shelter inside his left-rear pocket, even the lint came tumbling down to the carpeted floor.

Well, there goes that.

Maiden

2009-05-15T17:56:00.001-07:00

I have awakened with clarity.
She's gone again - a ship in the fog; quietly enveloped
in the night mists, she carries low her cargo on the surf
while the waves sunder against her hull, crying out for their maiden.
She is a pirate's bounty in waiting,

a schooner setting out to lose herself at sea.
She will be shipwrecked, she will go down fighting; and I will find her,
moored on the beach of my mothers, and I will stitch those tattered sails,
putting nails to wood and sweat to brow. I will bring a sea-worthy smile
to her lips with the strength of my arm.

Yet for now, her noiseless swish of hips takes the tide
and leaves the strong scent of lovers to
linger in the bedsheets.

The Siren

2009-05-15T17:54:00.000-07:00

She's a complicated soul housed in a complicated frame;
her eyes do a complicated dance in this complicated game -
her hips call to me a chorus in this complicated way
like a siren on the rocks, enticing her simple-minded prey.
With my simple sea-faring skiff newly anchored in the bay,

I’m the dinner for this monster, a simple traveler doomed to pay.
and I see her on the rocks, just as naked as my song –
My heart simply seizes in my throat, but I continue to go along
Her eyes now a simple flame, only passionate and strong
and I tread toward my destruction, my will is dead and gone.

She speaks a complicated word in my simple-minded ear
and grips me with complicated emotion, more than simple-minded fear
My simple clothes come off like skin, I’m shedding complicated years –
This old sailor is devoured, now it’s all become so clear.
She’s my simple love and I’m her complicated tears.

Hawaii

2009-04-22T15:31:00.001-07:00

If anyone checks this and was wondering, I heard back from the University of Hawaii. I didn't get in.

The Cobbler

2009-03-12T16:47:00.000-07:00

His work had been walked on since he turned 12 when he took the apprentice job. Mr. Darvish, the local cobbler, had instructed him on how to repair the soles of shoes and after a time he felt capable and confident. He would attend to a client now and again - Widow McIntyre, for instance, came in once every six months or so and she had a tendency to smile with her eyes and make the young men on the street look twice. She was always passing by the shop window but, luckily for Seamus, he was always working and had little time for women of her character. It was a sad shame about Mr. McIntyre, though. Old man Johnson, on the other hand, came in once a week - not just for sole repair, but for conversation and carrying a slow sigh. When the boy was young, he remembered Old man Johnson by the sigh.

The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time.

"Afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

"Aye. Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see."

"Oh, I think I can find something, sir. Let me ask Mr. Darvish to be certain, though."

"No, no. No need. Nevermind it then."

The two of them sat and talked for half an hour about the trout and how they were biting, about the time it took for the sun to set in the evenings now, and the way Mr. Johnson's horses were reacting to the new feed. At the end of that time, the old man shook his feeble frame once more and was on his way.

As Seamus sat back down to his work, he sighed too. Thanks be to Mr. Johnson for breaking up the work.

Can't Make Rent

2009-02-13T12:55:00.000-08:00

I think I am going to perform this piece on the 18th at a spoken word venue. It's best to be read aloud.

I woke up white-knuckling the white sheets with white fear chattering my white teeth. I breathed, I calmed, I hit the alarm. I showered, I pressed, teeth brushed, I dressed. But that poor automaton in me had died, overnight suicide, so that white fire in my black mind kept me spinning ...

Winning the lottery - that's the only way I could pay all my bills and the lot of me doesn't have the extra buck to spend on cheap thrills; hopes of luck run dry when all my cash goes to gasoline and rent; I have visions of my father working long hours with back bent - without sense, we slave, we burn, we toil, we churn, we spend, we spree, we save, we bleed - DAMN this recession and this economy! What's to show for what is owed? We're told pay your taxes, pay the piper, well I've caught a debt sentence and it's a lifer.

Imagine no welfare, imagine no programs, imagine a place where top jobs go to the best man; Imagine no WIC, imagine no food stamps, imagine a hand up where we hand out with both hands. We're told things will get better, things take time, full collapse of the dollar, full collapse of our minds. We hear world-wide recession, an uprising in crime. I say take back your life, stop waiting in line. Stop the overspending, fire the CEOs, kick out the pimps and rehab the hoes; bailout the citizens, forget the bureaucracy, work for the people and end this Plutocracy!

Foot Slapper

2009-02-11T17:00:00.000-08:00

The boy was found dead under a tree, his body covered with the whisps and grasses lying about. Carried into the home by his father, his body was placed on the ceremonial mats and the kahuna was fetched.

Kūpina'i* had been out meandering by himself the night before. After waking up to the full moon's light in his eyes, he heard the voice of a maiden a far way off, calling to him as though in a dream. He followed her voice without reservation and came upon her as she stood under the cover of some kukui trees, the moonlight shining upon her face and breasts.

"You've come," she said, a smile crossing her mouth.

"'Ae," Kūpina'i replied. "You called me." She brought the boy toward her and meant a mischief to his person. She, the sorceress, called up a wind and pushed him close to her. Within a moment, she had removed his spirit from his body, leaving it to walk the earth, while she turned herself into an old hag and wandered off the trail, cackling and snapping her jaws as she went.

The next morning, Kūpina'i's spirit paced back and forth over his body. When his father picked him up with tears and carried him home, he thought for certain that he was doomed. The most he could wish for, he thought, would be to become an aumakua* like his grandfather, to take the form of a pueo* and protect the rest of his family. But when the kupuna came in and saw the spirit-less boy, he knew immediately what had happened.

"You hear there's a sorceress around lately?," the old man asked.

"We heard," Kūpina'i's father said. "Is this her work?"

"'Ae, it is. But I have just the thing." The priest rifled through his bags, kicked everyone out of the little hale* and set to work. He had the family pray to their guardian gods while he made a poultice for the spirit. He talked to Kūpina'i in the spirit realm, listened to what happened and brought the spirit close to the feet of the body. He put the poultice in the mouth of the boy's body, preparing it to receive it's ghost.

"You must enter at the feet," the kupuna said.

"A'ole!," said the boy. "The feet are most disgusting!"

"Yes, but they are the gateway for your spirit. Come close now." The boy reluctantly edged forward and the priest pulled him by his spirit neck, forcing his head into his body's feet. Kūpina'i began to mumble about the pain, but the old man, stronger than he let on to be, began to slap the feet of the body, forcing the spirit back into it's shell. With each slap, the spirit moved a little farther in, becoming more comfortable in his own home. After an hour, the ordeal was over.

"Mahalo, kupuna!," the resurrected boy called!

"Of course," replied the priest. And then under his breath, "Now to see about that sorceress..."

--------------
*Kūpina'i - echo.
*aumakua - guardian gods of Hawaiian families, typically seen in the form of an animal. Ancestors are sometimes deified and become aumakua, taking the shape of the animal that guards the family.
*pueo - Hawaiian owl.
*hale - house

Birthday Wishes, Part Two

2009-01-27T18:07:00.001-08:00

The chores still needed doing, the animals cared for, the food to be cooked. The men worked hard, just as they did every other day, to make sure the provisions were provided, sinks fixed, tractors running. Inside, Lizzie did the work in the house, made meals and softened the hearts of the weather-worn men. She mended clothes, swept the floor and kept the flies at bay. Each person played a role in the family as they bent hand to the plow to keep their little home up and running. But while the family kept hard to work, Seamus began to wonder at the highlight of his year. It was his birthday, true enough, but noon had come and gone and still, there were no gifts.

“Really, I just want that one gift. That’s all,” he thought. Around one o’ clock, Mac pulled him aside.

“I got something for you, little brother.” Seamus’ eyes went a little wide and he quickly composed himself. He smiled and approached Mac as the teen baled hay over the loft and into the stalls below. Pausing, Mac wiped his brow, set the pitchfork against the wall and pulled off his gloves to expose the white knuckles and overly-trimmed nails beneath – all more than a little sweaty and clammy from the work. “It ain’t much, but I wanted you to have these.” Reaching behind his back, Mac brought forth two screwdrivers – a standard and a Phillips – and a pair of leather gloves.

“The drivers aren’t new, but they were my first set and I thought it was time you had a pair for yourself. The gloves, I got down at Old McCreedy’s hardware. I hope they fit ya.” Seamus pulled the gloves on tight and noted they were a little big, but he was happy to grow into them. He took the screwdrivers in his hand and felt the weight of each one, smiling at their promise. With a quick word of thanks, the boy hugged his brother, wiped his leaky eyes and sprinted back down the ladder in the barn. He let out a woop as the door swung wide, gave a skip or two passing the hogs and was away in the field.

The rest of the day continued in the same fashion, with each family member taking a turn throughout the day to pull Seamus aside and hand the boy a tool or gift with a word of encouragement. From Lizzie, he received an apple pie, all to himself, and hugs so tight they felt like vice grips on his little frame. William got him a new hammer, some ten-penny nails and a tool belt. These tools, too, Seamus realized, were all used, but it was nice to know they were his. Upon receiving them, he ran them into the barn and placed them in his toolbox, happy that we was coming closer to manhood – and even his gifts showed his merit.

As for Tristan, he waited until the boys were playing round the oak tree before he pulled his gift from his pocket. The two boys huddled close together and Seamus looked at his brother with a sideways glance, knowing his brother hadn’t stolen or cheated someone out of this particular gift.

“You know what this is?,” the elder boy asked.

“Yep. You made this?”

Tristan went quiet and merely looked down, a little shake to his head affirming Seamus’ question.

“It’s great, Tris. Really. There’s no way I’m losing with these.” In Tristan’s hand, there were three polished balled bearings of different size and weight, all buffed to a luminous shine. The boy had taken care to pry each one out of a different set of bearings – the smallest came from an old Volkswagen CV joint, the middle sized proved more difficult from the rusted truck axle on the side of the house and, most difficult to acquire and clean, the largest was from an old John Deere tractor a mile away. To get the last one, Tristan went to the stranger’s door and asked for the axle. After much haggling and Tristan promising to take nothing but a balled bearing, the man obliged. Getting home, the boy set to cleaning each one with degreaser, a buffing compound and then finally some polish he had found in the barn. When he was done with them, he had spent over five hours on them and nearly kept them for himself. As competitive marble players, the O’Leary boys would always play in the school yard “for keeps.” With these, Seamus surmised, he would acquire a vast number of new marbles.

“I’m glad you like ‘em,” Tristan managed to say, still looking down. Seamus grabbed him then and gave a holler, punching Tristan in the arm and shoving the marbles in his pockets.

The boys got back to the house right around dusk and, to Seamus’ surprise, there was still no gift from his parents. Instead, they had cake (thanks to Lizzie) and set down to a normal supper. Even after the plates were cleared, there was no rifle to be found. Aggy walked over to the boy and, as Seamus dried a dish, said to him:

“I know what we talked about, Seamus. And it isn’t that you don’t deserve your first weapon, but your mother and I just couldn’t afford it. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. Maybe next year.” Seamus nodded quietly and kept his eyes away, hoping the tears he knew were there would not roll down his cheeks. He remembered the conversation he had with his father and he knew a rifle had not been promised. But still, he thought, “He thinks I deserve it. I don’t have it, but he thinks I deserve it.”

After the dishes were finished, everyone gave one more hearty “Happy Birthday!” and retired to their own quarters. Seamus sat on the front stoop until it got too cold and only then did he go upstairs to his bedroom. Awaiting him, however, were all the siblings, each one sitting on his bed and talking about when they thought their littlest brother would get upstairs. Shooshing them all, Mac noticed Seamus and said, “Seamus. We have one more thing for you.”

“Oh,” the boy said. You’ve all given me gifts. They’re all great.”

“Thanks, but we have one more. From all of us. It’s under the bed, Shame.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows and dropped his body to the floor, only to find his rifle waiting for him under the bed. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Trying to speak, only a little squeak came out until he caught his breath, pulled the weapon out from the bed, held it muzzle down and asked, “How?”

“We pulled our resources,” William said. Everyone did. Mom and Dad knew they couldn’t afford it, but they pitched in and got you some ammo anyway. At any rate, you deserve this, Shame. We’re proud of you.”

Birthday Wishes, Part One

2008-12-19T16:50:00.001-08:00

The next day, Seamus awoke again before dawn, this time in quiet anticipation. His stomach had been turning somersaults all evening, his mind wondering with dreams of grandeur. Should he get all he wanted for his birthday he presumed, he would be the happiest boy in the world. Even if he didn’t, he realized, there would be very little to compete with the title "Best day of the year," unless you counted Christmas, of course – still, on Christmas you had to go to church and celebrate someone else’s birthday. This would be much better than that.

Lying in the quiet predawn, the boy had little to ponder except how the day would play out. His most looked-forward to gift would be that pack rifle from the general store. Just a little .22, he thought when he saw it in the window. His brothers three, Mack, William and Tristan, all received their first rifles at different times – Mack got his at eight, William at seven and Tristan not until this year, when he turned ten. All wanted something completely different for their first gun, but they all received something of similar import – a pack rifle, small enough to be broken down and carried on the trail, but of enough weight to build muscles in a boy.
Passing by the general store window five months ago, Seamus had seen the weapon and stopped dead in his tracks, lost in the wonderment at the idea that something of such magnitude might one day come to claim him, even as he would claim the firearm for his own.

"Pop," he said as he trudged along after Agnius. "Pop, I like that pack rifle in the window there." Agnius looked down at his youngest son, a gleam in his eye and a careful trod coming into his step.

"Oh, you do now son? What turned your face to that weapon? You were looking at the Springfield, I bet."

"No sir, not the Springfield."

"The Rossi, then?"

"No sir."

"Well, which was it?"

