Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

Hong Kong part 1-ish

2009-10-21T23:14:00.000-07:00

When I go somewhere for the first time, I expect the place to respond accordingly; not necessarily red carpet and flashbulbs, but at least full attention and welcoming smiles. As a direct effect of my visit, the place should be somehow fundamentally changed. This is not a feeling I’m aware of while stepping off the plane or checking into my hotel; after reflection, though, and a battle with the thought of such egocentricity, I conclude—reluctantly—that I like being a novelty.
Recently, I went to Hong Kong for the weekend with Luke. We were already staying in Shanghai, so it was nothing more than a two hour flight down the coast. I’d been planning the trip for several months and had all sorts of things to do and places to see. There were logistical difficulties involving money that had almost nixed the trip, but we’d figured everything out and with a tight budget and tickets in hand we boarded a plane Thursday morning, arriving at Hong Kong International Airport right around noon.
Even in Shanghai—arguably mainland China’s most westernized city, it’s fairly rare to encounter someone who can speak more than a few words of English. The airline we flew was China Eastern. Being a Chinese airline, I was sure it would be an uphill battle trying to communicate with the flight attendants, but much to my surprise, I was greeted in English and directed towards my seat. This was my first indicator that Hong Kong—despite now being part of the P.R.C –was going to be nothing like the China I knew. The food service went off without a hitch. Come to think of it, asking “chicken or beef?” doesn’t require much language proficiency, so maybe I’m giving them too much credit, but besides the attendant responding, “we only have cola,” with a look like I’d just ask her to do a line when I asked for Coke, there was no need to gesture or point to communicate.
At the immigration station, the guard greeted me in English and told me to have a good visit as he stamped my visa. The Burger King in the airport didn’t taste like fish and other white people were seated around us, enjoying fast food that didn’t taste like soy sauce. I told myself the airport was probably overrepresented with foreigners because it was an international hub with long layovers. After buying an Octopus card (the public transit’s version of a skeleton key), we found a bus that took us from Lantau Island, across the bay into Kowloon where our hostel was. After a bumpy forty minute ride equivalent to $2US, we got off the bus and jumped on the subway headed to our stop at Tsim Sha Sui station.
Let me take an aside to sing the praises of Hong Kong’s MTR (Mass Transit Rail). It’s fast, clean, and efficient with great coverage across Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, and even some of Lantau. Although it gets shoulder to shoulder for a couple of hours around rush hour, I see it more as a testament to the efficacy of the system, and it isn’t a real deterrent unless you’re claustrophobic or dislike strong body odor.
So, we arrived at our station, and as we reached the stairs to the street, an Indian man in his twenties tried to block our path. He had a pamphlet and was obviously trying to sell us something, but unlike in China, he spoke flawless English and could give us actual reasons why we needed a new suit. He followed us up the stairs, ignoring our flat refusal , continuing to harass us; just before I turned to tell him to shove off (that’s a euphemism), a man—you would’ve thought we were friends with how many times he used the word—intercepted us, “my friend, my friend. I see you’re not wearing a watch. We have designer watches…Rolex, gold, silver. Come have a look.” We pushed past him only to be met by a man who looked Spanish, asking Luke if he wanted hash. At the next block, loitering on the corner, a group of Africans stared us down, maybe in attempt to intimidate us into buying their product—not a convincing sales pitch. Many of the conversations going on around us were in English, and in spite of the garish neon street signs lining the buildings, I wasn’t convinced I was in China.
After some maneuvering, we found the building of our hostel “Mirador Mansions.” If the name evokes images of elegant British colonial housing, think again. It was a twenty story building under heavy construction replete with run-down hostels, shady businesses, and one internet café—a single room with five computers against a wall and no air conditioning. The hallway leading to our room had a tired, orange mat—red carpet was out of the picture at this point. The woman who signed us in looked at us like just another couple of tourists in for the weekend. She gave us the key and told us to have a nice stay.

Delaying the Inevitable

2009-04-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

There's the old addage that's plagued beefy ex-football players forced to coach gym for years: those who can't do, teach.

In general, trite sayings aren't my thing, no matter how true they may be. This one I prefer, not because of its power to marginalize teachers I don't like, but because my situation allows me to play spoiler to those who use it indiscriminately.

Majoring in Creative Writing is an exercise in self-motivation. Sure, you can show up to class and talk about how someone else's story had "a really unique feel to it" and how it reminded you of some obscure author, (which all but contradicts your first statement, but no one calls you out because they're afraid you might say "this doesn't really work for me" when you talk about their story next week), and you can pull straight A's, but if you want to get the most out of your education, you have to work on your own time with no one to coax you along or threaten you with the possibility of a failing grade.

That was a tangent. Ignore it.

Back to what I was saying...

As a CW major, the people who teach me are successful in their field. In fact, a select few of them are near the top of their respective disciplines. So, why do they teach if they can do? Because writing literary fiction doesn't earn any money. That could become a problem for me once I graduate, but while I'm in school, I get to receive top-notch instruction from people who are forced to have one foot in academia and one foot in the real world.

The real purpose of this post is to delay studying for a final in a non-major course, with a professor for whom the saying might apply. Sigh.

Up Yours Tree Huggers

2009-04-22T13:18:00.001-07:00

I'm holding a general boycott of earth week and declaring it moon week.

Items on the agenda:

Save the craters! They're quickly disappearing all over the moon's surface. No one wants a smooth orb. Preserve the "edgy look" for future moon-dwelling generations.

Find a renewable resource to replace moon dust. Let's face it: the more astronauts that come to the moon, the more dust is taken back to the earth, never to return to its natural habitat. Besides, the stuff gets stuck in everything. Just ask Neal Armstrong about chafing in the nether regions.

Stop solar eclipsing. Although previously thought to occur only during a new moon when the sun and moon are in conjunction, astronomists are now in almost total consensus that it is actually happening between 5 and 6 times per day! Experts have been quoted as saying "If we don't do something quickly, the moon will dissolve and we'll be screwed." Al Gore has started work on a documentary chronicling this potentially disastrous phenomenon tentatively titled The Dark Side of the Moon.

C'mon, people. Imagine a world where you can't play "Blue Moon" at classy parties because nobody knows what the moon really looked like. How will you explain to your kids that God trimmed his fingernail and it never grew back? Stop doing whatever it is that you're doing to harm the moon, whatever that may be, I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I'm definitely going to stop.

Forget the earth--save the moon!

Summer Plans

2009-04-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

1. Moving up my finals two weeks to go work at a cherry packing plant in Stockton, CA. It's a good thing I'm making twice as much in six weeks here than I would in a full summer in Boise--factory work is depressing. It doesn't help that when you google the city of Stockton, the response is Did you mean: hell?

Okay, that's not what google says, but it should.

2. Driving back to Boise around mid-June. I'll stay in Boise for a week and then fly to China.

3. I'm thinking anywhere between 2-4 weeks in China. I'm planning train trips to Hong Kong and Mount Huangshang (yellow mountain). I really want to hit up Tibet, but the train ride is too long and too expensive.

4. After China, I'll come back to Boise for another 2-4 weeks, then head down a bit early for school (my lease starts on Aug. 1st).

More not-class than class

2009-04-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

No seminal ideas for the commited few still reading this. I just feel compelled to share that I have four-day weekends next semester.

What will I do to fill the void? How can I entertain myself away from whitewashed walls and blackboards?

I've started a list of things that don't require fighting arbitrary traffic. In other words, things I can do within walking distance of SC.

1. Urban Kayaking: I can't take credit for this, but I hope to raise its popularity in metropolitan areas across the nation

2. Elevator Spelunking: There are hundreds of thousands of square feet of elevator caves just waiting to be explored and charted.

Since this one's an original, I can't offer a picture--yet. Just hope it doesn't involve me in handcuffs.

3. Inverted hackysack: ...I don't even know...

4. Artistic Expression on Freeways: This may be a euphimism for "felony." I'm sensing a problematic trend in my hobbies.

5. Safety Barrel Swimming: Watch the cars crawl across the sweltering tarmac as you cool off in a single person pool! Bringing friends? We've got extras!

Any suggestions?

Cost of Stuff you don't Care about

2009-04-11T23:28:00.000-07:00

There are many things I care about:

1. The deep, deep well that is my printer cartridge

2. The whirling source of fresh, stirred air--my Target fan

3. The soft, felt key cleaner that sits next to my laptop

I love and cherish these things for their convenience, but when they stop working, replacing them becomes a dull, frustrating chore.

Another thing I could add to the list is my bed pillow. It's a delicate balance between rock-hard slab and amorphous blob. The case matches the sheets which go with the comforter.

Everything was perfect, until this weekend when I took my pillow on an overnight sail. I've taken this pillow on many trips, never encountering any problems, but this time, in the rush to get the boat cleaned, I left it in the cabin.

By the time I realized it, I was back at my apartment. I resolved to find a pillow and a case for under $10. By the time I got to Target, it was getting late, and I was fading quickly. I found the right aisle, and began searching. Twenty minutes later, I set my pillow and two case set (they didn't have singles) on the checkout conveyor belt. The lady rang them up, and my jaw dropped.

It cost me $25 for an uncomfortable pillow with two cases that feel like astro-turf and don't match my sheets.

Solitaire

2009-04-05T23:15:00.000-07:00

If the goal of prison is to rehabilitate, why is extended solitary confinement practiced?

Prolonged isolation has no positive track record of curing any vice. The only predictable result is a socially inept, sometimes mentally instable person not capable of benefitting society, and just as likely to revert to old habits (if not more).