"The Winchester, sir. I was looking at the Winchester." Agnius chuckled to himself and swung his head as he was prone to do, like a horse. They walked on in silence a few more paces, each consumed by his own thoughts until Agnius broached the subject once more.

"You got strong taste, boy."

"Thank you, sir."

"How old are you now?"

"Six and a half, sir."

"Aye, six and a half. The half is for good measure, I reckon. OK, let’s do this. You want that weapon for your own?"

"Yes sir." The boy nodded sheepishly and his mind raced back to that store window with the Winchester hanging behind the pane of glass. He could feel the warm hickory stock in his hands, the weight of it becoming comfortable, the stock coming warm and familiar against his little shoulder, his eyes down the sights, the pull of the trigger … "Yessir. That’s what I want."

"What you want for … ?"

"For my birthday, sir. That’s what I want for my birthday."

"Ha, I see. Already planning ahead. That, I bet, is why that ‘and a half’ was thrown in there. Well, do you know how old Mack was when he got his first weapon?"

"Eight, sir. I remember the story."

"That’s right. He was eight and worth his weight in salt, that one. He knew the value and responsibility of such a weapon. And do you know how old William was?"

"Bill was seven, sir. Same age I’m turning." The two turned the corner and began the trek out of the township and into the country. Seamus was kept on the inside, away from the rutted road while Agnius walked nearest the center of the lane, one hand in his pocket, hand gripped loosely on his ever-present flask, and the other swinging freely.

"Indeed. Seven. And do you know why he got his at seven while my eldest, my pride and joy, got his at eight?"

"No sir. I sure don’t."

"Well, though Mack is the stronger and the faster of the two, William had him beat in the responsibility department by a full year. I never had to tell William when to pull the eggs, only showed him once how to milk the old cow. All of that. William took to manhood quicker than Mack did. And that’s something. You can’t count that sort of thing like you can with speed, or strength or intelligence. That’s right here." Agnius pointed to his heart with middle and index fingers and thumped heartily. "Can’t teach that. I’ll tell you what, dear lad, you prove to me that you’re as heartful and responsible as William when he was seven and I’ll be glad, more than glad, to get you that rifle. But if you don’t end up with it come September, we’ll both know it was no fault of mine. Deal?"

"Deal, sir."

"’Atta boy. Now, that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two about shooting, regardless of what kind of man you turn out to be, does it?"

Seamus, a sure smile turning his face, went wide eyed. "No sir. Doesn’t mean nothing like that no how."

"Alright then. We’ll begin the lessons after chores tomorrow and I’ll take you with me, empty handed of course, when we go hunting. You won’t be one of us, you know as you’ll have no rifle, no bullets, no opinions on the going ons of we men, but you’ll be allowed to listen and, when we get home, ask questions."

"OK, sir. Thank you."

"You’re welcome. And son?"

"Yes sir."

"You don’t mention our deal to Tristan, you understand? He didn’t receive his first weapon until this year, just a few short months ago and I don’t … well, just don’t mention it to him. You hear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good."

Seamus lay back in his bed and put his arms behind his head, hoping he was actually coming as close to manhood as he hoped. If he received the Winchester, it would prove something to himself, deep down, that he wasn’t just the runt of the litter, that he was able to stand up in the same realm as his brothers. He understood that his father cast but a small shadow in the world of men, but he hoped to cast any shadow at this point, if only he might be included in their world, in their realm, in their ways. Tristan, turning over in his sleep, mumbled something unexplainable and Seamus looked over at him, happily content that his brother was not truly awake to ruin this little moment he was having with himself. He relived the lessons his father taught him about gun safety, how to hold the gun, where the safety would be, when and why to fire – even when and why not to fire. He thought this lesson one of the most important, Seamus recalled, and pounded it into his head.

"It’s a lot better for you to have a gun and not need it, son. The trigger’s an unsympathetic thing. Once you fire that shot, there’s no going back. You need to use your mind and your heart, knowing when to put a bullet in a thing – whether it be duck, deer or man, you fire no shot aimlessly, you hear?"

Three months into his training, he went on his first hunting trip. The boys tracked incredibly well and ended up with a deer – William had brought it down – but they all took part in the hunt in a manner Seamus had not understood, even as an outsider. They encouraged one another in ways that were foreign to him. Never during chores did Mack put a hand on William’s shoulder. Tristan was not usually treated with such respect for, though he was but ten years old, he was a dead eye with his pack rifle. You weren’t allowed to fire on a deer until you got your first shotgun, but Tristan came home with a couple of quail and an expression of triumph that Seamus knew too well; he saw it every time he was thrown from the bed. There was something in the lad that Seamus mistook for evil – perhaps it was arrogance or pride, but even when the boy should have been the most humble or the most reverent, he found a way to cast a shadow of hubris on the scene. When he got the quail, for instance, he yelped out like a puppy when all the other men, Seamus included, stalked up the kill quietly, joylessly, knowing they had taken a couple of perfectly good lives in the killing. This murdering, it seemed, came more naturally to Tristan than the rest of the O’Leary clan.

Seamus rose from the bed, unable to stay put any longer. He dressed quietly in the morning cold and went out to the hen house, the same route that he had taken the day before. Though today was not his day to pull the eggs, he did it anyway – Elizabeth was supposed to do it, but he thought the pancakes she would be making would be work enough. The pre-morning air was chilly but not uncomfortable. The frost lay helpless on the grass and he kicked at it as he came back toward the house. He wondered if this was still a sign of that lasting childhood, then shook the thought from him. He was seven, after all, and found that seven was a great number to be. He would still be able to play with Tristan, he realized – wouldn’t even begin taking up too many more chores outside of occasionally shoveling up the horse dung, or helping Bill bring hay down from the loft – but he would begin the process of inclusion, that slow and quiet welcome into the world of men.

But what if, he wondered? The thought of failure hadn’t even crossed his mind until this very moment and the boy stopped dead in his tracks, hands white knuckling the basket of eggs until the weave groaned under the pressure. What if he looked forward to such a moment as this only to have it pass him by, forcing him to wait another year? "No," he thought. "I’ve done right. Pa knows it. I’ve done right. I’ll have that rifle."

As he came back into the cabin, he stomped his feet as Mack taught him, getting all the mulch from his boots. The screen door came quietly to its hinges as he kept his fingertips against the frame, cradling it so that it wouldn’t bang as he entered. Elizabeth, sure enough, was already at the stove, mixing up a batter for pancakes.

"What’cha got there, birthday boy?"

"Present for you."

"Well, whose birthday is it again? Thought it was yours." She laughed a little loudly then, stifled it and took the basket from her youngest brother. "Thank you for getting the eggs this morning. You really did volunteer this time ‘round, didn’t you?"

Seamus smiled and looked down, aware that she knew all too well what happened the previous morning. "I volunteered yesterday, too. Just… today was a different kind of volunteering."

"O yeah? How so?"

"Well, today was real volunteering."

She chuckled again and looked at Seamus with semi-serious eyes. "And what was yesterday?"

"Yesterday was practice for today."

"OK, little brother. That’s good enough by me. Have a seat, the pancakes will be up shortly." Seamus drew up the same chair he had taken up the day before, eager to get his fork into the fluffy goodness of Elizabeth’s pancakes. She always made them a little better than anyone else, he realized – partly because she was his sister and she thought the world of him, but mainly because she used a little bit of cinnamon in the batter and tossed on some macerated apples for good measure. They continued talking for about 20 minutes while she worked and the remainder of the household woke up. On a day like this, when one of the clan had a birthday, everyone took half a day off. Chores got done later than normal, people got more rest and, by and large, everyone was a bit happier than they would normally be.

Everyone arose of their own accord and, as they came through the hallway, wished Seamus a happy birthday. Even Tristan, for all his salt, smiled encouragingly. When Agnius came out, he put a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes and smiled knowingly. Elated, Seamus hoped this was a sure confirmation of what was to come. "Pop is proud of me," he thought. "This has to be a good sign." The day passed like any other, except that the boy had an elated feeling throughout the majority of it. When he looked back on his birthday as an adult, nothing seemed out of the ordinary but for the continuous quick and heavy clip of his seven-year-old heart.

The Game

2008-12-19T16:09:00.000-08:00

In the fields, the boys became friends more than enemies and felt at home among the wheat. They always met at the gap in the fence, typically dirty and typically smiling. Tristan, more than Seamus, had a tendency to pluck an apple from the tree when they were ripe, or swipe some bread off the window sill, stuffed down in his britches, to be eaten in the wide open fields with his brother. Though he had a mean streak and a bit of laziness around the mind, he was still willing to share the spoils of war, as they were called. Seamus could locate the cleanest part in the stream when they were in the woods, always managed to find the juiciest berries to be taken from the mulberry bush. For the latter, he would take up a piece of cheesecloth that he had acquired from Elizabeth and pull it out of his pocket, wrinkled and boy-smelling, to catch the purple sweet berries as he pulled them off their branches, careful not to crush or bruise them. This was a much more delicate job than the ones Tristan was used to getting. When they were very tiny, Tristan tried to help, but ended up crushing the berries and getting purple juice all over his overalls and hands. It was a horrible mess and one that Seamus didn’t want to relive. On this particular morning, however, there were no plans for mulberries or creeks and dying riverbeds. Instead, they only hoped to play some tag in the wheat field, perhaps finally climb the old oak and just avoid the homestead as long as possible.

At the gap in the fence, Tristan sat and whittled a piece of pine his father had abandoned in the barn. Try as he might, the young boy was unable to turn it into the goose he imagined, even with the help of the pocket knife he filched from Bill over a week ago. As Seamus approached his older brother, still a little nervous after Elizabeth’s questioning, Tristan whittled the beak of the bird right off. It landed with a thud against the high grass near the fence post. The next moment, the blade was thrown point first into the dirt 5 feet from Seamus’ walking body.

"Dammit," the elder muttered.

"’Salright. You’ll get it." Seamus picked up the blade and closed it against his hand, the rosewood handle warm where his brother had been gripping it. As he pushed the knife back toward Tristan, he also took out of his pocket a mason’s jar of water, held it up and said, "Got this, too. Had the bottle. Stopped at the pump and got some water."

"That’s good. Really. Let’s go, huh?"

"Yeah."

Tristan hopped off the fence and began trotting into the field, loping until he was about 100 feet ahead. There, he dropped to all fours and disappeared from sight.

"Hey, no fair," Seamus yelled into the blue. "I thought we wouldn’t play until the oak tree." When he got no response, he picked up his pace until he came to where the wheat told him his brother had stopped. Here, he stopped, too. With his hands and his eyes, he read the secrets the field told him - where his brother had dropped to all fours, how fast he was moving, how he tried to flank Seamus without his knowledge. The point of the game was to take your opponent unawares, tackling him from behind and holding him to the ground in any position for three seconds. Granted, they weren’t real seconds, as the boys counted as fast as their mouths and minds would let them - and as loud, too - but the point was never lost. As a result of The Game, as it came to be called, each boy later became an exceptional tracker. Tristan, more than Seamus, went on to become a skilled hunter as well.

Seamus caught his breathing, knowing that it was giving him away. He kept low to the ground - not on all fours like his brother, but stooped over and on the balls of his feet, checking the newly rained soil for footprints that were barely visible. The tall grass grew in every direction, this being more grass and less wheat. Whatever wheat that grew before Mr. Hanover’s own fence was a direct result of shifting winds and crows dropping seeds where they didn’t belong. As a result, the field they young boys walked through and sought one another through, was a kaleidoscope of height and flexibility. Where the wheat would be stiff one moment, the grasses would be flexible and malleable the next, making it difficult to gauge distance or track accordingly. However, Seamus found that Tristan held to a few major plans and acted as though this were currently true.

He kept low, not moving very much and keeping his breath still. He pictured his older brother circling behind him, probably from his left, and closing in on him like a cat. Seamus took two sideways steps to the right, and paused, listening. Behind him, he heard Tristan slightly change direction. At his right hand, he palmed the broken branch of a mishandled oak and grasped it firmly. With a quick thrust, he threw it farther to his right, low to the ground, so that it crashed among the reeds. Again, he paused and listened. And again, he heard his brother misjudge the sound and move a step or two more to the right, just a touch off course. He backed his right leg up a bit, keeping his left foot planted and acting as a fulcrum. As he backed up the right leg, he turned ninety degrees, now looking to his right at about where his brother should be coming upon him. He waited with bated breath, heart pumping hard and beginning to get a little cold. Five minutes later, his brother came into sight, crawling like a cat a few feet away, intent on a mistaken shape where the branch fell. Seamus desperately waited for his moment and, just when Tristan had passed the point where Seamus might be seen in his peripheral vision, our hero whispered:

"I’m over here, brother."

With a quick turn of the head, Tristan saw what he had previously missed and cursed himself. Seamus leaned forward, smiling, and rushed his elder so that they went tumbling backwards into the grasses. No one could get the upper hand, but they became itchy and nearly cut by the blue grass and the wheat. After a few minutes, both were out of breath and laughing.

"You got me this time," Tristan said. "I was surprised."

"You were scared, I saw it."

"No. Not scared. Surprised is all." But Tristan was very much afraid of his brother’s little whisper, of his gallant resolve, of his superior instincts. Were Tristan the one waiting for the ambush, he would have rushed his younger brother and pinned him there to the ground, yelping as he did so. Looking back, Tristan thought he might have even given himself away if he were in Seamus’ shoes, knowing that the boy three years his younger already had more patience on the trail than himself.

"Just surprised," he said again. Seamus smiled a hearty smile as he stood up, brushing out the grass from his clothing. He began running ahead this time in the direction of the oak tree, knowing the roles were reversing and it was his turn to be the stalker. About 200 feet forward of Tristan, Seamus disappeared.

And so The Game began again.