Solitary confinement does seem to have use as a short-term solution for bad-behavior, similar to being sent to one's room as a child (although without a playstation). Prisoner's may need the threat of undesired consequence to keep them under control, but even a year of isolation from human contact seems wildly inhumane, not to mention ten or twenty.

Few would call an hour or two confined to a room torture, but what if a parent decided their child needed to be discplined more harshly and didn't let them leave for a year? Even with the playstation, one would be hard pressed to label these tactics as anything besides torture.

Granted, many of the crimes that warrant extended solitary confinement are more serious than hitting a little sister, but the same principle applies.

Genius vs. Talent vs. Confusion

2009-04-01T16:46:00.001-07:00

(Shawn Feeny, Mr. Tambourine Man)

"Talent is like the marksman who hits a target which others cannot reach; genius is like the marksman who hits a target, as far as which others cannot even see."
-Arthur Schopenhauer

In the article I was reading, this quote was cited. Logically enough, the writer asks the question, then how does anyone know if the genius hits the target? Something like this was cooking in my head after reading the quote, but I couldn't put it into plain language. Frustrated with my inability to express myself, I decided the quote itself had missed the target. Next, I wondered how I could be sure, since the target was out of my sight. Realizing I was quickly distancing myself from both genius and talent, I stopped to consider it differently.

Here is a reinvisioning: Talent is taking the concept of an idea and creating an intelligent--albeit unoriginal--variation; genius is taking the original idea, stripping it of its variations, and deconceptualizing it until only the idea remains.

That is among the most convoluted sentences I've ever bothered writing. I wouldn't have if I didn't firmly believe that genius isn't spinning people around until they're too dizzy to understand or care about an erudite theory. To me, true genius lies in the ability to arrive at complex knowledge, and be able to distill it into a simple, even practical, truth. This kind of genius counts for something. The kind of genius where only one person can have certain knowledge is a sad, lonely genius.

Still Haven't Done My Taxes

2009-03-31T22:19:00.000-07:00

After an unintentional sabbatical from blogging, I'm back--in a big way. Anyone who bothers to read this has become familiar with my tendency to ignore it for long periods of time; for that I apologize. Much has been happening since I last posted anything. So much that I'm just going to skim the flurry of activity with snippets of my life, postcards from the last few months.

Who Doesn't Like Bullet Points?

Paul Simon: the english language doesn't contain enough superlatives to describe the better half of S & G. I grew up listening to their music, but I've never taken the time to listen to his solo work. Now that I have, I feel like some curious void I never knew has been filled.

Lord of the earthquake
My trembling bed
The spider resumes the rhythm
Of his golden thread
And all of these spirit voices rule the night

Spring Break: nothing glamorous, hedonistic, or expensive. Emma came to visit from Annapolis, and the two of us--the only two on break--proceeded to live out of my car for a week, touring LA and the surrounding area, visiting ID friends. We also went sailing one cold, but not particularily windy afternoon. We're clearly photogenic types.

LSAT Prep: I've finally given in to the dark side. Although I'd like to go to grad school for writing, I've become attracted to internation law/international relations, amping up my interest in law school. As a result, I'm studying for the LSAT, which, on my idea of fun scale, is somewhere between a paper cut and third degree burns.

Of course, I'd never let something like that interfere with my writing. I recently completed a story about Shanghai: Where There's Smoke, There's Mortality

Here's a brief excerpt:

The rusted boat’s railings were adorned with musical shapes: violins, eighth-notes, treble clefs, key signatures—it would have been a party liner, full of mirth and dancing. Its passengers lonely expats and wealthy locals cruising up and down the Huangpu, worries jettisoned into the muddy water while the city sweltered in the stifling heat of summer.
Drunk with affluence, they would've danced—fast, slow, wobbly—until the waiters were empty and the glasses had gone to bed and the moon didn't stagger in the water. Restless and hung-over the next morning, they'd argue over foreign wars and swap celebrity gossip. The night would come all too slowly. And they would dance again, sharing the touch of a partner. Touch held them together, forced them to see their being—laughing, dancing, breathing…
But it was rusting and they were dead.

Cello: a friend has a cello here at school. For awhile now, I've been toying with the idea of picking it up again, but I don't have my cello down here. Anyway, I was at his apartment, and played his. Everything came rushing back, and I realized that playing is a form of catharsis essential to balancing my hectic life at school. Now, I want to start playing again, and bring it back to school in the fall. The summer will tell if I can sustain the drive missing during my teen years.

My thoughts are scattered. There are too many stories to tell. I'll just have to be more diligent in updating this thing.

2:30 am Stress Reliever

2009-01-30T14:24:00.000-08:00

Get to the point.

But the sky and the sea and the sun are so radiant, and you won't...won't experience the setting where these things happen.

I see them every day. I've seen them in every season and shade you can look up to describe their uniqueness.

Oh, but don't you know God is in the details? How can you relate to the characters if you don't know which one hates the smell of grass clippings after a sprightly spring rain?

No one likes that smell. I'm perceptive; let me make my own inferences.

But you'll get them wrong. You'll misinterpret the imagery unless I give you subtle foreshadowing. A black cat skulking in the shadows; a white flower floating in the gutter. How can it walk without legs to carry it?

I don't want a story that's going to walk out on me. Stick to the story and spare me the details.

Boardwalk Blues

2009-01-14T00:58:00.000-08:00

They come and go, the boats and barges,
Up and down the Huangpu River.

Lonely skippers send mournful
Wails over water
In warning to the ferry
Shuttling passengers
In the shadow of
Ocean liners.

Doves wing over the boardwalk,
Swooping low across the water,
Soaring high above the railing
To perch on a lighthouse
Weather vane

A salty, bronze sailor clutching
His helm eyeballs each ship
Passing the Bund, waiting
For his inamorata

Two lovers pause at
The railing,
Twisted and tangled,
Comingling in arms
And elbows

She pulls away, proudly,
Brushing her smell from
His shoulders
Hoping
His scent will linger

Tomorrow’s
Fog will hide
Her farewell,
And she will wait
Like a statue

They come and go, the lovers and lost,
Up and down the Huangpu River.

A Brief Argument

2009-01-12T22:42:00.000-08:00

Brenda yelled at Terrance this morning. Terrance didn't know why he was being yelled at. Brenda didn't know why she was upset with her husband. She yelled at him some more. The wedding of their ignorance birthed an argument.

Brenda met her best friend for a protracted coffee date. Her friend asked her why she had yelled at Terrance. Brenda said she didn't know. Her friend pressed her. Brenda made up an answer for her friends' sake. Her friend smiled and changed the subject.

Terrance left for work still unsure of the crux of their argument. He got on the freeway. There was traffic. A van behind him honked. It honked again. Terrance honked back. He was late for work.

Terrance strolled into his cubicle. His boss was waiting. His boss said he'd been acting differently. Terrance said he hadn't realized it. His boss looked unhappy. Terrance asked what he could do to change. His boss said he didn't know. The boss' secretary buzzed him, and Terrance was left alone.

Brenda stopped by the cliffs on her way home. She considered throwing herself off. She didn't know why. The tide was crashing against the rocks. She liked watching the barnacles weather the implacable surf's hammering. She got back in the car and drove home.

Brenda cut vegetables on the counter that night, waiting for Terrance. He was late. She rinsed the vegetables and put them in the refrigerator. Her favorite show was on. The main character was a female police officer immune to men. She repelled their advances with wit and taekwando. The show finished. Brenda felt more sure of herself.

Terrance came home late. Brenda was asleep on the couch. Terrance smelled of whiskey. Brenda woke when he shut the door. Terrance didn't notice her. Brenda peeked her head above the cushions. Terrance was having trouble removing his jacket. Brenda didn't want to get into a row. Terrance had been drinking. Brenda scooted upstairs when he hung up his coat. Terrance climbed into bed fully clothed. Brenda was snoring loudly. Terrance was too exhausted to care.

Frames of Life in Motion

2008-11-19T17:58:00.000-08:00

I feel a breeze blowing through my veins

Through winding tunnels to caves of
Atria and ventricles, cooled by the caressing
Fugitive; through trap-door valves
And out into overworked arteries
Serving refreshments to toes and fingers
Parched by blistering friction, touch
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
In the first rays of morning cresting the eastern hills
Thrusting themselves over the precipice like
Soldiers scaling a great wall, they pierce their
Blue adversary with fiery spears of conquest
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
In dopamine dances and adrenaline
Orgies, in testosterone tempests and
Estrogen earthquakes
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
When the rickety bus rumbles and
Weaves through the mountains and down
Into the dust devil valley
To each city of my childhood
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Huddled beneath the third
Alcove of the Heping Gate, last defense of Nanjing
No intruders but plangent precipitation
To batter the brick fortress
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Watching the second hand circle from
The equator, swooping over Asia,
Africa, America, and Atlantic
Rectangular storm cloud ticking, like
Sixty raindrops a minute hitting
My watch
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
From the cocky pendulum of the ball
In the glove, down past the hip, above
The shoulder, to the ear, and release
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Curled up with cider and cinnamon
Meditation centered in flames
Roping and writhing ‘round their
Wooden victim in the heat of the
Kill
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
On the ridge above time and Redfish
Lake glistening, glinting, gleaming
Blue—lascivious sand and voluptuous
Shores, the fish blush
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Seeing something like faith
In the skyscraper skyline
Too high to grasp, so I
Wrestle with its silhouette
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
When she lets the words marinate on her lips,
Tasting their flavor on the tip of her tongue before
Asking what I’ve waited weeks to hear
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
While a purse thief sprints up, but mostly
Down congested streets of the Gaslamp Quarter
After 5, bald head holding the fading light,
Fading into night sticks descending on one or both temples
I wish I remembered
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Looking for perspective
On a mountain—finding it in
A subway
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
In the frenzied freeways and
The silent streets
I feel a breeze blowing through my veins
Not across the base of my nose
Or tips of my ears—not a gusting,
Vulgar wind, just a soft,
Steady whistle, aimlessly stroking
The prodigal blood on its journey

Home

Bathroom, Classroom, Breakroom

2008-11-10T00:37:00.000-08:00

Between the cracks

In the tile were

Messages left

From urinal

Patrons past

Seized by stage fright

"Philosophers

Think too much," and,

"For a good time,

Ring 703-401-0022"

Yes We Can!

2008-11-07T00:03:00.001-08:00

Usually, I try to avoid commenting on political issues on my blog, prefering to focus on creative projects that transcend the polarity of politics, especially when it comes to the executive branch. But, after maintaining silence for the election season, I feel compelled to make a few brief remarks.

Barack Obama is our 44th president and I congratulate him on his success. I neither liked, nor supported him or John McCain during the weeks leading up to the election, and, in a way, was bailed out by the mail losing my registration, leaving me without an absentee ballot and a way to vote. I felt that the free market was the biggest issue in this election, and neither candidate had solutions to offer that would promote the capitalism that has made our nation the most affluent in the world. Although McCain was running on a conservative ticket (my prefered view on economics), he is not a fiscal conservative and perhaps would have done more damage in dealing with the economic downturn, we'll never know. My point is not to belabor their policies, Obama's are the only ones that matter now.

What I would like to address is the ignorant, bandwagon support for Obama. Yes, he is a charasmatic "organizer" and a compelling speaker, but how many of the Americans who cast their ballot for him were voting because of his plans for the future? I don't know about other places in the country, but on my campus, and in the surrounding area, I am guessing that the number is low. I say this having spoken with intelligent people who researched the issues and decided Obama was the better choice. I respect that, and respect their vote. What I don't respect are the angry masses demanding "change" but not knowing or caring what that change is.

I will pause here to clarify why the campaign of change run by Obama was extremely effective, but no different from any other political campaign designed to unseat an incumbent. How many campaigns run under slogans that support the current official in office? It's clear by looking at any successful campaign, that change is the central tenet. In most cases, the change is implicit in the campaign (as in, everyone knows a candidate has new ideas, but what are they?) But the efficacy of Obama's campaign lay in the simplicity of his slogan. Change. Everyone can relate to that, especially after the last 8 years of debacle after debacle initiated by President Bush, but the negative effect was that many voters didn't care to learn what that change could be, instead reasoning that "it can only get better."

Bumper stickers, tee-shirts, buttons, all proudly claimed, "we need change," but what change is that? Do these people know? If they do, do they realize the buzzword of the election is attracting uninformed voters fickle enough to support a candidate based on the color of his skin? Conservatives are saying it's a scary time in congress with the imbalance and now a democrat president-elect, but I argue that it's more frightening knowing that he was placed there by a large group of people unaware of what he intends to do beyond lowering taxes for the poor.

Barack Obama doesn't scare me--in fact, I think he has potential to accomplish much more than McCain could have if elected. If he is successful, he'll get elected to another four years, and if he struggles, he'll be replaced in 2012. The nature of our government precludes unmitigated power from falling into the hands of one man and so there is little reason to fear him. What does frighten me, is that the public can be swayed so easily by a single word with no argument necessary to support it. Race is always tricky, but I have a question for you Los Angeles: would you have united yourself in total accord to elect a white candidate with policies identical to Obama?

I somehow doubt these Harlem residents would... http://www.bpmdeejays.com/upload/hs_sal_in_Harlem_100108.mp3

New Story

2008-11-02T17:55:00.000-08:00

I've written a short story, "The Baby Blue Schwinn," that's too long to post on the blog.

If anyone cares to read it, leave me a comment with your email.

"So, anyway... That's a good subject for a story. But I've no time to write it."
-Anton Chekhov

Fragmented Thoughts

2008-10-28T23:22:00.000-07:00

Here are some random, sometimes fragmented, thoughts I want to share:

~I'm teaching myself to enjoy drinking coffee black

~I have to thoroughly hate every sentence I write before I can love any of them

~A young black man flew off the edge of the 3-step, rice paddy, rise to the elevated sidewalk, landing hard but nimbly. A green lizard clung to the back of his tight curls as he rollerbladed around the fountain with the naked baby sculptures and finally out of sight

~Smoke wafted up to the balcony above, floating aimlessly until it found its way out from under the ledge and was lost from sight in the night sky

~"All you have to do is be more honest: throw yourself overboard wherever you can, don't make yourself the hero of your own novel, get away from yourself at least for half an hour" --the inimitable Anton Chekhov

~I've always wondered if, in movies, when the main character dies tragically and they cut to the scene where austere pallbearers are carrying the coffin, whether the actor whose character has been knocked off is actually inside

~Can I have a white mocha that doesn't taste like a candy bar?

~Prose poetry is nothing but run-on sentences until read aloud and then it becomes a thought

~Two homeless men playing dominoes on a concrete ledge

~Each day, the asian student walks in five minutes late. The TA makes brief eye contact, shifts forward in his seat, and shifts back gingerly, avoiding the probing eyes as the student plops down in the seat next to him

~One good rhyme makes the next ten bad ones tolerable

~Description before dialogue: give the characters somewhere to exist before you let them speak

~I opened my eyes and kicked off my sheets when I realized I had no real interest in sleeping tonight

~She lay on her back, smelling the inescapably sweet, ephemeral scent of freshly cut grass

~Wrapped around a shopping car like an adulteress to her lies

~Write imperfection on the door when it shuts, I don't have the energy to say what you mean

~The leaves vacillate on the bows that shuttle rhythmically in the breezy hour of dusk

~Clouds, like tangled vines trail across the horizon

Sometimes, I See Something Like Faith

2008-10-26T20:15:00.001-07:00

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

In the sanctuary, I see something like faith
For an hour the pew stays warm
In the food line at the Rescue Mission, I see something like faith
I must be like a child, naïve and trusting

For an hour the pew stays warm
The absurdity of faith chafing my corduroys births friction
I must be like a child, naïve and trusting
I want to play sardines and hide away with faith

The absurdity of faith chafing my corduroys births friction
Friction is not faith, but it looks something like it
I want to play sardines and hide away with faith
I want my ears to burn with heat in our concealed crypt

Friction is not faith, but it looks something like it
Friction converts energy, but not the skeptic
I want my ears to burn with heat in our concealed crypt
Faith could do the trick, if only I knew what it looked like

Friction converts energy, but not the skeptic
October shouldn’t be so stifling
Faith could do the trick, if only I knew what it looked like
Once I’m out, I’ll wear a cardigan to keep the heat in

October shouldn’t be so stifling
Heat waves shimmer off the steps leading from the cathedral
Once I’m out, I’ll wear a cardigan to keep the heat in
In the sanctuary, I see something like faith

Tiger Balm

2008-10-09T01:36:00.000-07:00

Sleep, come find me tonight. Thread your soporific roots through my pores and send your fibrous tap down my throat. Before, you came upon me, unexpectedly, shimmering faintly in the dark, dusty haze above my cloaked eyes. You were a welcome guest, but always arrived late in accordance with the fashion of the occasion. At times, I was up half the night in anticipation, but I never called; I knew—somehow—you would arrive. And my patience was rewarded with the fleeting sound of your footfall on the doorstep, before the scene dissolved to morning light and the sound of coffee steeping in the kitchen—banishing the musty scent of night.

Your timing is unpredictable, but your consistency is steadier than the snores sputtering from the bed opposite the one in which I now recline. I deconstruct the comings and goings of the day, the musings and broodings. What was it the flustered Korean woman yelled, in broken English, to the motorcycle cop? This continues on for what seems like hours, and while I strain my ears for any note of you, all I hear is the old Air Conditioning unit whirring a simple harmony to the night’s chorus. It mocks my plight; I control its fate; the sound whimpers and dies as I resume my place in sheets rife with anxiety.

Invade my senses. Inhabit my body. Pervade my soul.

I never called on you before; I knew—somehow, I always knew—you would arrive. I never called on you before tonight. But here I am, clutching at the tattered corners of the sheets, gnawing on the silence of insomnia. The scene is set—the final act begun. You control the curtain.

What Can Brown Do For You?

2008-10-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

Let me burrow in your warm, autumn embrace.
Let me bathe in your sludge after a cold, spring rain.
8th color of the Rainbow, you are the
Sandal that keeps my French vanilla
Feet from going Ghirardelli
Brown.

Your hues carpet the cabinets in someone’s silent kitchen.
Your shades shade my pupils from dazzling light.
Your warm tones come barking from a
Chocolate lab scratching furiously at the
Locked wooden gate—its paint fading to
Brown.

Soaring mountains, mighty rivers, you get the glory.
But the blood of the planet flows inconspicuously.
Rich, cool soil, your touch is my prize—
I drink you in like morning coffee and
Clothe my naked body in your homely mantle of
Brown.

To Remind Myself I'm Alive

2008-10-02T23:13:00.000-07:00

I've been leading a quiet life in my new home. I wake up most mornings; some, I forego, letting sleep's seductive whispers spirit me to the afternoon. The bus hisses to a halt every fifteen minutes, starting at 6:47. When the pain courses through my neck, I lie awake, waiting for the rewarding rumble of the bus through the quiet streets.