Conversational Breakfast

2008-12-12T13:45:00.000-08:00

He woke to the sound of feet on the hardwood as Elizabeth came in, her eyes shining in the sunlight. Tristan, when he got up, must have pulled the shades. She was a tall and lithe figure, already accustomed to the work of a woman around a farm though she was barely thirteen years old. Her hands had the marks of needles in her thumbs, her hands rough from scrubbing dishes and repairing clothes. She was as much a mother to young Seamus as Rachel – and had a heavier hand when the whoopings came, too. However, she was also quick to point out his grand performances, help him when necessary and, best in the eyes of our young hero, give him little chocolates when no one else was looking. To say that she was Seamus' favorite sibling would not have been an overstatement of terms, though he got along well enough with everyone else outside of Tristan’s orbit.

"Hey you," she said. "Why are you sleeping so late, and why on the floor?"

"Oh, um… I helped get the eggs this morning," Seamus said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. "No one woke me back up."

"And the floor?"

He looked at her with a sideways glance, quickly thinking of what to say. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tristan wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed for a week if he let Liz know what happened that morning. So he lied, quickly.
"I like the floor."

"That’s a load of crap and you know it. I can feel the chill now. The floor’s cold, Shame. Too cold to be liked."

"No, really. I like the floor. I get to sleep by myself here." This part was not untrue, as Seamus enjoyed being able to stretch out when he wanted to, without the obstruction of another body in his way, or the thought of being the recipient to an elbow, punch or kick in the middle of the night without the ability to retaliate.

"OK, suit yourself, but it’s time to get up. Like, right now."

"Alright." The boy got up and pulled his jeans to his waist, wiped his hair out from his face and let the thermal top he had been wearing to bed double as his day-shirt. Upon rising, he noticed the smell of eggs and bacon -- the usual welcome party in the morning. "Any pancakes?," he asked.

"Nope. Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow. It is your seventh birthday tomorrow after all, so I might be able to make that happen."

"I hope so." He smiled at her and, when she smiled back, knew that pancakes were inevitable and just 24 short hours away.

At the kitchen table, he shoveled the food down his throat, drinking the orange juice and water Liz provided for him, all the while gearing up for the afternoon hike. Though only six years old, he loved to walk in the wheat fields of Mr. Hanover, the neighbor about a mile away. He and Tristan would play hide and seek, utilizing the deadened and decrepit black oak tree in the center of the field as a reference point and home base. So long as they were in by sundown, no one questioned their whereabouts. The family knew that, should the boys be visible and boisterous, the chances of their scheming were much greater than if they were out and about, playing at manhood and dreaming like thieves.

"Plans today?," Elizabeth asked.

"MM-MM-MM," he grumbled and shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know' fashion, a mouth full of bacon and potatoes.

"You lie, little brother. You always have plans." He swallowed the hot food, took a big sip of the orange juice and wiped his mouth.

"I don’t know, really," he said. "The wheat field, I think. I hope it warms up."

"It should, once the sun breaks the clouds. Shouldn’t be too bad. You and Tristan, I guess."

"Yep."

"Be mindful of him, you hear?"

"What do you mean? He's my brother."

"Well, he’s trouble, that boy, and you know it. I’ll tan your hide the color of night if you get in trouble and you know that, too -- but I won’t want to. I know that boy makes you do things -- like the eggs this morning."

"I got no idea what you’re talking about. I gotta get. Thanks for breakfast, Lizzie. See you later." He dropped the napkin onto the table, pulled his jacket on in a flurry and was out the door. The screen banged behind him and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the little kitchen, a look of angry confirmation on her face.

Pink Fingers

2008-12-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

When Seamus was a young boy, he thought the world darker and more dangerous than it actually was. This was mostly due to his elder siblings in general -- specifically, Tristan’s continuous and steadfast hazing made life bearable only in that Seamus, after turning seven years old, found that he would be able to wipe the wagon-rutted roads with Tristan’s face after enlisting the help of a neighborhood branch, stone or even a handful of dirt. Tristan, he realized, was a bit of a coward when weapons were involved. Before that point, however, our boy Seamus had an uncanny ability for drawing the short straw.

"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.

"Yep."

"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.

"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."

"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."

"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.

"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.

"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.

"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"

"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."

"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.

"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."

"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.

He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.

"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."

"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.

He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.

"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."

"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."

"Don’t care."

"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.

"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.

Monster

2008-12-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

As the little ship, captained by the lone McTavish, was being dragged into the current of the edge of the world, ready to be hurled over the ridge and cast into nothingness, the monster came upon its flank. McTavish was sitting cross-legged in the Nest, looking over the void and watching the water spill into the abyss below. He could see a terribly long way down, but the water never ceased falling. He thought of the man that went over Niagara in a barrel and shivered. His ship, as perfect for him as she was, would not offer such protection. Gripping the rigging, he stood up and resigned himself to ruin.

The she-monster, at that very moment, had taken an interest in the man. Her shadow came out of the water and rested on the deck, her bluish-green hide towering into the air, salt water dripping from it. McTavish shot a look her way and could almost believe what he saw -- after all, he was about to drop off the edge of the flat map. She pulled a tentacle up and wrapped it around the main sail, just high enough that McTavish could walk its length. He understood that is what she wanted, and he complied. With a flip of the appendage, she shot the captain to her shoulder and they watched as the ship went over the edge, lost for all eternity.

The Birth of Seamus

2008-12-01T18:24:00.001-08:00

Seamus was born on the side of a dusty road in the back of a rickety coach during the worst drought in 100 years. His father, Agnius McGillicus O’Leary, was out of work and out of sorts. He was a small man with not much to show for all his bloodshed and cursing, typically making his living as a ranch-hand for the wealthiest man in the county. With a small log cabin built by his own earth-stained hands, Agnius depended on the goodwill of others to keep his family well-fed, well-cared for and well educated. The latter, as came to light, was really of little consequence so long as Aggy was lubricated with the brown bourbon his own father taught him to make. Seamus’ mother, Lord bless her, was a gentle woman of a half-tonned girth, happily sweating the day away as she birthed babies and raised folks to be proud, Western Americans. She loved to cook, sew and, above all, eat. Though her name is of very little consequence and she will make no more appearances in this work after the birth of our protagonist, it was Rachel Loveless O’Leary.

“Aggy,” she said as the wagon-wheels found every hole in the road, every bump, every loose rock. “Aggy,” she wheezed, sweat coming down her brow though it was shaded against the 2 in the afternoon summer-sun, “I think it’s time.”

“Oh, you poor goat,” said Aggy, “you wouldn’t know another birth of a babe from a casual growling of the stomach. We both know they feel the same to ya. Not to worry, lass, we’ll make it to market and back before the wee one’s out.”

“No, no, I don’t think so, Aggy. I don’t think so at all. Matter of fact, my god this hurts like the devil and if I were to lay blame, I’d lay it on you and the Lord himself for the terrible pain, matter of fact, I think the wee one’s coming on a might strong and will be here on this good earth momentarily.”

“It’s just heartburn, Love.”

“Heartburn, nothing Agnius. I say I’m having a baby and by God, I am. Pull this buggy over and let the thing happen, will ya!” Agnius pulled the horses to a trot, coming along the gulley and stopping under some dogwood trees. The girl’s water broke and she stifled a gasp. The three children already in the back of the flat got out, dusted themselves off properly and walked over to the dying stream to wash their faces and rinse the backs of their necks. The grit came on something fierce when the wind kicked up the golden-brown dirt along the roadside. Only little Tristan stayed behind as he was the youngest and knew no better. He was all wide-eyed with his bangs in his face, wiping them away with a flick of his tiny wrist every now and again, brushing them out of his eyes with a quick burst of his breath between pursed lips. He grabbed a hold of Rachel’s skirt tail and held on for dear life.

“Everything’s ok, mama?,” he asked. “Mama, what’s happening?”

“Looks like your little brother is making a scene and coming along a little early.”

“Well, I don’t want him anyway. If you want, we can drown him in the gulley.”

He said this without thinking and with little relish for the act. However, being the youngest, he was prone to getting his way and thought this the grandest idea as it would keep the universe in working order. Rachel had little thought for it and let the back of her hand tell him so. She swiped him, knuckles first, across his face with such force that he fell from the wagon into the mashed and withered grass beneath the tree.

The horses whinnied in the shade as she pronounced, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that Tristan Michael O’Leary. Now go wash your face and dust off your backside.” The boy walked away ashamed and a little frightened of his gigantic maternal figure. More than his father, Tristan feared the wrath of his mother. After all, she was always home, always watching him like a hawk, while his father, though he meant well, was but a shadow in the mind of the young boy.

The children continued in their parts as silent playmates while Rachel heaved to and fro, causing the buggy to shake and creak under her enormous weight. Agnius unhitched the horses and pegged them to the dry soil, wiping his brow in the heat. They grazed on the scraps about here and there, gritting and grinding their teeth through the soil, getting to the little nourishment left in the earth. The crows settled on the branches of the dogwood again, only rustling at the sounds of her discomfort.

"Dammit boy, come on now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Aren’t we, dear lad?" Her eyes glistened even in the shade and her dress was soaked through. “Come on, Aggy, come on now, mate.” Agnius walked to her angry heels and peered under her skirt, tentative and quiet. The blood and water mixed into a stomach-churning visage and the man wretched there in the grass, unhappily sulking. Pulling himself together, he pulled out a kerchief from his back pocket and massaged the sick out of the corners of his mouth.

“Sorry there, love. It’s a usual occurrence. I’m ready for him, now. Happens every time, I swear to the Lord Almighty.”

“They’ll be none of that, now. Not in this heat, this drought. You know He’ll punish us. You know it.”

“Alright then. Forget I mentioned the Lord Almighty, dear love. Just push when you’re ready.” She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and pushed, screaming like a banshee abandoned. The small boy came out quickly enough, crying readily and healthy. With a swipe of the pocket knife, the cord was cut and his body was wiped clean with the same cloth from Agnius’ back pocket.

“Welcome home, Seamus Christopher O’Leary. Welcome home, dear boy.”

In the background, Tristan wept while his siblings played tag around the dogwood trees.

Dororthy, Lloyd and the Perfect Home

2008-10-30T16:33:00.001-07:00

Dorothy and Lloyd met at an open house. They both fell in love with the same shuttered windows, the veranda, the spacious yard. He admired the strong mantle while she melted over the hardwood floors and butcher's block in the kitchen. It pulled to them both and neither could afford it on their own. They exchanged smiles at the doorway when he held it for her exit. Eventually, they met for drinks and decided the place was too good to pass up. It was the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood, on the perfect street.

The owners, however, would not sell to a single resident -- their lone condition was that a family buy the dream home. So Dorothy and Lloyd got married within a month and closed on the residence within the next 4. The original owners went so far as to bring a contract with them -- should Dorothy and Lloyd ever separate, the home would be forfeit.

They put on the guise of love to their families -- after all, Lloyd was no Brad Pitt and Dorothy was a decade older than the typical blushing bride. But at home, in the most comfortable of spaces, he never touched her. She was abused as a child and he was deathly afraid of women. They slept in separate beds, had entirely different friends, each bought groceries for their own specific needs.

Each was ecstatic about the home, its beauty, its location, but at the end of the day, dreaded walking through its arched doorway. He smelled bad and she watched reality television. The were both tired of the silence, the ashamed looks, the tossing and turning at night when it felt like the home kept them awake, forcing them to look at one another. Marriage was never so uncomfortable.

Lloyd

2008-10-30T16:05:00.000-07:00

He juggles the words in his mouth like marbles, keeping his breathing fair, focusing on one point of the hardwood like he used to as a boy when he was caught for getting into mischief. Keys jingle in the lock and the front door comes open. She walks through the front room without turning on the light, steps into the kitchen and puts the groceries on the counter. She notices him, flips the light switch and stands to look at him. His mind goes quiet when she speaks his name.

"Lloyd?"

He looks up, takes two quick paces to her and cups her face in his hands. She is taken aback -- he has never touched her before, not ever lain a finger on her. Her breath catches and the words come to her mind before they are out of his mouth -- words like thunder to an infant left out in the storm, words she has dreaded but has known would pour over his lips -- his eyes have been giving him away.

"Dorothy, this isn't working out. I'm leaving you. I won't apologize because this isn't my fault. Good-bye."

The Meadow

2008-10-30T15:42:00.000-07:00

We walked hand-in-hand through the autumn meadow and you felt horrible that the fire-stained leaves had nothing to hold on to -- our fingers slipped from the precipice of our palms and we walked in the cold, blustery afternoon in joint solitude, your hair making waves and currents in the wind.

I punched my hands into my jacket pockets and fisted them closed for warmth. At the old dogwood, I slowed down a step while you whistled a tune I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was something we used to listen to as children, but the wind took the melody like a thief while the shade lengthened like old fingers. You turned back to me and smiled that closed-eyed, pink'd cheeked smiled; I cried a little knowing you'd be gone in two days.

The scent of smoke was in the air and I knew we were coming close to home. The maple tree from our youth was burning to cinders in the fireplace and the scent carried to us like a sail.

The Way He Loved Her

2008-10-21T19:53:00.001-07:00

He brought her to the log cabin. It was autumn and the rusty leaves off the oak welcomed them with fresh arms. He made love to her by the light of the kerosene lamp, their shadows dancing against the wall. In later years, whenever she smelled the strong and vaporous stuff, she thought of him. She caught his affection in the labor of his hands -- the chopped wood, the caught food. Through the strength of his arms, she found the steel of her heart. His body told of his love, the scars bearing witness.

At the Edge of the World

2008-10-20T18:13:00.001-07:00

At the edge of the world, the water seems thinner before it falls into nothingness. That is what McTavish thought as the old ship spun about helplessly on the whirlpool, nearing a teeter on the edge of creation. The water was deadly deep, but the captain could see to the bottom, where countless animals and things he had never heard of frolicked in the undersea wind.

There's no way this can end well, he realized, as his crew died one by one on the journey. He was the only man left. His first mate, Flannery, had warned him against the edge of the world, of what old hands called "the drop of the flat map." But he didn't believe them in the pub. He believed now, though. Now that he was seeing it.

The End of Trigger

2008-10-20T18:09:00.000-07:00

This is the end to a long project started in college about a guy who kills his wife and writes his memoirs from behind bars. He goes crazy. It's dark and very unlike my usual writings. If you have a problem with dark literature, please don't read this. If you have a problem with the fact that I wrote it, please get over it.

She whispers again in my ear. Whispers in that cold air sound like a gale through my hollow bones. "Kill me." She says it repeatedly, over and over until I am saying it, too. "Kill me. Kill me. Kill me." I hold my breath and wait, counting to 5 in my head. "Kill me." She just won't be quiet, not for a moment, not at all. I release the breath and call for the guard, palming the home-made shiv against my person. I'm sorry, I think to him before he even gets to me. I'm sorry because you are my escape route.

"Kill me." He comes to the bars, trusting me, knowing my reputation as a "good soldier." Kill me. I mouth the words and his eyes go wide as I grab his hand, driving the shiv into his forearm, then pulling it out fiercely. He screams. Kill me. The guards come, but not before I give it to Frank 3 more times in the stomach for good measure. As insurance. Kill me. The reinforcements show up and grant my wish. They kill me. BANG.

Roy

2008-10-20T17:43:00.000-07:00

The old Kenworth pulled into the truck-stop and coughed itself to a clumsy stop, the engine convulsing when Roy jerked the key from the ignition. With a creak and a whirl, the door came open and Roy leaped down the two steps, boots scraping the gravel, door slamming shut behind him. There was no need to lock it.

He pulled his hat down low over his eyes, head down, picking out individual rocks of the loosely strewn parking lot. It was windy and he kept his hands apockets, his collar turned up, his shoulders hunched over.

"Hey Mae," he said as he opened the glass door to Joey's Truck Stop. "Long time."

"Not long enough," the waitress/cashier said. Her eyes turned to slits at the sight of him, her gum popping in her mouth. The streetlight came through the dirty blinds and shone through her dishwater hair, piled high on her head and teased with a can of Aqua Net Gold. She looked down at the old man at the booth and smiled, soothingly. "Not to worry, Mr. Higgins. I'm sure this ragamuffin will be leaving shortly. Won't you Roy?" She didn't look up to catch his reaction.

"Look, I just want a cup of coffee. Black."

"Didn't ask what you wanted, Roy."

"You sayin' I can't get a cup of Joe at Joey's?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"That ain't right. That ain't right at all. Get Joe. He knows me. He'll tell ya."

"Oh, I know you, Roy. Don't you worry about that. And as for Joey, he's dead. I run this place. You want him, you can go to hell and fetch him." Roy looked slack-jawed and wide-eyed, rocking back on his heels. After a moment, he closed his mouth and wiped it with the back of his jacket, turned back to the door and put his hand on the cold handle.

"Well, you have my condolences." The bell jingled and he was back in the darkness, the wind taking his tears.

That Old Mountain Road

2008-09-29T17:51:00.000-07:00

Dedalus hated driving in the dark, especially down the mountain. In his shit-heap that passed for a vehicle, the darkness seemed to close in around him, suffocating as he barreled round the turns, 20 miles per hour faster than the posted speed limit. His yellowed and savage headlights barely pierced the thick of it, he reading the road by the white stripes that passed nearly beneath the hunk of metal and oil.

Let's go, old girl. Let's go.

He measured his distance by the turnouts and the signs of elevation. At one time, he could do it by the number of times his ears would pop as he descended the hill, but now that he was near-deaf in the left ear (too many concerts) and had a severe infection (too much time in the lake) in the right, that ear-popping was less and less frequent. He kept the windows down and the radio up, both hands on the wheel and a constant barrage of reassurance to the decrepit Oldsmobile.

Let's go, old girl. Let's go.

It was early spring and the wind whipped up in the cabin, stinging and fresh. Dedalus pulled his hood closer around his ears, adjusted his hat and hit the pedal harder. His fear transferred itself into a jittery, loose-lipped shot from the hip. If anyone else were in the car, they would have clutched the oh-shit bar and kept their heels dug deep into the floorboards.

The tires screeched around every corner, in time with the music, in time with his cadence.

At 2,000 feet now. Come on, old girl. Let's go. Nearly there, now.

Yellow lights reflected back at him as a truck passed in the opposite direction. He put up his forearm to shade his eyes and came off the accelerator. The truck passed as quickly as it approached; he saw the red lights receding in his rear-view mirror. His heart quickened; his foot dropped back down.

Taking a turn too close in the darkness, the black came to claim him. His tires hit loose gravel and his rear-end came spinning out behind him. He overturned, both hands white-knuckle white on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth and leaning forward, breathing out his mouth. Slowly, the fishtailing came under control and he merged back into his lane.

Let's go, old girl. That was close. Let's go.

He patted the dash and smiled for the first time, his cheeks red from the wind, his eyes blood-shot from holding them so largely open.

Ten minutes later, they rounded the last turn of the darkness and came to a long, wide-laned straightaway. The night receded as the city lights enveloped them and Dedalus rolled up the windows, lowered his hood and shivered.

God, I hate that mountain. We're home, old girl. We're home.

Listening to the Radio and Talking About Girls

2008-09-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

We listened to the radio and talked about girls. Really, my dad didn't talk about girls so much as he listened. I rambled. He would ask a few questions, nod his head and pay close attention to me -- but this time was mainly about me and bonding and CCR. We would go out, my dad and I, every Friday after school and just drive. Inevitably, we would end up at Foster's Freeze for dipped cones and he would get the guy at the counter to double dip for me. We would sit on top of the bench-tables -- butts on the table-tops and feet on the benches -- while the ice cream melted under the chocolate and ran down our hands.

"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.

"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.

"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"

"Yep."

"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.

We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"

This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.

Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:

"What are you so happy about?"

"Nothing, ma. Nothing."

The Professor

2008-09-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

The professor leaned against the desk at the front of class, feet crossed and hands-a-pockets. 31 students sat opposite him, quietly musing the latest problem he put to their minds. Many of them looked to be faking thought.

"I took this job to challenge the generations," he thought, "not to babysit." He walked over to the white-board, pulling a marker from his blazer pocket as he did so. "Any theories?," he said out loud.

"Well," pondered Julian Kyle,"this seems just another example of American Imperialism."

"You think everything written in America is an example of Imperialism."

"Am I wrong?"

"Probably not." The kid used these blanket statements, but many of them were hard to argue with. Sometimes, Darius McDonnelly wondered if the world and its literature was even worth caring about.

He continued scribbling keywords on the board, circling some, crossing out others, gainsaying the class until they either agreed with his notions or got pissed off enough to speak up otherwise. It holistically felt as though only he and Julian were in the room together. This went on for the duration of class.

As the students gathered their belongings, Julian Kyle walked up to the teacher. "Professor?"

"Yes, Julian. Something I can help you with?"

"Um ... yes. What are your thoughts on the necessity of revolution?"

"Completely necessary. Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, the rest of the Founding Fathers -- they obviously believed in it as well, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?"

"Right. I meant, what do you think of the necessity of revolution TODAY. Like ... you know, now?"

"I am all for overthrowing our government, boy, insofar as they have trampled the rights of the citizens and taken to ruling from a point of wealth. Or have you forgotten I believe we no longer live in a democracy? Is this the question you were asking?"

"Yes. And I didn't forget. In any case, will you please attend a meeting going on later this evening?"

Caught off-guard, McDonnelly didn't know what to say. "Excuse me? A meeting? Of what sort?"

"Of the revolutionary sort, Dr. You will get more information if you attend. I would ... rather, we would appreciate it."

"Well, since it is just a matter of discussion and not a matter of action, yes. Where is this meeting taking place?"

"A car will be by to pick you up outside of the main building at 7 p.m. sharp. Thank you, Dr." They locked eyes for a moment, the student dipped his head forward just the slightest bit, then turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving the professor to ponder this little turn of events.

"Finally," he thought, "someone is challenging me."

My Fathers Who Art in Memory

2008-09-05T17:31:00.000-07:00

Everything on this blog, from now on, will be fictional. Unless it's poetry. But it will be literature and, while it may take root in reality, these stories do not abide there.

I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.

The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.

It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.

It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.

He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.

We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.

"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.

The Storm

2008-07-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

The wind picked up and the waves began white-capping, turning turbulent where once there was calm. The sky stripped his robe of blue and put on a a gray mantle so that the clouds turned dark and mischievous. The rain began to drop in sheets, pounding the little ship with force beyond reckoning. Flannery called all hands to the deck, yelling through a fierce snarl. The crew lashed everything down and prepared for a long day. With a grim smile creasing his face, he braced himself as water came over the tall bow. Things were getting ugly.

The onslaught continued for 3 hours while Ho'okele pushed through the storm, taking on water and creaking in the wind. Three good men were lost over the side and one, Crow's Nest Johnny, lost a hand when the rigging went super tight. He fell 12 feet and managed to land on all 3s, keeping his newly formed stump, still bleeding, over his head. The rest of the crew worked hard in slickers, all drenched from head to foot with rain and salt-water.

As they made their way out of the storm, cheering went up from the men, happy that they made it though the worst of it. McTavish mopped his face with a semi-dry towel and looked into the sunlight, happy.

Ho'okele

2008-07-03T17:15:00.000-07:00

This might be an extended series. I want to write in something specific, but I need to lay some framework, I think. At any rate, the title and name of the ship means "Navigator."

They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.

Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.

His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.

They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.

"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.

"Aye."

"Can I speak plainly, sir?"

"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."

"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."

"And..."

Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"

"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."

"..."

"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"

"Aye, Captain. A might."

"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"

"Aye aye, Cap'n."

"Flannery?"

"Yes?"

"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.

And then the weather changed.

Downpour

2008-07-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

This could be a continuation of a story I read on "The Fabian Society" called "Anhedonia."

And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.

At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.

She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.

Dawn Patrol

2008-07-02T10:49:00.000-07:00

They sat on the water in full wetsuits, only six feet apart, quiet in the calm of near-morning. The sky was the deep concrete gray before dawn and the lights from the oil rig could still be seen from shore. Alain had gotten up at 4:30 this morning, tossed his board in the pickup and drove the hour down to San Onofre. Jeter was already there to meet him, double-fisting cocoa and leaning against his beat-up corolla. His wetsuit was already half-way on and he wore a tattered sweatshirt over his chest. The cocoa was handed off and both men set to work dressing, pulling out boards, getting leashes ready, applying the last bits of wax.

They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.

"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.

"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."

They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.

"Freaking cold."

"Haha."

Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.

They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.

Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.

The Radio Shack Guy

2008-06-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

Daniel loved himself very much. Probably too much. Growing up, he had a tendency to get the girl -- until they realized how obsessed he was with running his own hands through his hair. Now, five years after graduation, he worked at the neighborhood Radio Shack as the guy who specialized in making his clients feel weak and uneducated. Every morning before leaving for work, he would stand in front of the mirror and say, "You are somebody. You are a Greek god. You are the stuff legends are made of." He got the idea from a self-help book he had read when he was in high school, but tweaked it just enough to make him believe the words.

To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.

When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.

In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.

Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.

For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.

The Interview

2008-06-26T12:07:00.001-07:00

Now was the time he wished he had a new car. The old Beetle had creaky seat-belts, no air conditioning and a radio that consisted of AJ's whistling over the hum of the motor. But the car had been given to him, free of charge. It was a love/hate relationship.

"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.

Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.

Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.

Rect

2008-06-25T17:38:00.001-07:00

Meta series, Part III

He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.

They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.

That was nearly an hour ago.

The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.

"I see you made it here safely, Mason."

"And you must be Rect."

"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.

"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"

The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.

"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."

The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.

"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.

"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"

"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."

"And the first question?"

"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."

Fury

2008-06-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

Meta Series, Part II

When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.

But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"

"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"

"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.

She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.

"Uh-huh"

"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.

"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."

"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."

"Fury."

He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"

"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."

"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.

"What was yours?," she asked.

"Wait, what?"

"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.

"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"

"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."

"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.

"Where are the towels?"

"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"

"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.

"We have a busy day ahead of us."

"Why do you say that?"

"We're going to see Rect."

"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.

"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.

The Scar

2008-06-25T11:59:00.001-07:00

Meta Series, Part I

He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.

Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?

He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.

He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."

This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.

"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."

"That isn't my name," he said.

"It is now."

Hurt

2008-06-25T11:39:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I forget how good songs are until they are spun again. Here is Johnny Cash's last video, "Hurt" -- a Nine Inch Nails cover.

Yay speeding! Boo tickets!

2008-06-24T15:05:00.000-07:00

So, I got 2 speeding tickets in one week. In one road-trip, actually. I can't say I blame the cops for pulling me over. I mean, I WAS indeed speeding. However, one of the cops was a REALLY nice guy -- he even asked me to think about becoming a member of the CHP -- while the other was just, well, a jerk. Really, I just found it ironic that I can speed in the city where there are tons of cars, but not in the country, where it is really safer to travel at such speed -- nothing to wreck except you, your car and maybe a picket fence. O well. Guess I've learned my lesson.

Pop-Culture Christianity

2008-06-09T14:51:00.001-07:00

Ugh. Where to start? I hate the fact that the Gospel is being repackaged to "fit" a generation of teens and 20-somethings. Christianity isn't something designed to be "cool" and it shouldn't have to fit into the pop-culture box in order to be accepted. Either one of two things should happen: God impresses Himself on the heart of an unbeliever so that the man submits his life to that of Christ and His kingdom; or He does not do so and the man is abandoned to the judgment that is destined him. Harsh, I know, but that is reality.