Most days are spent listening. I listen, hunkered down in my bucket seat in class room 247. I listen, sprawled out on the burm over McCarthy Quad. Some days I talk, and talk, and talk. But mostly I just listen.

I like to think about all the things I'd want to write about. I think about them on the Dash that carries me down Figeroua to the Financial district; I think about them, smoking a cigar on my balcony; I think about them in my car, headed to Westwood. Some days I write, and write, and write. But mostly I just think about it.

Books, half-read, litter my desk. I snack on Peanut Butter crackers and Goldfish and try not to lose hope in democracy. I raise my arms toward heaven but the left hangs limply at my side. I skim across sidewalks, the cracked concrete open up like slivers to the center of the earth. Bums are my friends, and A Life In Letters is my family.

I never used to laugh, but now I do.

Prosey Poem

2008-09-29T19:06:00.000-07:00

Why I am Not a Garbage Man

I am not a garbage man. I can't even bring myself to lug my solitairy trashcan down the hall, around the corner, and to the garbage shoot. Carting around Ryan, Josh, and Dylan's is out of the question; not to mention the rest of the neighborhood grass clippings, sometimes 20 black plastic bags full, after the first trim of spring. Besides, in the summer the trash is slimy and putrid, and in the winter my knuckles are dry and cracking, and either way I'm still doing for other people what I can't bring myself to do. On the other hand, when my mom criticized my lack of responsibility she yelled you can't even take out the trash! So maybe I'll do it, just to show her.

Slumping Shoulders

2008-09-21T01:16:00.000-07:00

Wasted day, leave before you go away.

Writer's Block

2008-09-15T23:01:00.000-07:00

I'm having issues with writing. In our workshops, every detail, sentence, word choice, plot twist, monologue, dialogue, point of view blah blah blah is analyzed and critiqued vigorously by 16 ready readers whose stories I just finished picking apart and want revenge. Naturally, I save them the hassle by doing it all myself and avoiding any sort of criticism; it's not perfection, but it's good enough to keep the vultures at bay.

Of course, this takes me hours because I need to look at every detail from every perspective I can think of and one page turns into a night's worth of stress. I could let them tear me to shreds and then take their suggestions, but that takes all the fun out of it. But at a certain point I need to find some compromise because I have other work to do. Usually, it ends up being poetry, which, by the way, is confusing my already dizzy brain. Poetry and prose have similarities--like they are both composed of words--but they're so radically different that I have to adjust the approach I take, so I'll sit through poetry class one afternoon and try to write fiction that night and it all just goes to hell.

Mexico Time

2008-09-11T00:53:00.000-07:00

I'm listening to inspirational music, but accomplishing nothing outside of my imagination. Let's change that.

(1) Mexico Time: One lesson I learned from living in Mexico and various visits back is that time is a fickle thing. Time isn't to blame--it continues as usual, but the people making the appointments have a broader scope in mind, say when they tell you "6 o'clock." You think I would have grasped this concept by now, but I found myself upset when I walked into the Angelica Lutheran Church off Venice/Burlington and was told that Carlos--the man I was meeting to talk about a volunteer tutoring/mentoring position--wouldn't be there for another 20-25 minutes. Granted, it's an almost exclusively hispanic neighborhood, but I convinced myself it would be different.

After waiting for a half an hour, Carlos walked in with no apology, just a big grin and a warm welcome for his new "hermano." You know, it's hard to be bitter with such kindhearted people. They have a huge need for someone to work on grammar and writing skills with children ranging from elementary school to high school age--I can't think of anything I'd rather do with my time. Once I hear back from the company where I'm trying to intern, I'll call Carlos and talk scheduling. Maybe I'll show up 30 minutes late to my tutoring sessions... It's the one place I'm sure I'd receive grace.

Perspiration

2008-09-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

Sweat pooled in the crook of her chocolate knees as she pressed the top of her dress again, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, avoiding the eyes that bore into her existence.

“Can you give me a list of your past employers” the voice said dryly. One glance up from the hem caught his incisive gaze and held it, a split-second longer than necessary, before fixing her eyes on the wilting Peace Lily drooping six inches to the left of his receding hairline,

“Well, you see,” she squeaked, “I’ve had a lot of jobs and I’ve never really liked any of them, well, some of them I could bear, but there were all sorts of things that I didn’t like, and I’m not usually fussy, but I couldn’t stand what I was doing all day and…” she trailed off, her throat bobbing up and down rapidly. “I’ve been trying to enjoy all the fruits of my labor, but nothing’s lasted.”

She heard the tap-clatter sound as he placed one side of his pen down carefully before letting the other end fall freely. A gasp of fear caught in the pit of her stomach; nausea swept all the way up through her eyeballs, looping back down to the bottom of her trachea. “Oh, no, no, no, not again, lord, please not again.”

An almost-imperceptible sigh of annoyance escaped his pursed lips.

“Ms. Collins, Charity, can I call you Charity? I’m not asking for your satisfaction with previous employment, I just need to know what kind of experience you’ve had.” His condescending tone was of a father to a confused daughter in need of paternal advice.

“I-I don’t know why I can’t tell you, I just know that none of them were for me, and-and, this is what I need to be doing.” Her frizzy, black hair, which had stood at attention when she walked in, was now deserting at an alarming rate. “I work hard and I got thick skin, and I can work weekends if need be.”

This time the sigh was a groan: “Tell me where you worked. Why can’t you tell me? Are you ashamed? What’s the matter?” His pale face flushed red with frustration. “We’re not asking much, we want you to work for us; we’ve made arrangements to give the position to you if you want it; is it so much to ask in return that you cooperate with our interviewing process?”

A pause settled over the room—like silt falling back to the ocean floor. Her soft, brown eyes remained focused on the cracks running impulsively over the decrepit tiles that separated the first floor from the basement.

“I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be short with you. It’s just… It’s just that we really have gone to bat for you: A lot of qualified candidates have come through, and we’ve turned them down because we see something…” he paused raising his eyes and massaging his temples, “unique, yes, unique in you, and as I said, we’re committed to you, as long as you can satisfy our basic requirements. I can see you’re nervous, don’t worry, that’s normal, everyone’s nervous.”

Slowly, she raised her chin; her teeth rattled violently as she drew her head completely erect, until she was staring straight into his beady, blue eyes. She met those eyes and held them unflinchingly. Astonishment registered clearly on his face, but there was something more—fear.

“Well, mm… you must, you must be ready to move on to something else by now.” He stuttered—shuffling his papers and glancing furtively to both sides like a caged animal.

“Mr. Smith, can you tell me exactly why you all have made such an effort to give me this job?” She asked evenly. Her shoulders were drawn back proudly, and her head was cocked to one side, waiting with a hint of impatience for him to speak. Her appearance was that of misplaced royalty.

None of his pompous air remained. Sweat glistened on his brow, reflecting off the blotches of angry red spots which speckled his pallid face.

“Listen,” he started, “we feel like you are a unique candidate and…” He trailed off.

“You said that. Everyone is unique; tell me what makes me better than the others.”

“Ms. Collins” he began, chuckling disarmingly; but one fierce look silenced him.

“You want to know where I worked before this? I’ll tell you exactly where I worked: I worked for a man, a woman, even a kid just like you. Sure, I did all different kinds of work, but each job was the same. Each job I got hired for the same reason and you know why I didn’t want to tell you? You know why I was afraid? Because for some stupid reason I got it in my head that this one would be different; I let myself think I could get work for being a hard worker and doing what I’m told.” Her voice rose and fell from a yell to a whimper.

“You know,” he said bitterly, “this might not mean much, but I hate them for forcing me to do this. I hope you understand my job’s at risk if I don’t follow all their requirements. They say I can hire the best candidate, but sometimes they make it clear to me who the best candidate is before a single application gets filed.”

The sound of bustling shoppers filtered into the small space, restoring a sense of normality. She exhaled deeply, covering her face with one limp, clammy hand and slumping back in her chair, the other glued to the armrest. They both sat in silence for two minutes. The trite wall clock ticked off the seconds as they passed—each one longer than the first.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He finally ventured, fawningly.

A nod was all he got in return; he bounced energetically out of his seat, walking briskly through a pair of double doors, before returning—slavishly—with a glass of water in hand.

She feigned an appreciative smile, and drained the glass before a single drop of sweat fell to the table. He resumed his seat, gathered himself, and spoke.

“Before you choose, know that to everyone else, you’ll be exactly what you were in your last jobs; gossip and jealousy will be commonplace, and you’ll be resented for no fault of your own. To my bosses, you’ll be a fulfillment of a quota, and they’ll pat me on the back and joke about your interview; they’ll ask me one question, and one question only. You know what that question will be. Can you handle the position you’ll be placed in? Will you crack under the weight of constant scrutiny and criticism?”

She smoothed the top of her dress, looking up into his eyes before she spoke. Her voice was firm, her lips were set.

“It’s nothing new. We’re both stuck in what we do, but what else can be done? We’re both the oppressed and the oppressor.”

Raw Thoughts

2008-09-04T00:38:00.000-07:00

Vacuous vault of vision,

Tenuous twist of time.

Spurious spear of schism,

Garrulous god of grime.

Something I've been discovering is that we all have something to offer wherever we are. So often people are discounted for not being in high standing, whether that be social, economical etc... The words they say and the things they do are secondary to their status. If they are considered of little importance, they're dismissed as "unsuccessful" and therefore not worth listening to.