I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.

The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.

Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.

What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.

We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.

2008-05-28T14:27:00.001-07:00

This song is amazing. Yes, it's Scarlett Johansson. No, I don't care how that makes me look. Don't knock it till you rock it. O, it's a Tom Waits cover, by the way.

Scarlett Johansson -- Falling Down

Sonnet XII

2008-05-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

Not newly written, but worth a post, I think.

O Lovely, do not weep for me –
your salty tears will do nothing
for this poor boy’s heart and
you’ll build up only a well to

die in. This absence will not
be too long, my glorious girl,
and the miles will build
an intimacy like winter. I will

go, always facing the enemy,
heart always held in your
baker’s hands and glowing.

Fly the flag of our deep affection
over the fortifications in your soul
and tell them of our deep resolve.

Destroying/Building Never Felt So Good

2008-05-19T18:27:00.000-07:00

I have no apologies for my lack of writing. I have had little to say. With that, we move onward...

This past weekend, I got a chance to do some ministry with CA. It was called Urban Plunge, we worked with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) and delved into the inner-city. Some people called it a missions trip, though there was little missions work done; it was called an outreach, though that doesn't seem to apply, either. In all honesty, it was more like ministry to those already doing the missions work full-time -- I would definitely call it inreach more than outreach.

That said, on Saturday we woke early and got out to the Pico/Union district in LA. I got to demolish plaster in a building erected in the 20s -- I mean all walls and ceiling in 2 rooms. By the time I was finished, i was covered in white from head to foot, happy as a clam and sore -- very sore. While there, I made a friend in Lukas -- a guy a couple of years older than me, and with a mind for construction (also like me.) We pulled out plaster, chicken wire and floor molding. Az did a great job in helping and getting her hands dirty -- I was very proud.

Next day, arose early again and cruised out to First Evangelical Free Church. There, our team covered multiple projects in a place called The Nehemiah House. -- It is used as a shelter for young adults, a home for the worship pastor and all around cool commune of people. The house was built in 1895 and it shows. Not only is the architecture beautiful, it is in a state of dilapidation and needs repair.

Lukas and I were given the task of drywalling a basement wall. We pulled all posters, shelving, etc. off of it, tore down the old fiberboard construction and erected a new wall made of sheetrock. It took all day, but Az helped with the mudding and taping. All said, it was about 288 square feet, minus the doorframe. We placed the new electrical behind the wall, and cut in slots for the water piping to come through. It was very productive.

Anway, erecting things like that is something I greatly enjoy. 1 Thes. 4:11 makes it a point to tell us to lead a quiet life and to work with our hands. In destroying something of no use, or of danger, and in creating something of beauty and utility in its place, I feel as though this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be doing these things all of the time. So, Lukas and I are going to go back to First EV Free and help out some more. We don't have details yet, but it should be good.

Honestly, I just enjoy working with my hands. I am not writing about my experience to brag, but to get it out. Working like that gives me time to ponder the eternal -- I think a lot about God, Christ and His godhead, and His ability to construct something beautiful from the damned. Its funny, but it puts things into perspective -- in placement of a sinner, God has erected a saint. The metaphor is imperfect, but it is one that stays with me.

That Perfect Time of Year

2008-02-11T16:52:00.000-08:00

We are currently in that time of year when I can potentially snowboard and surf in the same day; we are getting winter storms on the mountains and in the oceans, but the water is still nice enough to surf in.

This past Saturday some friends and I decided to check out Bolsa Chica; there was a large groundswell pushing to the Northwest and a slight onshore wind (both of which do not make for spectacular conditions), but the water was nice and Az got to see me surf. I was just happy to be back in the ocean again, reminded of eternity with every paddle. Turning around toward the shore, I was able to see the white-capped San Bernardino mountains and couldn't help but be amazed at God's overwhelming big-ness (yes, big-ness.) Azina took some pictures. I am quite fond of them... you should be, too. :)

Such an American

2008-01-24T15:06:00.000-08:00

We as Americans work more than anyone else on the planet. We are workaholics. I feel like I am beginning to "fit right in" to my own culture -- I have gotten a second job.

On top of my 40 hour a week position at Prime, I am also throwing freight and driving a truck for a courier service at night, M-Thursday. Here is my schedule:

0830am -- Wake up
930 -- Leave for Prime
1030 -- Begin working
0300pm -- lunch!
0700 -- Get off work and drive home
0800 -- Get home; nap until 0820
0830 -- Leave for work
0900 -- Begin working
0330am -- Get off work
0400 -- Go to sleep

All of this to say, please pray for me. I don't want to burn out, but I need to pay bills and make ends meet. I went to my primary boss yesterday and asked for a raise. He is working on it.

My Prayer Today

2007-12-03T16:56:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I write out my prayers, especially when I am at work and taking time to close my eyes lends people to believe that I am sleeping. This particular one sort of encompasses some of the things that I have been learning about because of Brennan Manning and his passionate messages -- that is why I am posting it. Please do not consider these words Pharisaic, as they were not intended to reach anyone else's ears but God's.

My God, this poor boy has been ransomed by your grace and, with downcast eyes, I realize your love is like the oceans with their dark and wondrous depths. Teach my heart to pray in silence, my mind not to wander, my feet to be sure in each step of the journey. You have met me in the deafening quiet of my faith and you mix it with your blood, knowing how weak I am. My Father, I am not of the substance of heroes, but I pray you would use these rough and calloused hands for your kingdom. May I be a blessing to others, even as you have been a blessing to me. Lord, I want to know how to love unconditionally: teach me to pray for my enemies, to make space for your depth in my shallow self, to give my heart to you more fully. God, steal your glory back from me, for I do not know what to do with it, even as I try to rob it from you. Thank you for your goodness, for your incomprehensible nature, for your ruthless, unmitigated grace.

Sonnet VI

2007-12-03T13:06:00.000-08:00

Sonnet VI

Barefooted, you tread the soft soil
damp earth of my self, quietly --
too quiet for words, or sighs
or breath – you come into the

center of my bosom like a phantom
and your hands reach up my trellis
counting the worn and tattered leaves;
I am growing warm underfoot.

With your eyes made of honey
and lips tasting of blood, your
silent invasion has caused a ripple

across my country-side; there are fires
where there was once peace. My damp earth
self is flooded with flame.

Sonnet V

2007-11-14T18:42:00.000-08:00

Sonnet V

I awoke with clear and honest eyes
to you -- the embodiment of soft parts
and soft words, to your singing in warm hallways --
to corridors smelling of your handiwork.

With your voice, the bread rises with the sun, golden,
the cherries sweetly drain at mid-day,
the potatoes murmur in their boil at dusk.
But your crowning lies in the after-glow

of pumpkin-spice along the apple-pathways,
plucking fallen fruit from the orchard floor
and dusting each as a child before they

rest in soft-piles at the road-side.
How we dance in the honeysuckle goodness of your
hands, how we take in solid joy by the mouthful.

Sonnet IV

2007-11-13T17:10:00.000-08:00

Sonnet IV

Naked, your body has the fullness of the horizon
The roundness of your breasts like the curvature of the world
where heaven meets earth and the
sea casts its shape.

In the Autumn twilight, I see you nude with poppies
and laurel, with the brown clay of our youth,
with fire and flood in your eyes.

Naked, you have traveled into my dreams, and naked
you rest there,
cupped like a dove in the palm of my hand
lying quiet in the hollow of my abdomen

My naked and lovely queen, how
your form calls to the glory of
the world.

Sonnet III

2007-11-12T18:27:00.000-08:00

Sonnet III

In the wood-workings, the carvings of lost cultures
I glimpse your almond-eyes, standing as a
testament to time, a lighthouse in the darkness;
a piercing, perfect apparition.

Where the hibiscus grows and the sea-sand
glistens, there your tiny feet leave prints
on wet soil, fitting within my own impressions
in the dust. Here, even as we are apart

you live inside me. Where I travel, there
too you will be. When I float about those
bulbous waves as driftwood and the sea
robs me of my everything, still

I will keep you in the hollow
I've built within me. You will be carried still.

Pablo Neruda and the 100 Love Sonnets

2007-11-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I picked up 100 Love Sonnets by the 1971 Nobel Laureate and my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda. He dedicated the entire book, every line, word and phrase to his beloved wife. With that in mind, I have decided to try my hand at a similar, though much smaller endeavor. I will write 20 sonnets and post them as they come. The term sonnet will be more a loose reference than a strict adherence. I will try to maintain an octet and sextet. I have written 2 sonnets today, so here they are.

Sonnet I

The twilight brings you to me
your thick-as-night hair destined
to entwine about my body, as heat
wrapped round the sun.

In your earthy-eyes, I see
the wheat and deep-soil color of kisses
of your lips pressed against my open heart
and the pulse of harvest, of wine.

Your hips, my portion of the moon
the sway and pounding of sea-salt
in the air, on my skin, in my body --
you have taken dominion.

May you produce a new measure, a new
world in me with your earth-forming eyes
and echo of endless foam.

Sonnet II

You are the heiress of beauty, a ray of stardust
of fire, of flame. Lighting in me that hot tempest,
you melt my bones and take the marrow of my manhood
for your own.

You drink me in with little sips, like lemonade
on summer days. Salty and biting, I go in your mouth
and traverse the insides of your body,
exploring the hidden hills with dark clarity.

My wild-fire, when your hands have seared my heart
and my blood boils with longing, when your pink'd
cheeks have scalded this white chest and burnt
into this body of wood, take me as your own --

Take me and recall my oaken fragility,
let the scent of my burning be your stonghold.

He Kau -- A Season

2007-11-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

I am working on writing in Hawaiian, though I am sometimes unsure of the grammar. Here is the latest hand at it.

Kaini'i ikaika
Na nalu nui, huhu, hae
He kino o koa hehe'e
O konikoni
Me limu kohu, me lipoa
Emi a kahe 'oe
Kai make me ka mahina
Kaimalie,
Na wai o kalama
Ho'opa kahakai
Malu, kakahiaka hiki mai

English:

Powerful, salt-encrusted sea
waves large, angry, fierce
a body of melting, fluid strength
of passion
with red seaweed
and valuable seaweed
You ebb and flow
tides receding with the moon.
Silent sea, light on your waters
touching the shore
Peace, dawn approaches

A Funny Birthday

2007-11-08T10:30:00.001-08:00

Saturday was my biological mom's birthday. She turned 57. A few days previous, Pualani and I put our heads together and decided to bar-b-q for her. Az was cool enough to come meet her, bake some cookies and brownies, and hang with us all afternoon. It had been over a year since I had last seen her.

At times, I got a distinct awkward feeling, as though we didn't really know one another. I suppose that is true. But we had some fun talking about when I was a boy and I think Az got a chance to see how I interact with my biological family a little more, so that was good.

For her gift, I made her a CD what we listened to while playing some dominoes. She loved it. I also did some hula for her, as I heard that she misses home.

The best part of the whole thing was just the time that we got to spend together and the fact that we got to eat. There were some initial set-backs to our cooking endeavors (Pualani was late to her own house, there was a stove-top fiasco, no lighter fluid, the coals wouldn't burn, etc.) but everything worked out in the end.

As a result of this whole thing, Pua said she is thinking about dancing when the Ike Kume class begins. I'm seriously looking forward to it.

Kahi Ao ka Mauka

2007-11-05T16:16:00.000-08:00

Kahi ao ka mauka
Kahi po ke kai;
Kunihi ka mauka,
Malie ke kai.
Na wai no Kakahiaka
Kalama no Po'ele'ele
Ola, Make
Malu, Kaua
Na'e ku laua

Ke Kaiao O Ka La Mua

2007-10-26T12:03:00.001-07:00

The Dawning of a New Generation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hula

2007-10-18T13:41:00.002-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Wrestling With Piper

2007-10-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Piece of a Chapter

2007-09-21T13:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weird Lady at Work

2007-09-12T10:36:00.000-07:00

Her name is Liz. Older. Totally nutters.

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

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

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

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

Barn Builders, a Bildungsroman -- page One

2007-09-06T01:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

"Ok Pop, I get it."

"Do you?"

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

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

"Ok, Ok. I get it."

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

"I know that. Just curious."

"You got other plans?"

"Like what, sir?"

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

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

"Ok. Suits me fine, too."

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

The Letter

2007-09-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Dad,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Progress

2007-08-29T18:48:00.000-07:00

If you don't like, or are offended, by the F-bomb, don't read this poem!

There are many days
when I am too tired and
weather-worn to rise --
the alarm clock is a god-forsaken
testament to Progress --
Fuck Progress, I say
but I rise to dress with a pain
in my back
and sleep in my eyes
anyway.

Lights on, lights off --
I don't care.
I pull my jeans on over
my legs and hop-skotch
over soiled garments to the sink,
where I splash my face
and shave (every three days)
and put on deodorant,
brush my teeth,
pretend I am human again
and bemoan my need of a paycheck --
I'd rather be surfing,
or sleeping,
or sleeping on the beach in quiet
anticipation of surf,
but Progress has me at a 10-7
and I say Fuck Progress!
and sit through traffic anyway.

My boss is a douche-bag
and the work is a pain
but I say Fuck Progress
and do it anyway.

Autumn -- A Sonnet

2007-08-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

This poem was written due to the change in seasons, the fresh start at Autumn and because I have heard a few folk speak of how this time of year is their favorite. It has been a while since I have last written a sonnet, but I wanted to try my hand at something with a little more form.

When once the leaves of living green did sway
and take the color from August morning
to float or spin through Summer wind each day
falling to Terra for her adorning.
Now the vig'rous pigment drains from faces
brittling stems and turning green to golden,
they wither, break in the driest places
crashing quiet to the Earth beholden.

The children come, as they are want to do
to stampede neat piles into mulch and mire --
Scattered to the winds by high-kicking boots
leaves end up as martyrs, kindling for fire.
From bowered at branch to litt'ring the streets
high in the heavens to tramped under feet.

Kakau -- Tattoo

2007-08-29T12:20:00.000-07:00

Something I threw together. It is a work in progress. If you don't know about Hawaiian myth, this might be a little over your head. They believed that the spirit could be captured and forced back into the body through the sole of the foot, essentially slapping the spirit in. Also, Ka'ena is a place in Western O'ahu where the dead were said to jump into the Underworld (Po). Rowing is merely a symbol for the dead to continue in their activities that they participated in while still living. The last line simply means, "Remember Us."

Trace the symbols in blood and ink,
with fingertips and palms and eyes
perfect shapes of triangles
within triangles
within a greater portrait
to convey a greater meaning.
My leg and my shoulder
both tapestries to honor those
long dead
jumping from Ka'ena
or else floating down a quiet island stream
spirits too crisp, too strong
to head back through the feet
and the rowing goes ever on
and forever onward
I carry those generations in my flesh.
A constant reminder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crimson seeps out and the black soaks in
sealing the present and the past
speaking in languages unheard
though understood beyond time,
when the ancestors drummed and chanted --
E Ho'omana'o Makou!

Standing Up

2007-08-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

Jeff, my good friend, would never profess to being incredibly brave or courageous. His humility has a tendency to far-outshine these attributes and many a man would more quickly describe him as meek. However, this post is dedicated to him and his "intestinal fortitude," so to speak, in the face of danger and possible destruction.

Too often in our society, we men lie in beds of shame and fear while the world around us crumbles under its own dead weight. This story should prove itself an exception to those mornings of cold chill and colder hearts.

On August 27, 2007 Jeff woke up to the ring of his alarm clock at 4 in the morning. Such the creature of habit, he hit the sleep button, turned over and was comforted by the warmth of his wife by his side. They both teach at the high school level -- he crafting murals out of language, she creating fortresses out of paint and charcoal. A few minutes later, shots rang out in his apartment complex, jarring him awake where the alarm clock failed.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop. Pop.

Jeff, like many men, lay in bed and contemplated what he should do next. Continuing in his half-rest amidst twisted sheets, or getting up to continue in his normal routine, seemed the easiest and safest route to take. However, that is not what he did. He told Lindsey, his wife, that he was going to check it out and got dressed in his work clothes. Leaving the house and heading in the direction of the shots, he had his cell phone ready to dial the police. He entered a hallway and heard the muffled sobs, gasps and heavy breathing of an injured woman.

She stood propped against the wall, obviously in need of medical attention. She held a phone in her hand, but -- due to the trauma she had experienced -- she was unable to dial. She said she had been shot twice. Once in the arm. And once in the chest. Jeff hit the send button on his phone, gave directions to the police and moved forward to further evaluate the woman's injuries. As he did so, he noticed two men not far away, wrestling on the ground. The man on top yelled out,

"Help me pin him down. He shot her."

Jeff ran over and jumped on the bottom man's legs, holding him there for approximately 8 minutes until the police arrived, assault rifle in hand. All of the men (including Jeff) were handcuffed and questioned. When it was realized that Jeff called the police, they released him.

The woman lived, largely due to the fact that Jeff was there to dial for help. Being shot in the chest is sort of a big deal.

However, Jeff does not see it that way. When I told him he was a hero, he didn't believe me. He just did what he thought he should do, that's it.

I wish there were more men like this; men who saw these sorts of things that should be investigated and acted on them, even when that steel in the pit of your stomach is heavy and your mind says no. Don't go outside. It isn't worth it. Play it safe.

Just as important, I wish there were more women like Lindsey, who let Jeff take the risk. Who see the value in letting a man put himself out on the line. Who know the value of protection and the inherent danger of marrying a man of courage, valor and action.

So Jeff, thank you for being such a humble and brave example.

A Closeness to Death

2007-08-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

Taken from the most current issue of the Paris Review, in an interview with Norman Mailer. This portion is in reference to Ernest Hemingway. (whom I consider a fundamental influence on my writing.)

INTERVIEWER
Do you remember where you were when you heard Hemingway had killed himself?

MAILER
I remember it very well. I was with Jeanne Campbell in Mexico and it was before we got married. I was truly aghast. A certain part of me has never really gotten over it. In a way, it was a huge warning. What he was saying is, Listen all you novelists out there. Get it straight: when you’re a novelist you’re entering on an extremely dangerous psychological journey, and it can blow up in your face.

INTERVIEWER
Did it compromise your sense of his courage?

MAILER
I hated to think that his death might do that. I came up with a thesis: Hemingway had learned early in life that the closer he came to daring death the healthier it was for him. He saw that as the great medicine, to dare to engage in a nearness to death. And so I had this notion that night after night when he was alone, after he said goodnight to Mary, Hemingway would go to his bedroom and he’d put his thumb on the shotgun trigger and put the barrel in his mouth and squeeze down on the trigger a little bit, and—trembling, shaking—he’d try to see how close he could come without having the thing go off. On the final night he went too far. That to me made more sense than him just deciding to blow it all to bits. However, it’s nothing but a theory. The fact of the matter is that Hemingway committed suicide.

First and foremost, please note that I do not have an infatuation with the morbid or macabre, nor do I run that little test of will that Mailer would like to believe Hemingway did to prove his bravery, courage and stupidity. However, I wish that I might stand close to death unblinking -- perhaps that is why I write so much, or bring myself to the wilderness of my thoughts time and again; why I find life in the most absurd, perhaps stupid events of adrenaline-rushing goodness. Perhaps that is why I enjoy love so much, because I feel no more fear, no more joy, no more closer to death than when I am loving a woman unbridled.

More Car Stuff

2007-08-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

The Jetta has a new engine in it -- its actually a rebuilt engine with only 50,000 miles on it -- and it cost a total of $2600 to repair (including the initial thermostat and work involved.) It is running like a champ, gets good gas mileage and is in great condition. Oh, and I am selling it.

During the Jetta's hiatus, I bought a 2005 Subaru WRX.

As a result of said purchase, I am parting with the Jetta -- hopefully -- so that someone will get a nice car and will be able to just take over my payments. The car blue books for 5k, though I only owe four on it (and that is not if you call and just get a pay off quote.) At any rate, my new car is blue, fast and awesome. Her name is Scoops. (as she has a turbocharger and is inter-cooled -- hence a hood-scoop.)

Getting Lost in the Woods -- Cedar Creek and the Fishbowls

2007-08-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

We set out around dawn for Cedar Creek and the Fishbowls, a trail just North of the Grapevine and in the Los Padres National Forest. We arrived near nine with backpacks bulging with gear and hearts pounding with anticipation. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we were supposed to do 9 miles over 2 days, something relatively light. The guidebook mentioned swimming holes, a long winding creek and cold, clear water. Needless to say, we were hooked.

As we left the confines of the car, double-checked our packing, water supply and strength of laces, I couldn't help but wonder why I had this irrepressible feeling in my gut. I cannot explain it away, but I took the time this trip to make sure everyone knew where we were going, when we were coming back and when to call the authorities should we fail to return. I do this every time, but somehow something felt.... off. We headed off to the trail, the creek and the woods that lay before us. At the last minute, April decided to leave the guidebook in her trunk, which I thought was a fruitless idea. We ended up paying for it.

We began our trek into the wild unknown, tramping up hills, through gullies and ravines and over fallen logs, rocks, etc. Beautiful meadows opened up before us in the midst of an oak forest, then a glen of cedars and pine. I couldn't help but notice the fire damage that had been done. For every healthy tree, we saw just as many burnt out, rotting corpses. Manzanita bushes -- usually hearty and difficult to kill -- were black and rust colored, weary and cold looking compared to the lush green leaves over red barked branches we had become so accustomed to. It was disheartening, haunting and still somehow beautiful. I think necessary is a good word to describe it.

After about 3 and a half miles we came across a guy whose name we never caught but had brought a bunch of old gear with him for the trek including a drywall hammer that he was using as a hatchet, a fishing pole (though the stream bed had dried up with the exception of a few still water places) and a felt-looking bedroll. He honestly looked more homeless than hiker, but we got along well and took a gander at his map. We nick-named him Kansas, as that is where he is originally from. As we took off ahead of him, we knew that we had to make a right at a fork in the trail coming up..... but the trail sign became faint and unreadable. As a result, we stopped for lunch in the shade of an old oak tree. The above picture is of April munching on some dried apple slices, while the lower shot is of the other side of the clearing.
After lunch, we picked up our packs and decided to walk back to the stream, thinking that it may have been there that we missed the fork in the road. It was only half a mile or so and it didn't take us long to get to Kansas again. After informing him of our plans, he decided to try and build a trail off of the scant sign that was available and we never saw him again. I hope he made it out ok.

Coming back to the stream bed, we noticed that the trail diverged for a few hundred yards and then petered out. We climbed a ridge, looked out with my binoculars and couldn't find any sign of trail ware. As a result, we decided to bed down for the hottest part of the day in the shade, have an early dinner and make the trip back to the car by evening. I had to think about our water supply since the stream was dry; if we managed to lose our way without water, our chances of survival would quickly become massively unappealing.

We napped out in the shade of some incense cedar for about 2 hours, going between sleeping and reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. The above photo is of us, just before packing up and heading back.

We made good time as the heat had dissipated and we were rested and well fed. But eventually, I noticed that the trail had become different somehow; where we should have been seeing oak trees, we were still seeing cedar. Something felt off and I knew it. We stopped to talk about it and I took a shot of this sugar pine below. The sun caught it just right and I thought it made for a pretty cool photo. Anyway, April was convinced that it was "just beyond the next ridge" every time I mentioned it. We kept moving, with her in the lead, keeping us on trail.

Then, about half an hour later, we came to another trail head. A foreign one. We didn't know where we were, but I noticed the road about a a fifth of a mile ahead, through an overgrown meadow. The sun was beginning to hit the tree line in its abdomen and I knew we only had a couple of hours of daylight left. Plus the water was running low. After getting to the road, we talked about it some more and I thought we should head up the road... Northeast for about 2 miles. I knew we couldn't be too far off and we parked at the first camp down the road. April thought it wiser to head Southwest... down the road, because of where the stream crossed the trail about a mile farther away. After thinking about it, I decided it wise that we not split up, so I headed Southwest with April.

We hiked for an additional couple of hours, right into the last edge of dusk and came to the end of the road. We were tired, out of water and hungry. But the majority of our food is freeze-dried and, as a result, takes hot water to make. We turned around and headed in the other direction, moving about 2 miles from the end of the road, so we were half-way between the meadow and what I think is Half-Moon Camp. We diverted from the road, hiked up a high ridge, looked around, and saw no signs of cars. The road was deserted for miles in every direction. We were becoming dehydrated from the elevation and increased activity on our lungs.

I decided it best to get back to the road and bed down for the night. We hiked maybe a mile or so when the cramps set in -- I couldn't walk for fear of my calves exploding. I stopped, sat, stretched, then made my way back onto the road. We blew the emergency whistle a few times with no response and thus decided it wisest to rest and then head back up the road (recovering the 2 miles we had just walked) to get to the car. There was no way we were trekking back into the wilderness.

The below shot is April resting on the trail amidst a cedar glen as we walked Southwest down the road.
The next morning broke and I found myself unwanting to move. My throat was parched, legs tremendously sore and the huge blisters on my feet from the day before were nowhere near healed. Water was the first priority. We walked up the road a couple miles and found where the stream ran through the dirt road, with rocks and such creating a bit of a dip or a pool. We pulled out the water filter and filled 3 nalgene bottles. I also took the time to dunk my shirt, bandana and Yankees hat into the stream-bed. We continued walking.

After another 2 or 3 miles, we came to a car coming up the road, who stopped and told us we were "just around the bend." I couldn't have heard better words. The car lay in the distance, ready for our ride home.

All said, I calculate that we walked somewhere around 18 miles, give or take a couple. It was a hard couple of days -- ones that I will remember and even cherish, though I wish we could have just headed Northeast once we got to that last trail head.

Jetta Update.

2007-07-25T14:32:00.000-07:00

It's dead.

I blew a head gasket and it is going to cost $600 just to see what else might be wrong. I just can't afford this, so I am a at a bit of a loss. It looks like I am going to fix it, sell it for blue book, pay off the difference of what I owe and then buy a new car.

But as of right now, I'm pretty near broke. Keep praying.

Damon

2007-07-24T17:38:00.000-07:00

Johnny Damon is .... well ... sucking right now. I know the Yanks are on a hot streak, but they need to put Cabrera at the top of the order and let Johnny take a rest and figure out where his swing went. Otherwise, I don't know how long this awesome streak can last.

Living on Grace While Life is on the Fritz

2007-07-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

Life sucks; its an axiom.

My car started acting up a couple of days ago -- overheating where it used to run cool. I took it in to the shop, payed $300 and they changed the thermostat, flushed the coolant system and replaced a couple of hoses. Unfortunately, they didn't fix the problem. As it turns out, I also blew a head gasket and, as the mechanic mentioned consulting his machinist before giving me a quote some time today, I may have also cracked a head.

Not good.

I have been living in God's grace for the past couple of months, waiting for a job, waiting to get back on my feet, waiting to pay back my friends who have so graciously given me money to pay rent, etc. But its trying.

Sometimes I feel as though I am not living out God's purpose for my life because I am unable to provide for all of my needs, or handling life's financial curve balls proves to be difficult. But I know in my heart of hearts that God is good, that He is much bigger than me or my situation, that He has my back where everyone else would have walked away. Here are two examples of God's goodness, proven to me yesterday.