Walt Whitman wrote,

I exist as I am, that is enough.
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

This superlative example of contentment inspires me each time I read it, but it also makes me question whether he lived out these words; surely he felt more fulfilled after "Leaves of Grass" was published and he became the muse of American poetry. Surely he was happier after his success. Could he really experience peace, despite the prospect of obscurity and failure?

Maybe I question because I can't fathom myself mimicking his model; maybe I question because I can't bear to exist without this recognition; maybe I question because I loathe my every breath taken pursuing affirmation from the masses; maybe I question because this topic has been broached a thousand times over, and I've nothing to add to the discussion, and so I ask, listening, not talking, waiting for an explanation.

First Week of Classes

2008-08-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the first day of class. I stumbled out of bed around 11--My first class on Mondays doesn't start until 2--and went to the gym before going back to the library to do some reading preparation.

Intro to Poetry was filled almost to capacity; students made small talk, chatting quietly while we waited for the professor to arrive. Five minutes passed, then ten; still no sign of her. We passed around an attendance sheet to leave for her and prepared to go, but just as the clock struck 15 after, she burst through the door.

Her only explanation for being late was having a conversation, which seems tacky on the first day of class, but I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt. Class was great: She's passionate, theatrical, and, at times, solemn about her art. We did in-class exercises before she assigned a boat-load of reading and a poem to write about our lives thus far.

Due to an odd scheduling quirk, I don't have class today or tomorrow, so I'm going to search for jobs, catch up on homework, and try to make it out to Biola

Groups

2008-08-24T16:28:00.001-07:00

A great way to get plugged in on a college campus quickly is to join a club or two. Most students want to get to know people, and also have the option of rising in the ranks of the club to hold a leadership position when they're upperclassmen. I want both of these things, but I had an epiphany four minutes and thirty seconds ago that will expedite my goals: I'm going to start my own club.

It's name will be the "I Go To 'SC So Every Piece of My Wardrobe Is Red" club. I think it will be a hit because most students can relate personally to what the group stands for, and for those not yet qualified, it's an easy fix: The bookstore is just a few blocks away.

*Now accepting members for 2008-09

Transfering Again?

2008-08-23T16:35:00.000-07:00

I didn't regret my decision to transfer to USC until today. It was a day like any other: I woke up after a restful 8 hours of sleep, ran to the gym, lifted, ran back, showered, and made breakfast; just a normal day, right? Incorrect.

It all started when I left for the airport to pickup Luke; I drove him over to Grandpa's house where he retrieved the rest of his gear and as a show of gratitude he offered to buy me lunch at the In-N-Out at the Francisquito exit off the I-10. I waded through traffic, one eye on the road, the other scanning the horizon for the yellow arrow. My search was soon rewarded and I merged over to the right lane and exited off, looping around and the under the freeway before pulling into the parking lot. As I stepped out of the car, my eye was drawn to a giant building in the same lot that said In-N-Out as well. Confused, I looked back at the original In-N-Out; it's drive through was packed as usual and people walked out of the swinging doors carrying their double-double's triumphantly in front of them like a banner of victory. In search of answers, I looked at back and saw another sign on the second, larger building that read, "In-N-Out University."

What?!

In-N-Out is in the business of higher education? How could I have missed this? I thought I'd made a thorough investigation of the best that Southern California had to offer, but it evaded me, and now was looking me smugly in the face. USC is a great school, but nothing compares to In-N-Out. You know they would be the most efficient school by a landslide; there would be a total of four majors, but they would have the best classes in the country and their professors would be world renowned. Obviously their apparel would sell through the roof, and their alumni would be loyal until death. They'd find a way to keep the tuition below average, but the product would still remain well above average. The faculty would be enthusiastic, amiable, and all dress the same.

Clearly I've missed my calling, but I intend to make redress for my mistakes and apply for admission in the Spring. It will be difficult; I hear spots and few and far between, but I aim to prove my infinite loyalty to the institution, and hope they will reward me with a spot in the class of 2010 (and a lifelong supply of # 1's).

INOU!

5:42 PM (8.22.08)

2008-08-22T17:41:00.000-07:00

I've had a "two-steps back" kind of day. Things went more or less smoothly Wednesday and Thursday, but for some reason today has been a debacle. I won't go into detail because it will only frustrate me more, I'll just say that it's been challenging. I'm leaving for an InterVarsity (christian group) picnic in ten minutes; I don't know whether I'm sold on jumping into something like that too quickly--mostly due to my experience at Biola, and not wanting to isolate myself from anyone audacious enough to not have a fish imprinted on their bumper--but it could be a good experience and a good way to meet people.

The only thing worth noting about today was my discovery of the Doheny Library; it's so great, and old, and musty, and conducive to studying! I forsee many chances to sit and think, maybe jot down a few lines, and just soak it all in.

I also sent my information to several educational volunteer programs in LA. One deals with mentally changed children, the second works with kids through athletics using leftover gear from the '84 LA Olympics, and the third focuses on tutoring high schoolers.

*I pinpointed something about myself that's bothered me (and I'm sure everyone who's ever talked to me) today while I was listening to a guy tell a story; just as he was reaching the zenith of his story, he paused to let the suspense grow and as he took a breath to resume I KNEW the perfect word for him to lead into his next section and in fear that he would overlook the juicy opportunity I blurted it out WHILE he was saying the exact same word. Thinking back over past conversations, I realized how frequently I do that, and how maddening it must be for other people.

08/21/08 6:04 PM

2008-08-21T17:35:00.001-07:00

*I have to start with an apology to you, my readers. The bookstore has FOUR levels. That's right, four. I stumbled upon the basement today as I was searching for an ethernet cable.

Where do I begin... I wanted desperately to write down my first thoughts while they were fresh, but my computer wasn't yet configured to 'SC internet, and despite a half hour on the phone with an Indian man who's grasp of the English language left something to be desired, my head hit the pillow still internet-less. As I dozed off, images of Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky running down a vacuous hall screaming "TECH SUPPORT!" danced under my fluttering eyelids. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I woke up bright and early, going for a run to energize myself before the big day. I had breakfast and said bye to Grandpa, before merging onto the freeway that would ferry me to the beginning of a new life. I wasn't going to Hades, but one could make a case that the I-10 freeway is the river styx, only I doubt even hell ever had traffic like this at 7:45 on a Wednesday. After fighting my down the winding road of congestion, I pulled up to campus, only to be met my even bigger hordes of new students jockying for parking spots. I finally located and secured one, before picking up my new student and id and mingling with the crowds.

Once I was registered, I parked under my apartment complex and proceeded to unload my life possessions and carry them up to my new space. It's a humble apartment, but there's enough space to stretch out and the guys I'm living with are friendly. The kitchen is a welcome addition along with the personal bathroom/shower/sink etc... I met some of my roommate's friends before going over to the gym to lift weights and check out the facility.

The afternoon is still a blur; a lot of things that needed to be done were taken care of, and as the shadows began to lengthen, my stomach signaled my brain, demanding sustenance. Not knowing where to eat, I asked my roommate and he directed me to the dining hall. It was too long of a walk for my angry stomach, so I hopped in the car and drove over. The food was great: tons of variety and good healthy stuff as well.

Now content, I came back, sat down on my bed, and realized how tired I was. A ten minute power nap won't hurt I reasoned, so I laid down and crashed for a bit until some guys from the floor above me came by and invited me to a small shindig they were having. They were interesting characters, and I had some good laughs (with/at them). Greek Row was coming alive with pre-rush parties, but I could no longer keep my eyes open; few beds have felt as comfortable as mine did last night.

I'm off to dinner, so I'll save today's events for next time.

It's HUGE!

2008-08-18T17:35:00.000-07:00

8/18 5:35 PM

I just got back from visiting the USC campus for the first time, and I'm overwhelmed. First, the sheer size of the campus is intimidating: Parking garages are everywhere, sports facilities are ubiquitous, 5+ story buildings are the norm; I got the feeling that the people were less friendly than I'm used to, but the schools I've been to have unusually inviting students, so my expectations are distorted.

The architecture (as I've been told previously) looks more like an east coast university; statues are common, and most of the buildings have some sort of brick design. The one thing that gives it away as a SoCal university is the palm tree. As in the rest of LA, palm trees litter the campus, reminding me that I'm still home, or close to it.

The biggest shocker of the day goes to the bookstore. THREE STORIES! Are you kidding me? I've never seen anything like it. They had escalators leading up to the second and third floors; I felt like I was in a mall where they had books, clothes, and school/office supplies. It was unreal.

I move in less than two days from now! Definitely nervous, today's trip reinforced that, but it also bolstered my excitement to step outside of my comfort zone and see how much I can grow through this tremendous opportunity.

Transfering

2008-08-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

So, as many of you know, I'm transfering from Biola University to USC. At the beginning of the summer and throughout the last 8-9 months I've spent looking to move schools my focus was always on doing everything possible to get accepted. But now that I've been admitted, and finalized everything, I've had time to think about what a transition this will be; I don't know anyone and don't have any connections at USC; I'm coming from a small school to a huge one; I have to start over with familiarizing myself with people, teachers, buildings, events, etc...

As I write this, I'm fully realizing how difficult it was my freshman year; sure, I've been through it once so I'm more prepared, but it will still be trying. I don't want to focus on the negatives because I'm SO excited to start there, my point is that my time will be full of new experiences, especially the first couple of weeks, so I'll be keeping a running journal, from new roommates to new classes and everything in between.

I drove to LA yesterday and got in around midnight. I stayed the night at pepperdine, and from here will move around the area seeing friends until wednesday when I move in!

As soon as I get unpacked and my internet up and running at school I'll try to fire off an update.

Alternate Blog

2008-08-05T20:55:00.000-07:00

After using blogspot exclusively for the last year, I've chosen to split my blogs into two groups. The first will be my stories, poetry, reviews etc...; the second will be a more laid back, sometimes journal-esque blog.

Since I already have many that fall in the first category on blogger, I'll leave this blog for those purposes, but for the second, I've created a blog using Uber (www.uber.com/readwriterepeat). I'm still working on the second blog, so bear with my technological shortcomings.

Thanks for reading!

Mark

River Side

2008-06-18T22:51:00.001-07:00

If you're measured only by how you overcome,
Adversity, this swift river, will be my undoing.

The frigid water screams protest as my sun-warmed
Skin breaks the surface.

Foothills, staggered like giant layer cake
Glare disapproval at my sad plea for attention.

The rocks grin sardonically, hoping for a
Break in the monotony of being inanimate-

My timing is spot on; their show begins.

Wading, circumspect, casting furtive glances
This way, that way, and back.

When you die, weave the sunlight through your demise.

Submerged reeds, like tentacles, grasp and coil
Hungrily about my ankles.

The overhanging braches cackle gleefully. Absent-
Minded ever, I forget to indulge my sorrow;

Latent self-pity will greet the raging torrents with me.
Replete with sin, I plunge deep down.

Icy waters will cleanse my body and expurgate my soul.

One lonely sunflower grieves
My departure; it cries but a single tear that
Splashes across my sleeping brow.

The morning dew!
How sweet it smells to the waking dreamer.

Caught In The Rain

2008-05-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

Sitting in my bed tag-teaming Jasmine tea and Tsingtao, my legs are bearing painful witness to the strange adventure I had today. My dad was able to get me a train ticket to NanJing--the former southern capital of China, but now just a small town of 6 million--where I had planned to visit all sorts of old/interesting places. Unfortunately, I had to wake up early to beat the work traffic to the train station; the trip to NanJing takes 2 hours as well, so I wanted to be off as soon as possible.

My cab driver should have been my first hint that the day would be eventful; he kept looking back and staring at me for prolonged periods while navigating through traffic. He also had a cough that sounded like “uhuh, uhuh, uhuh;” nothing like early-morning affirmation to kick start your day.

As we passed Times Square, I noticed a group of middle-aged women doing a choreographed dance. Curious to watch what I thought was their early morning aerobics, I popped my head out of the window to get a better look. What I saw next was somewhere between Saturday Night Fever and a Jay-Z video: A few other words came to mind, but “appalling” seemed appropriate at the time.

164368 (cab driver) proceeded to honk at anything that moved and everything that didn't. By this time I was sweating due to the oppressive humidity, and decided that he was probably just blowing off steam and that it was therapeutic for him. We finally made it to the station, where I stopped to order breakfast at KFC. I never eat KFC in the states, but it's one of the few American options in China. Ordering there is always an exercise in patience, and today's experience was much the same; this time, we got hung up on what size meal I wanted to order. I'm fairly confident I ordered an egg, cheese, and sausage muffin, but I've given up trying to identify tastes here.

After much good-natured elbowing, I found myself securely seated on the train. It's actually a very well-maintained train; the seats were nicely padded, and I felt somewhat spoiled to be traveling in such luxury after our last long, bumpy, unpadded day trip in a taxi. The two men next to me spoke English, but most of their vocabulary consisted of profanities. You know how non-native English speakers always make swearing sound really unnatural? Yeah, well these two were pro's; every vulgarity was annunciated perfectly, and the emphasis was all wrong. For swearing to be affective, it needs to be slurred and the delivery needs to be casual; these two did neither, and I was forced to listen to their abnormal cursing until I slipped the headphones on and took a brief nap.

Soon, I stepped off the train and found myself in a crowded square overlooking the Xuanwu Lake, which was the first stop on my list. The lake was hauntingly beautiful yet it had a solemn, almost somber feel. The air was the haziest I've seen since I've been in China, but it embellished the calm presence of the lake, making the sky and the lake blend into one. A light breeze blew over the water causing light ripples; trees and plants grew all along the banks, and water lilies were everywhere.

I walked west, following the edge of the lake. Gardens, forests, and bungalows all played a role in creating the incredible scenery and I spent a long time meditating on the serenity of it all. As I meandered west, thunder rumbled off in the distance and bolts of lightning lit up the southern sky. At first I was excited for the impending rain, and as expected, a light drizzle began to fall. I was ecstatic: Everything was working out perfectly, but things were about to change drastically.

Walking through a garden, I heard the loud snarl of thunder and looked up in time to see a bolt of lightning bigger than I'd ever seen shoot down and stay in view for 3-5 seconds. Here was when I first realized that the light drizzle I had been so happy for was going to transform into an unwelcome guest.

Sadly, I was right. Huge drops pounded down on my exposed body, and I started looking around frantically for a refuge. Just as I had despaired of finding anything better than a small grove of trees, I saw a gate in the city wall that was the border of the entire park. 10-15 other visitors had taken up shelter there, and I sprinted down the steps and in through the great wooden doors. I hoped to wait to wait there for several minutes and let the worst of it pass, and then return to frolic in the humid showers, but the wind picked up and the rain pelted down even harder than before. I found myself stranded, and wasn't able to leave for another hour. While there, I got hear some young Chinese boys sing along to “You Raise Me Up” by Josh Groban, over the sound of the wind/rain… good times.

After finally leaving, I continued to walk around the lake, but was now despairing of doing all the other things I had planned; when it rains in China, it's almost impossible to find a taxi, and none of the other public transportation information is written in English… This is where having a translator would be convenient.

I left the lake, and walked out into the city. To my surprise, the first intersection I came to was completely flooded! It seems the rain had caused even more upheaval than I expected, and I was forced to face the inconvenient truth(al gore) that I would not be able to accomplish my other activities. Discouraged, but not defeated, I trudged down that same road, looking for alternate forms of entertainment. I didn't find much, but I was able to procure an umbrella, eat at McDonalds, and form a blister on each heel. By the time I needed to start heading back, I realized just how far I had walked, and my legs were beginning to groan with every step I took. I was able to make it back to catch my train home, but once I arrived in Shanghai, it was raining here too, so I had to fight with hundreds of other train-riders for taxis…

But I'm finally back and happy to have seen what little of NanJing I was able to access. There's a lot to be said for going on random adventures by one's self in a country where all you can say is “hello, goodbye, thank you, and you're welcome.”

The Day After Today

2008-05-13T00:31:00.000-07:00

The new Death Cab CD has motivated me to resume writing, even in the midst of finals.

I'm waiting for a lot of things to come to fruition. I'm waiting on school, travel, people, work, home etc... but for the first time in my life, I'm not living just for those future events. To put it more plainly, I would still choose to continue my existence (if given the option to terminate), whether or not any of those future events materialized: Right now, it's good to be breathing.

Encumbrances be damned! I'm developing a resiliency that isn't seen by anyone but me, yet it is the best thing that has come out of the last year. Forecast for the future: My life is going to be filled with uncertainty and struggle, but the maturity I've earned (I use "earned" deliberately) since November will serve me well.

Conclusion: The future is exciting, but the present is just the future a day later.

5:58 AM

2008-05-07T22:31:00.000-07:00

*This is a creative project I did for class*

The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets
successfully through many a bad night
-Friedrich Nietzsche

“Don’t do it!” shot from my lips. They stood there, the three of them—hands grasped tightly, figures erect, chins raised defiantly: two true, one fiction.

They wore red; each sporting a shade of blood red that whipped around their slender legs in the pre-dawn breeze.

In a daze, I watched as they stepped slowly, but deliberately toward the edge. The time for hesitation had passed; this life had beaten them mercilessly and no clear alternative presented itself. Swift action was the cure for their affliction and they calmly flicked the switch of survival instincts to the “off” position, dulling their bodily impulses.

The first rays of sunlight appeared over the eastern hills; like soldiers scaling a great wall, they thrust themselves over the precipice and pierced their blue adversary like fiery spears of conquest.

I knew each of their stories, and I had felt each of their pain. I knew nothing else could cure them, yet I spoke out again, this time louder. “Don’t do it!”

The world was waking in anticipation of a new day. Small rodents could be heard scurrying this way and that, doting over their young one moment, and scolding them the next.

Three women—oppressed, forgotten, marginalized, objectified, disturbed, abused, and yet I screamed, voice cracking with tears. “DON’T DO IT!”

The whole face of the sun was now grimacing down on the scene. The breeze had calmed, but I shivered.

In unison, they turned to face me. They said nothing, but their eyes betrayed their veneer of calm. With their eyes, they cursed my sex—damning every son of Adam with a single glance.

I physically stumbled back in retreat at their unmitigated hatred. Each glare was so menacing, that I reeled back, slamming my head down against the hard gravel. Groggy from my spill, I peered through the haze of semi-conscious awareness. They were looking cruelly at my pathetic form, curled up in pain. I croaked feebly, “please, please don’t do this.” But their will for freedom would not be delayed.

With knowing looks to one another—summing up the difficult emotions behind their decision, they resumed their funeral march, smiling peacefully—even as they stepped into thin air.