1. I'm driving home in my sister's car and the sky opens up clear and bright. Seriously clear in Los Angeles. There were a few clouds here and there, all wispy like pulled-cotton against the powder-blue backdrop. I took a picture of it on my phone and felt comforted by God, knowing beyond basic knowledge that God is good. I nearly cried.

2. On the same drive home I called a couple of friends to begin creating a prayer network to get the Jetta fixed. One of the people I called was my good friend April. She's pretty cool -- we climb, surf and hike together. We would snowboard together too, if she could get down the mountain fast enough. Anyway, she fixes the fences at gated communities and works at Starbucks for a living. I tell her what's going on, she says she'll pray and that's that. Or so I thought. Later in the evening I went to the gamers' cafe with Jeff and April called. She said she was stopping by my place to see if I was there and, as I wasn't she left me a note. I didn't think much of it. It sort of happens from time to time. Upon getting home I notice the note she mentioned, tucked inside of an old cardboard cd case. Inside was a list of things to bring for the backpacking trip we are taking this weekend and a check for $400. There was no note, no explanation, just open-hearted generosity.

God, if this is what you have in mind for the rest of my life -- learning to lean into You, to trust you as you provide for my needs, even while I walk, hands forward in the darkness -- count me in.

Hiking, a precursor

2007-07-13T12:43:00.000-07:00

Maybe this is not common knowledge, but I am an avid outdoorsman. I love to hike, fish, backpack, etc. as you should be well aware, if it takes self-reliance and a prayer to make the journey -- if I can find God in the silence and the dusk of the tall grass, count me in.

But I haven't been hiking in nearly 3 months.

That, however, is going to change beginning this weekend. Azina decided it a grand idea to plan an outing for us to Solstice Canyon in Malibu -- which I am amped about! She is partly doing it because she is awesome, but also because I am turning 25 on Saturday (tomorrow for all of you who can't figure out what day I wrote this on.) It should be nice being able to get up early, grab a bite to eat and walk through the wilderness.

Then, next week a good friend (Jeff) and I are going bungee-jumping again. It is a 5 mile hike each way, so that should be great. (I am also looking forward to the jumping.)

Finally, April and I are backpacking the weekend after over a 9 mile hike, twisting up switchbacks and ending near a lake of some sort. Again, should be awesome.

I just hope my legs/back are ready for it!

The longest one

2007-07-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

I have been working on this poem today. It is still unfinished, but I thought it might be nice to get some feedback. It is a love story (Surprise!)

Your name has reached me
on the sea-salt winds --
it has entwined itself in my bosom
& stretched deep into my heart
building up a little tower
a stronghold
and, pushing into my blood,
grows roots
with every breath of my body.
You and I
we walked together
along the sun-bronzed shore
and down the muddied lane --
staining our feet with the landscape.
We would meander through the paved
and cobbled streets
where the baker's scent found us
in the goldenrod afternoon
and we pulled apart his sweet bread
with sticky fingers
to taste its flesh upon our mouths.
Do you remember those soporific days, my love?
Do you remember stopping
in that alley to let
time slow,
just a step,
that we might kiss
under the amber light of dawn?
I remember.
I cannot forget.
I recall the night I sped to your open arms
when the glow of your lamplight shone
through your window
and the shock of your touch sent me reeling.
How, with meteor and steel
your comet searing lips made their way
through those unnamed corridors
of oblivion
and I tensed at its burning.
Then I mapped the coastline
and gave special care to your wild places,
breathing in your wheat and honey skin,
expanding your name in my bosom
and navigating through the sea of your eyes,
floating and sinking, living in them,
living on them and their sustenance.
In the Spring,
in the Spring
our outcropping of a life will grow
and our love with it,
so that, when we share the fire
you will sleep in my shadow and keep warm.
In the cold and harsh times
when life is but a dormant memory,
when the eucalyptus ceases its growth
we will go on.
It will be so because your name is on
the sharp Northern wind
and it rakes away the lonely leaves
and gives us strength
to create anew.
It is in these times, my love,
when we will see with honest eyes
and the scent of jasmine and youth
will cause our smiling.
In the dancing shadows of windy Winter,
when your naked silhouette shivers
in the mist
these arms will cover you;
they will cover your perfect breasts,
they will massage away the fear
gripping Spring tightly in both hands
and pulling firmly on the sun
so that the tapestry of my skin will calm your
fragile form.
Then, my love, we will
go walking as before.
And again the roses and junipers,
the ash and pines,
rocks and mountains --
they will say a name,
an unknown and lovely sound,
for it is our Love-Name;
it will be written
on the humped-backs of the waves
roiling forth toward the earth,
and in the stardust
and the moonlight.
The wind will whisper it
in a long-forgotten tongue
so that we will be tied to creation
even as I am tied to you.

Daniel.

2007-07-11T16:22:00.001-07:00

There are times in my life when I wish that my pockets went a little deeper, or that my heart were a little bigger. A couple of Sundays ago, I had one of those experiences.

I am currently attending services at CA (Christian Assembly) in Eagle Rock, CA. I stand abreast of them theologically, appreciate the applicable, exegetical style of preaching and have found myself steadily building a community which I am able to help support and vice-versa. For all intents and purposes, I am already beginning to think of CA as "home."

But sometimes you want to punch your brother right in the face.

The evening service, called Fusion, is the service I usually attend; it is geared more or less toward the 18-35 demographic, though the worship and sermon for the day do not change. At any rate, I really enjoy it. So there I am, sitting next to Azina in the 3rd row from the back, minding my own business, listening to the message being given when POW!, in comes a guy, totally late, obviously drunk, disheveled, and maybe a little off his rocker. I imagined he was homeless, or close to it. He came into my row, politely garbled an "excuse me," stepped on my unshoed feet in passing and sat down next to Azina.

To show her comfort -- as I could tell she was obviously uncomfortable -- I put my arm around her.

We resume listening to Mark explain whatever it was he was explaining. (Honestly, I was thinking of that guy sitting next to my girl, wondering about the last time he had a meal, or a shower, or a meal and a shower in the same day.) Then, this guy -- he begins agreeing with Mark from where he is sitting with slurred words and joy! I don't mean that sort of joy mixed in with religiosity and a cool "I love Jesus, but I know when its time to say 'Amen'" sort of joy. I mean real, unbridled, rising-above-the-human-condition sort of joy. The sort of joy you only get to hear about.

Then, people begin looking back, staring. Gaping. Judging.

Men and women alike craned their necks to peer at this man, to silently mock him, to scream "Shut up!" with their eyes, to mingle in their hate of anything "other" with that of their faith in Jesus. A guy about my age at the end of my row came and sat down next to the joyful one, putting his arm around him and whispering for him to be quiet. An apology was given and the man became quiet, somber, ill-at-ease. But soon, very soon, really, he got back to agreeing with Mark, to making his presence known, to exclaiming that he understood. I felt a joy rise up in me for this man. I agreed too. Why was I the quiet one?

So another, older man looks back and retreats up the stairs into the foyer of the sanctuary. Remember, we are seated in the sanctuary, where everyone should feel safe. This is where criminals used to grab the horns of the altar and seek forgiveness. But not this time. An usher came and excused the inebriated man from the rest of the crowd, relegating him to the back of the building. At this point, Mark looked up from his teaching and saw the man escorted out of the sanctuary; he didn't say a word.

It was then that I felt a fury in my bones and I wished to God for violence.

I cannot tell you what the remainder of the service was about because I had stopped paying attention. I had started planning. When all was said and done I got up from my pew and told Azina I would catch up to her. I found the man as he came back in and grabbed him in an embrace.

"Hey brother," I said.
"Hey!," he said.

I found out his name is Daniel. He lives with his brother and has been actually staying sober. (He wasn't drunk after all -- just damaged from all the alcohol and hard times of his life.) We walked across the street to the cafe, I got him some food and we talked. He told me about his time in Viet Nam, his love for Jesus, his brother. I told him about when I was a kid, being homeless, motel life, Jesus, my brother. Even sitting down and talking, people continued to gawk. I couldn't believe it. We departed for the evening, but I know that I will see Daniel again; I hear he is a bit of a regular attender at CA.

Yet I do not understand the men and women of Modern Christianity. Didn't Jesus say that we should clothe the needy, give them food and drink, a place to rest, visit the prisoners, have pity on the widow? Didn't he say that if we did that to them, we were doing it to him? Aren't the poor in spirit blessed? Are these people reading a different Bible than me?

So, I can only do what I have been called to; I am very grateful that I am not responsible for any others' salvation, because -- by this point -- I would have braided myself a cord of leather. I understand that violence is not the answer, though sometimes it seems the easiest route.

The only thing I can say is to remember not to put a limit on your generosity. Who cares what the homeless man does with your dollar? It was never yours to begin with. If you don't have the time to teach the man to fish, why do you withhold the bit of extra that you do have? I understand that it could lead to building a welfare state, but everything you are entrusted with doesn't amount to much if you go hoarding away all of your talents.

Didn't the early Church believe that withholding charity from the poor was the same as thievery?

My God

2007-07-10T20:10:00.001-07:00

Something I am working on. Maybe something like a psalm.

Give me Your Name in fire
in meteor steel, in windy whispers
Bruise my calloused, thick-skinned body
with the all-consuming wieght of Your touch;
Brush against my face with the tenderness
of Your fingertips
Cause me, O Faithful One, to remember
the glory of Your back as You walk past --
and I uncover my eyes to glimpse
Your Radiance;
Help me to recall my true name
The name You have called me by since
darkness, since time unending
Tattoo me with Your Love,
That I might not forget,
that Your Name will always remain
On these lips, in this heart, even in murky, milky
silence.

A More Commodious Space, Though Now I Have to Flush the Toilet

2007-07-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

The new job is working out pretty well; I actually get a cubicle which I can "decorate" however I choose, as opposed to the "Desk in the Round" setting of the old job, which felt a little 3rd grade-ish. As a result, it is a little more commodious (spacious) though there are a couple of drawbacks. They are as follows:

1. We are sort of situated in the hood.
2. The bathroom isn't nearly as nice -- I have to actually push the handle to flush the toilet.
3. No more free soda. :(
4. The "kitchen" also doubles as the supply closet.

We should be moving to a new office on the 8th floor within the next 2 months and renovating a lot, which I am looking forward to. As I said, this is a pretty cool place; thus far, I really like the people and am getting along quite well. When the dust settles, I hope to move up fairly effortlessly.

The Start of Something New

2007-07-09T08:11:00.001-07:00

Today is a funny day; I dragged myself out of bed at 7 am to turn on the shower and breathe in the steam from the hot water. I'm not usually up this early in the morning, at least not on a regular basis. (Granted, sometimes I stay up until about this time, but then I can just go to bed and wake up sometime post-meridian.)

At any rate, I'm up with a bit of free time before I leave in 15 minutes. I'm beginning a new job and am currently in that ambivalent state somewhere between excitement and dread. I'm very happy that I can work on something new, utilizing the gifts I have been given on a more regular basis, but I sort of fear that I won't live up to expectation -- having more experience on the desk than most of the editors currently employed by this new company -- Prime Newswire. As it turns out, I have been out of work for over a month now, though I knew I had locked this job in after my first (and only) interview that lasted more than 3 hours -- which took place over a month ago at this point as well.

I heard that this company was a little unorganized, but I had not realized how true that actually was. I would get calls asking me if I had spoken with so and so and, when I answered in the negative, I was told someone would call me back. Through this job, God is already quickening my patience and giving me this sense that I am in for an exciting, though bumpy ride.

Anyway, I begin the new job, essentially doing the exact same thing I was doing at PRN, though the possibility for growth within the company is drastically improved, it is a little farther away and I will now be on the day shift. Since I don't mind hard work, driving and hanging out with my friends at night, I think this is a good move.

The advent of death in a dying world

2007-06-19T13:58:00.000-07:00

It has been nearly a month since my last blog and I am somewhat ashamed about it. However, the past week has been difficult as my grandmother on my father's side passed away and I flew out to New Jersey with Pualani to be with the family. I had not seen many of them since I was nine.

My grandmother lived a good, long life and passed away at the ripe old age of 90. She would have been 91 on the 30th. She was charming, outspoken, a great cook and a lover of the WWE. (seriously.) I got to help out with the obituary and such, as my knowledge of language is a bit far-spread compared with most of the family -- and because I have a basic understanding of how the media works. At any rate, I was out in the pines of New Netherlands feeling both a sense of mourning and joy.

It was nice to see family and all that, but I never realized how different I am from the rest of them. I thought this might be the case, but I had no idea of the actual truth of the matter! My family would readily say yes, they are a bunch of motorcycle-riding pineys (hill billies, mostly.) As a kid, I worshipped my family and their chosen profession of truck-driving. How different I turned out, though! (Thank God for California!)

One last thing: this has been weighing heavily on me. My grandmother was a Lutheran and professed Christian for a long time. Then, at the end of her life, she decided to convert to Mormonism. I am filled with a lead-burden at her choice and have experienced a sorrow beyond words. I hate it when people say, "she is in a better place." It is unfortunate, but I do not think that is true. Her allegiance lied elsewhere. I won't speculate one way or another if I will see her in heaven, but I have never experienced God's sovereignty in such a heart-wrenching way.

My Mother

2007-06-03T23:06:00.000-07:00

This is being penned partly in response to a comment I received from Azina regarding "Running the Gauntlet," a fictional piece I wrote and posted here about a week ago. This story is true.

I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.

On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.

At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.

Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.

At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:

"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.

I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.

Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.

Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.

Driving and Photography, part deux

2007-06-02T19:10:00.000-07:00

A few more (for some reason, blogger was being lame and wouldn't let me put them all together... o well.