The trio plummeted downward past the window of two children sleeping peacefully in the soft light of dawn. Next to the boy’s bed was a jug of milk and next to the girl’s, a loaf of bread

The sputter of a motor starting broke the still, and I listened as an old truck gasped and choked down an endless highway. From my supine position, I saw a panoramic view of the hills rising up around the shrinking valley which I was lying in the middle of. There was no way out, and I distinctly remember feeling trapped as the hills collapsed over me, blocking out any hope of escape.

Though one chose chloroform, one drowning, and the third a gas oven, in my dream, they died together. Alone in life, they found companionship in death. Forgotten in life, they found recognition in death.

Nothing seemed more appropriate; nothing seemed so just, yet I still fail to see closure. The scene is blurring in my memory: “don’t do it” remains a fragmented reminder of the cataclysm witnessed. Did they have every reason to follow their convictions to the asphalt below? Yes. But for three fiercely independent and strong women—three women who had never backed down from anything, why would they take the easy way out now?

Their defiant life had led them to the point where they committed the final act of rebellion by taking their own lives. The thought of suicide had dulled in their imagination, and carrying out the deed was their only solace left in a world devoid of meaning.

Family and friends were no more than burdensome responsibilities. Life had nothing more to offer, and they found no tangible reason to continue living through the pain. And despite my best efforts, they painted the ground red in the soft light of early dawn.

Mediocrity

2008-04-30T00:34:00.000-07:00

Mediocrity, you foul waster of good-intentioned ambition. You prey mercilessly on the weak minds and threaten the fortitude of the strong. Oh that I would be delivered from your seduction. Your glib comrade - compromise - follows in your wake, soothing and smoothing, like honey on the tongue, changing my creative words to endless platitudes. Though I shake you once, twice, you always return: Waiting patiently, ready to whisper in my ear.

The Genuine Shall Inherit the Earth

2008-04-23T13:40:00.000-07:00

Around and around they fly
Arms swinging, legs churning
And the beat, ever relentless, pushes them on
Panting, gasping
Futilely grasping,
They dance madly on.

Teeth flashing, eyes bloodshot, desperate for distinction

They kick up their feet for reputation;
With little twirls they beguile the merry onlookers,
Dismissing sincerity for hyperbole.
Kick
Spin
Shuffle, shuffle.

Nostrils flaring, jaws chomping, rabid for recognition

A single pair flaunt to the front,
Vacuous glory in their grasp
“Phony!” “Fraud!”
Schemes be damned—the disingenuous crowd knows their own…
They wilt like flowers in the sun
Slipping back into the crowd.

Chests heaving, shoulders drooping, starving for sympathy

The crowd parts, a knowing smile wearing a young woman strides through.
Confident—she leaves the drowning Egyptians in her wake
Passing pillars of salt, gazing dumbly back on the bedlam of Sodom and Gomorrah
Plain
Unassuming
Sincere

Eyes twinkling, cheeks grinning… real

Prepping for Projects Tomorrow

2008-04-17T23:51:00.000-07:00

Writing what I want to write is so much more liberating than faking my way through a research paper, three "reflection" papers, and a presentation. It's like sneaking off to read economic novels when you should be reading a vapid analysis of "social stratification" in your SOCI220 textbook... So, maybe that's just me, but we all have our idiosyncratic devices.

Regardless, I can spin my temporary ravings as writer's block, and all of you will think nothing less of me. With no further PR, I thumb my nose at the perfunctory tasks and proceed to do what I want.

What I would really like to do, at this moment, is to rid myself of the restless energy from the half empty (yes, half empty!) energy drink. Before you condemn my foolish choice in beverage, know that I had no part in orchestrating the purchase of this abomination. My friend, after compulsively buying it, shoved it into my hands in an ill-fated act of altruism. Anyone who has spent time with me knows my compulsive drinking habit - for those less fortunate, here is a brief explanation: If there is a drink within my reach, it won't be there for long. The result of my lack of self-control? A tired mind, but a body replete with ENERGY. My body wants to hit the town and break down social norms, but my mind wants to hibernate until mid-July.

I feel that economics has been treated unfairly. Sure, other academic disciplines get raw deals, but at least they have charismatic activists fighting for their cause. Does anyone see Alan Greenspan giving an impassioned speech on why economics should be thoroughly taught to everyone planning on earning money? Sorry, correction. *Everyone planning on receiving money. (I like to think he'd take a subtle shot at welfare, given the opportunity).

Wouldn't so many financial pitfalls be skirted if owners of capital understood what was happening when the economy went into recession, instead of panicking and making rash decisions? Even when it's taught effectively, most of the audience are 17 year olds who are at least five years away from caring about the economy. All most students remember is the law of supply and demand.

**Unlikely solution #1: Once a person reaches independent status (i.e. supports themselves financially), they must take a basic economics course outlining the subtleties of the free market system and what wise investing looks like.

**(Insert implausible solutions 2,3,4...)

I apologize if I've offended anyone with my dearth of economic knowledge; call me a victim of circumstance.

A Great Flame Follows A Little Spark

2008-04-13T14:26:00.000-07:00

Save me, O God, for the waters have threatened my life. I have sunk in deep mire, and there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and a flood overflows me. I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched; my eyes fail while I wait for my God.
-Psalm 69:1-3

Darkness slowly settles across the pacific coast. The hills resist giving up their last bit of warmth, but grudgingly succumb to another days end.

One lonely soul stands, facing the indelible image of the sea in all her beauty. Fresh tears mingled with sea spray leave salt deposits on her rosy cheeks.

Her eyes match the sea's hue and for an instant it seems as though they have become two orbs, mirroring the depths. The water calls to her. It wails and moans for her return.

As she wades into the shallows she hears a distant voice, calling, ever calling her name. Numb from the icy-cold water, she struggles to raise herself up to answer. She gasps for air, instead a wave drowns her cry and shoves her downward, ever downward.

Her world spins, no hope is left. She submits to the will of the waves that buffet and toss her about. But suddenly, a hand shoots down through the water! With a giant heave, she is hoisted clear out of the water, into the bottom of a small fishing boat.

Lying there, weak and vulnerable, she gazes up at her savior. His eyes rage with the same passion of the sea, but they radiate kindness and love. He pauses, and then, with tears of his own gushing down his face, says, "my child, you are safe. Though the waters threatened to overwhelm you, I was faithful and fished you out of a sea of misery and despair. Find your rest in me."

Knitting

2008-04-06T02:02:00.001-07:00

Where is the joy-
The ease, the gain?
Drifting in sorrow,
Then Drowning
In pain.
Like a burden it sinks
To its watery grave
Steady.
Motionless.
A stitch
Out of time, unable to save

Migraine Musings

2008-04-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

Why do so many authors feel compelled to write in the midst of sorrow, suffering, and pain? You show me a world-class novel, and I'll show you a human, broken with anguish, ravaged by the inexorable forces of discomfort. Pain yanks the beating heart straight out of the breast and plops it unceremoniously onto the page. Is it the "raw, gritty, sensuality" that captivates us, as the obsequious critics would describe, or is it the relevance to our own trials that keep us turning the pages? For me, I feel like I'm buying a support group everytime I pick up a Russian novel. If anyone reading this is showing signs of depression, skip the Prozac -- read Crime and Punishment.

Big Sur

2008-03-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

The proud peaks of prolific proportions pry open my peaceful prayer for privilege to prey upon my profligacy. With a "woosh" of wistful wind, the weather whips in warnings of wasted weekends.

Taking heed of profound, witty alliterations, I circumnavigate the bulky outline of a VW Passat looming in the infinite fog rising from waves crashing against jagged rocks far below. With a deft movement, I pry open the handle to the passenger seat, seating myself securely beside two good friends. Stocked with sunflower seeds to spit and water to drink, we turn back onto the serpentine road, spirits high.

Verdant meadows, inhabited only by livestock slide by on either side. The road slopes gently upwards until the water is lost to view beneath the blanket of the morning haze. Sad to lose the sea, but confident in its imminent return, we continue our spiraling ascent, increasingly optimistic. Bright yellow signs indicating "20 mph" on the sharp curves blur as my weary head begins to nod. Time for raucous music. The harsh sounds of Brand New engenders giddy joy that courses through the maze of veins that run over, under, around, across, and through my body. I want more than anything to shout for joy - freedom has arrived!

Three rays of filtered sunlight above the desolate sea shoot through the suffocating haze as we emerge from behind a vertical wall of rock. What majesty! Could this kind of beauty save the world? Consumed with this question, I recline my seat slightly, contemplating forgotten thoughts and fragmented quotes. White-capped swells roll in as predictably as LA traffic while we wind our way to further wonders.

Perched precariously on the side of a crumbling slope is a wooden footbridge that leads to a lookout point viewing a hidden cove complete with an 80 foot waterfall, tumbling to the white beach far below. Mesmerized by the power of the scene, we casually comment on the beauty of the falls and the light blue ocean in the cove. Sunflower seeds make their way back and forth as we spend the following minutes gazing at the vast expanse. With a chuckle and a shake of my head, I manage to tear myself away from the view and head back to the car.

The next 6 hours are spent admiring the best of Central California's rugged coastline: Carmel-By-The-Sea, Morro Bay, and Monterrey all slide by. If only there was time to experience all they have to offer.

The best is coming... Off in the distance it sits, waiting for its time to arrive. Beauty may not save the world, but it will maintain it until its salvation comes.