Driving and photography

2007-06-02T18:43:00.000-07:00

I know I have not blogged in over a week -- a funny thing for me. During that time though, I have driven out to Lake Havasu in Arizona with a friend and my kid brother. It was just a turnaround trip, as I was doing them a favor by driving them out with the food (they were out to party, camp, jet ski, etc.) The drive is about 330 miles from my house and I took some photos from the road. During the course of that time, I had a chance to relax and drive, occasionally taking shots of the landscape around me.
I really enjoy driving. It is soothing, somehow, to see God's creation, even if you cant always fully appreciate it behind the wheel. However, that's where these photos come from -- every single one was taken while I was driving, on hand on the wheel and one hand on the camera...

On the ride home, I drove alone, quiet and comfortable through the desert. There is something to be said for its simple and elegant beauty. It is mind-boggling hot, but very, very serene. When we used to take trips to the River (Cottonwood Cove out of Lake Mojave), I would get a chance to see lizards, snakes, burros, coyotes and scorpions. They were wonderful. We would hike up to the top of the mesa and just gaze at the creation around us. Sort of breathtaking. It definitely had a way to make me realize my own mortality and a frighteningly awesome way.
That said, I hope you guys enjoy looking at these as much as I enjoyed taking them.

Running the Gauntlet

2007-05-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

*Another story with graphic language. Please be forewarned.

“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.

I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.

“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.

“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.

“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.

“Got your ass beat again, huh?”

“Yeah. Stupid dog.”

“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.

“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”

“Momma gonna hear you!”

“So, I take whatever she got.”

“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”

“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“

I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.

“Told you,” I said.

“What you said?”

“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”

“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”

“You’re a nothing.”

“You gonna turn off the faucet?”

“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”

“I‘ll watch out.”

“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”

“OK.”

“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”

“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”

“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”

“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”

“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.

“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”

“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.

“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”

“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”

“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.

When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”

“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”

“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.

Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.

“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”

The Quiet Life -- and Death -- of Harold Gaines

2007-05-22T15:40:00.000-07:00

**Please note that this story contains strong language. Thanks ahead of time.

“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”

“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.

“Another.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.

His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.

He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.

“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”

“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”

“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.

“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.

It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.

He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.

His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.

He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.

I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.

The Old Itch is Back and More Tenacious Than Ever

2007-05-16T19:58:00.000-07:00

I can't take it much longer -- the sun is killing me and I'm wishing for fresh powder. I think I am officially more of a snowboarder than I am a rock climber, which some would consider a sad day indeed.

Since my job status is currently hanging in the balance and I will officially be unemployed after the 25th of this month, I am beginning to think that I should take a short vacation to travel. At first I thought I should go to El Salvador to visit a couple of guys I know who just bought a hostel out there really close to the beach with a nice shore break -- I could basically stay and surf for free, with the exception of doing a little drywall and a little framing. I also have a friend at Harvard Divinity School and thought, "Hey, I could visit Stella." But I dont know if I can wait for the beginning of the snow season again without losing my mind.

Then I realized I can snowboard in South America RIGHT NOW.

This shot is of Bariloche, Argentina and the one just below it is of Valle Nevado, Chile. When the snows are melting in Canada and the US, South America is getting dumped on. They get more snows than most mountains in the US and have a lot of stuff still undiscovered. Getting some powder time in between jobs seems like a great idea, so long as I can afford it. So now, I am checking into flights, lodging, etc. I don't need much -- just a hostel will do with a bathroom down the hall -- or even an outhouse outside, so long as its warm enough.

Honestly, I am getting excited, maybe for no reason. But that old itch is back and he's more tenacious than ever. Every free moment I get, I am looking at snow videos, reading reviews on new equipment, thinking of riding down steep hills full-out and experiencing the glory of God at 55 mph, open-faced and breathing hard. I only wonder if anyone would be up for joining me for 3-5 days of South American food, snowboarding and cold weather.

At the same time, I know that spending a bunch of money on a summer session in South America would be unwise -- I mean, I am going to be out of a job in a week and a half, even if I am getting a severance package. But, a boy can dream.

If anyone knows of anything cheap and convenient in the way of snowboarding, I would love to know about it, especially if it doesn't entail waiting until November for some fresh powder.

Something Calling

2007-05-14T23:12:00.000-07:00

I have this deep desire inside me, placed there when I was just a boy with battered knees and broken lungs; I long to be a dad, to raise kids, to have a family of my own.

I want my sons (and daughters) to grow passionately into holy men and women, caring for the poor, the widow, the fatherless. I want to spin a destiny for my children so their lives are a reflection, not of me, but of my Father. I want them to cast big shadows and have strong shoulders: to be men of the earth, to use their hands for glory and their words to build kingdoms.

I want my daughters to be raised knowing their worth without burdens placed on their physical appearance; for them to know they are a loved beyond measure daughter of the King, princesses in his castle, precious thoughts to God Himself. I want them to grow into women of faith, character, tender-hearted strength.

In Hawaiian tradition, the naming of a child holds the weight of their destiny; the meaning of their name casts the die over their life, so to speak. A child is meant to grow into their name, much the same way we grow into our Manhood. That being said, I have not picked out names for my children, though there are a couple that I hold more dear than others. It is my hope that my wife will be okay with her children having Hawaiian names -- even if it is only the middle name -- as I think the continuance of my culture important; I hope it remains important to my children.

I do not remember my dad playing catch with me as a boy -- not once, not ever. I was talking to a good friend of mine this weekend while we were building a fence and I told him that I was very excited about playing catch with Azina at the park. (Azina being the awesome girl in my life, with perfect words always at the ready.) He was oddly interested at my excitement and told me I was acting like I had never played catch with my dad before. It was like I, a 24 year old man, had reverted to my 6 year old days. It was then I realized I hadn't. It was sort of an odd moment: epiphanaic. A couple of times we went fishing, I think, and I ended up eating the corn we were using for bait. I can recall a camping trip, some wrestling on the living room floor, the hugs after work. Everything physical sort of ended abruptly due to my asthma as a child, though we would eventually get together again to tickle, wrestle and fight. But that ended at my folks separation when I was but a child; I was one of those men without any sense of proper masculinity until taken in by my hanai father. It was then that he honed the skills and sense of honor that was already a part of me.

So now, years later, this sense of paternal longing is beginning to call to me in a sort of ebb and flow. At times it will be almost too much to bear -- the way I want to raise someone to see God with clear eyes and an open heart. At other times, though, its just... normal. I know I want kids but the desire isn't gripping me like a vice. Today is one of those vice-gripping days.

The Decay of "I love you"

2007-05-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

I was talking to this amazing girl last night on the phone, as has become a bit of a habit, and we fell to discussing the effect that language has on the human heart. I found myself telling her that, when a woman tells me she loves me, I am happy and content for a moment. However, the words eventually grow thin in meaning and decay inside my bosom so that the weight of the words is diminished, as am I with them. In their repetition do we find stale meaning.

But lo, when that same woman tells me that I am strong, courageous, fierce, compassionate, even tempered, brave, tender, righteous, etc., I find my heart grow in size so that my hands are not big enough to wrap themselves around this thing inside me and I fall and float, ecstatic. These words translate more fully as love to me than those old words of consumption. Further, they are not used nearly as often so that, when they are, I am leaded with their meaning, boltered in the downpour of its effect on my masculinity. For, though only masculinity can bestow masculinity, the feminine hand and mind was made to help conjure it when it is most needed, not out of thin air, but out of the wild hearts of the men in her life.

Even still, it could be said that women may come to loathe "I love you" as much as I when its bright filigree has faded and it sits in decay in our hearts, empty ashes of words flying from our mouths when fire is due. To them, I hope things like, "you are worthy to be loved," "you do not go unnoticed," and "I count you as a blessing in my life" weigh as heavily and shine as brightly in their hearts as being told I am fierce shines in mine.

Matt and Ryan -- My Best Friends and Brothers in Righteousness.

2007-05-03T19:07:00.000-07:00

This is Matt. Well, this is Matt's back as he walks away on this incredible bridge in Northern California after Ryan's wedding. (More on Ryan later.)

Anyway, Matt is one of the coolest and most annoying men I have ever had the priviledge of knowing. We met in college during my sophormore year -- his freshman. He was loud, obnoxious and wildly hilarious. At first, we would fight, argue, disagree and just plain not like each other. In all honestly, I would start wrestling wars with the intent to do him a mischief. Oh, and I always won. :) Back to the point, we began talking and I realized that Matt was not just loud, but had a heart for holiness that astounded me. When Matt speaks of God I naturally want to listen. His heart, not just for Jesus, but for the nations, causes men to stand and take notice. He loves the Angels -- I mean seriously loves the team.

The thing is, Matt is really not good with women. He opens his mouth and enters his foot on a regular basis. However, he now has this great girlfriend, Niki. (She's the one on the left-most portion of this photo.) We were both pretty astounded when he and Niki hit it off (also at Ryan's wedding) and he eventually managed to get her to be his girlfriend. Now though, he's back to having the mouth-in-foot disease. He tries hard though.

So, after Matt graduated from CalBaptist we drove his S10 out to Alabama, where he began his seminary career. We got out to Houston (to Ryan's house and the Houston Astros) in 20 hours, got some sleep then caught a movie and a ballgame. Seriously, that was one of the best times in my life and I'm glad I got to share the time with him.

Now, on to Ryan. This is him with his stellar wife, Beth. I also met Ryan my sophormore year when I was in the dorms. He had transferred from Texas and was a few years older. He lived across the hall from me and I couldn't stand my roommate at the time. (Sorry if you're reading this.) I'm pretty sure he thought I was weird at first, but that quickly dissolved into a great friendship. We would go surfing on occasion, but more than that we talked about music and baseball. If there are 2 things Matt and Ryan are passionate outside of Jesus, its baseball and music. Ryan cant play any instruments, but he definitely knows where the volume control is. Also, he invited the entire Houston Astros to his wedding. Seriously. :)

Anyway, we ended up working out our theology together, by and large, and living together our junior and senior years. It quickly became evident that he would be a life-long friend. For a long time Ryan lacked direction -- then he met Bethy-poo while working at camp and his life changed. Everyone's life changed. They fell in love, got married and now they will be moving back down to SoCal (woo-hoo!!!) At any rate, it has been a blessing to see this brother grow and stretch in the Lord, not shirking the growing pains that come along with righteousness, but embracing them.

All of these photos come, as I said, from Ryan and Beth's wedding, just a few short months ago. For the bachelor weekend, Ryan, Matt and I went to Lake Tahoe and did some riding. During that time we fell into being our old selves, loving on one another and encouraging Ryan to help him be a strong husband. This is us at the top of Squaw Hill.

Whose Work Is It?: A Response

2007-05-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

A few posts ago I mentioned a poem I wrote in response to Talaam Acey's "Go_'s Work," in which he posits the idea that modern poets -- more specifically performance poets, i.e. Slam Poets -- are closer to God's idea of ministers than the modern clergy. As previously stated, please check the poem out for yourself. It can be found on his spoken word album called "Pieces of Change."

At any rate, this is my response to that orginal work. I was going to read it a few weeks ago at the Oasis Cafe Open Mic Night, but they couldn't squeeze me in. Any and all comments/criticism welcome.

I heard today that poets do God’s work
and my itty-bitty poems are the words of creation –
As though my inventions were inspired from the inside of the Creator
and the lines I spew were wired from above –
Those rhymes that come out metaphysical and askew
line up the universe and eclipse the wars of today in a fog.

But let me ask: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?
Again: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?

Shouldn’t we be the ones to care for the widow?
We, who proclaim war or peace in the streets,
shouldn’t we be the bringers of hope to this generation,
so that we regenerate the wretched and wrench them out of their degradation?
We, who sleep in poet’s dens and bleed our lives through the poet’s pen –
our voices should be raspy with the effects of affecting humanity –
our feet should be sore with uncountable miles.
We should give hope in tribulation and trial –
our child should be fat with wisdom and lean in ignorance.
But where is the humility of longing for renewed innocence?
If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then we should spit for change and not for silver.
And our lines should warm hearts in the dead of winter.
And we should see past hypocrisy to the true believers and
We should rise as one against Caesar.

I said, We should rise as one against Caesar.

But if there are false prophets then there must be false poets,
drawing schismatic lines in the sand
while we hold their overdramatic lines in the palms of our hands and
We should be spitting glory for the widow and the fatherless
Our words should spring to life and cause mental riots till our dying breath.
If we’re on the stage for the sake of personal fame,
and we write these poems for the good of the game,
or the thrill of the chase
And we spit it out to further our name –
if that is me I will take the blame from your hearts
and the shame from your eyes, and by God I will try to change.

Because, If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then this goes far beyond profession, I’m professin'
our failed attempts to make clear lack the abstract
lack the eternal shadow behind our minds,
while false poets mine our mayhem with neophyte illusions
and find new ways to spread that age old confusion –
Meanwhile, we posit antique questions and come to masterful conclusions.
We take for granted current destitutions and our thoughts wander
so that we poets are turned to pawns.
I said we poets have been turned into pawns,
fawning over dead metaphors when precise language will educate the masses,
when we should be spitting against classism or Darfur’s state of genocide –
Instead, we return to rhyme in order to hide, so I ask,
Are we poets doing God’s work, or do we merely work for wages?
Are we the smiters of foul kingdoms or another ragged mouthpiece of the ages?

Perhaps we should stand silent in stoic observation,
or shout from the rooftops with fiery consternation –
If we are doing God’s work
We shouldn’t subjugate the masses with a damned sense of attrition.
If we are doing God’s work
We should bend our backs with crosses and take up His holy mission.
If we are doing God’s work.
Are we doing God’s work?

I say we have FAILED to do God’s work.