The Prisoner

2008-02-05T23:40:00.000-08:00

The calm of a late fall evening in S___ was shattered by shouts. “It does not exist! Do you hear me? IT DOES NOT EXIST!”
This phrase was being repeated over and over again by a man standing menacingly over the prostrated body of young boy. The man was an average height, not more than 5’10 inches, but his taut muscles nearly shot out of his Henley with every yell, and his prominent neck veins looked ready to burst with each additional roar.
The boy lay face down in the slightly yellow, dying grass, flinching at every repetition of the hated phrase. His new clothes were sullied with dirt and grass, and his long blond hair was a tangled mess. Tears poured down his cheeks as the man forcibly flipped him onto his back. Without missing a beat, the man continued his tirade, emphasizing each word with a puerile stomp of his foot.
“You’re so content in your ignorance, but I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you so you can feel the hell–the stinking, rotting hell I’m in; you believe its here; you think its all around you; but you’re wrong!”
With terror in his red-rimmed eyes, the boy tried desperately to crawl away from his aggressor, but the man grabbed him, slamming his tenuous body into the hard ground. With a whimper, the boy lay still; hoping his submission would placate the stranger’s fury. But his obedience only infuriated his attacker, and without warning, he began raining blows down on the boy’s small body. The boy’s helpless wails roused several neighbors from their houses: in horror they watched as the stranger mercilessly battered the helpless child. Several ladies ran inside to call the authorities, while they rushed their own children to the safety of their houses.
The man’s glazed eyes reflected the torture of his innocent victim, but they could not see the terrible crime he was committing. The man’s chest heaved violently, and with a final blow, the boy went limp and lay still. Exhausted from yelling and physical exertion, the man sank to his knees. In a daze, he scanned his surroundings. He watched without comprehending, both eyes dull and lifeless as several burly men came sprinting toward him. One was brandishing a shotgun while the other carried a pistol.
A single leaf spiraled down toward his sunken head. It playfully twirled across his face, before coming to rest on the ground. The leaf’s flippancy caused a fresh loathing for his hypocritical existence.
“I can’t live, knowing what I know,” he thought to himself. “None of it is real, but no one will believe me. Even a humble child, naïve and untouched, laughed when I tried to make him see. Who else will… who else could believe me?
Glancing down, the man noticed the boy’s rigid body. With a start, he realized what had happened. With a moan of despair, he whispered,
“Oh, but what have I done? How could I… h-h-how?”
His reflection was interrupted by descending the barrel of a shotgun, as it crashed down on his right temple.

During the holidays, the law enforcement in S____ , like many rural towns, all but stopped doing business. The policeman and detectives went home to their families, and did not go to work unless an emergency forced them to. So, it was a surprise when two men, deep in conversation, walked into the small police headquarters, on the morning of the 23rd. They walked past the receptionist desk without acknowledging the only guard on duty, and entered into an office with the words “Police Chief” written in bold letters on the door. The older of the two men was easily recognizable as the police chief, due to the condescending tone of voice; marking him as a person in authority over people he thought to be lower life forms than himself. A syndrome commonly found in school principles, and others forced to deal with delinquents and children. If his bombastic manner wasn’t enough, the stark contrast between his thin, scheming, meticulous eyes that never stopped staring, and his plump, rotund, stagnant belly immediately revealed his position of authority.
The other man was much younger than the police chief. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five years old. His dark black hair was pushed across his forehead, revealing a pale, handsome face. Despite his lack of color, he had strong features; his prominent nose complimented his firm, protruding jaw, giving him an impressive profile. His soft green eyes were warm, matching his sonorous voice as he spoke.
“I understand, chief, why you think this is a simple case, but I urge you to interview the prisoner again. In fact, let me ask him some questions. We can walk around the grounds; maybe he’ll be more open outside of his cell.” The man had been shocked to find out, after he arrived, that the chief had taken the liberty of interrogating the prisoner, and after ten minutes of questioning, had declared the prisoner mentally unstable. “There are processes in these matters,” thought the man; “It doesn’t take much effort to aver a man’s insanity; for god’s sake, he assaulted an innocent child; of course there’s something wrong with him, but that doesn’t justify such a careless diagnosis.”
Inwardly, the chief was cursing his luck. His vacation had been rudely interrupted a week ago, and now, when he was close to getting the problem off his hands, this man had arrived, asking questions and disturbing what was left of the peaceful holiday season. “Of all the times of the year…” thought the chief. The chief was a proud man, and he hated to be second guessed; this pretentious man from the big city irritated him greatly, but the only way to facilitate the process of quickly moving the prisoner–as the chief saw it–was to allow the man free reign. With a slight nod of his head the chief assented, but not before proclaiming a bit too loudly, “you’re free to question him until his ears bleed, but you can’t take him outside of his cell; he stays here, okay?”
The young man bowed, graciously thanking the chief for his acquiescence and assuring him he would not take the man anywhere, while he inwardly mocked his imperious proclamation.
The young man–whose name was Barkley–was greatly annoyed with the pompous chief who was more concerned with preserving his image of venerability than doing his job. He had had prior experience with men such as the chief, and he loathed the uncomfortable, albeit necessary, interaction.
Barkley was two years removed from law school, but instead of joining a firm or setting up his own practice, he had chosen to enter law enforcement. He had made a name for himself with his acumen in several high-profile crimes in a neighboring, much larger city; he was especially dexterous in dealing with people because he listened to what they had to say. Most don’t really listen when others talk to them; instead, they focus more on how they will respond than the message they are hearing, but Barkley learned that the key to understanding why people act the way they do–especially criminals–is to listen to what they say. Humans, even the most asinine, know when their words are being taken seriously, and they certainly know when they are being brushed off or ignored. Despite all of this, his reputation clearly had failed to precede him, and now he was forced to start over. “These damned small town police forces” thought Barkley, “it’s like they’re setting up the fourth Reich, and anyone who meddles in their business has to deal with the Gestapo.”
As he ventured down the stairs, he noticed that the cells of the ancient prison were in sorry repair. They were clearly intended for short term use only, and the ubiquitous rust saturating the bars showed that they had rarely been used. As most towns in the area, S____ was unaccustomed to holding serious law breakers. Belligerent drunks, usually trying to pick a fight in the local bar, were the only patrons to frequent the poorly maintained cells.
Striding purposefully down the rows of cells, Barkley stubbed his toe on a protruding nail; he cursed softly, stopped, and held his breath. A high-pitched, almost maniacal chuckle was coming from the dark corner of the cell to his left. The sound was somewhere between an angry hyena and a startled cat. Barkley tried to clear his throat in attempt to regain his composure, but his battle with the nail had stirred up a miniature dust storm, and all he mustered was a feeble cough. Steadying himself against the old yellow wall, he peered into the cell; trying to pierce the shadowy darkness, but light from the late morning sun-seeping through a small hole near the top of the cell precluded his vision, stopping his gaze at the tiny particles of dust dancing in the hope of the morning light.
The eerie chuckle continued for several seconds before trailing off. An awkward silence, which, to Barkley, seemed to last hours; but, could not have been more than twenty seconds, followed the dying laughter. Working up his courage, Barkley was about to part his lips to speak, when a low, monotone voice, nothing like the high-pitched chuckle he had just heard, began methodically chanting the same, nonsensical phrase, over and over.
The prisoner slipped partially into the light. His hair was disheveled, and several days without shaving gave his face a haggard look. The grimy clothes he had worn for the last week gave off a foul stench and only aggrandized his squalid condition. Though his appearance radiated defeat, his eyes-with a spark straddling the line between zeal and insanity-carried the hope his enervated body couldn’t sustain. With a surprisingly quick and agile leap, he cleared the five feet between his protective darkness and the cell bars. Shoving part of his face through the bars, the prisoner stopped chanting and looked up expectantly at Barkley.
Barkley frowned; he hadn’t anticipated his first meeting like this. For a man who thrived on control and order, the delusional chants and frantic behavior had frightened and unnerved him. An uncomfortably long silence followed, in which Barkley tried clearing his throat several more times, but the stubborn crowd of phlegm refused to disperse. With a quick stammer, the prisoner broke the silence; “please let me go… I…I… gotta get outta here, man.” The prisoner’s strange behavior and wild appearance had done nothing to soothe the suspicions of Barkley, but in his pathetic plea for release, Barkley detected a note of scorn. Thinking it was an aberration, or confusion on his part Barkley decided to provoke the prisoner, in an attempt to upset him and make him lose his cool.
“Are there more children you’d like to beat? Is that why you have to get out?” Barkley emphasized the “have,” making it sound like “haaave.” But instead of lashing out or breaking down, the man looked him straight in the eye, and with surprising poise asked, “is the boy alive?” Angered at the prisoner’s chilling composure, Barkley nearly yelled his response, but, with effort, controlled his rising anger “you have no right to know the boy’s condition.”
“Ah, so he IS alive,” whispered the prisoner, almost triumphantly. Temporarily satisfied with the answer, the he walked unceremoniously to his corner and without a glance at his inquisitor or any indication of finality, fell back into a supine position. Realizing he had been dismissed, a confused Barkley turned on his heel, and, with what dignity he had, strode down the hall until he was out of sight of the prisoner, where he sunk down in a chair to ponder the bizarre meeting.
Barkley leaned forward, smoothing back the hair that had fallen over his face. His brain was working furiously. The prisoner’s cool indifference had surprised him, but what he couldn’t reconcile was the prisoner’s mocking petition for release.
Barkley knew that small towns with close knit communities like S____ handled crime differently than the cities he had worked in, especially violent crimes, and the police chief had casually mentioned earlier that “several town leaders” had visited the prisoner to condemn his actions. Barkley suspected their seemingly innocuous visit was an excuse for them to physically punish the prisoner while the police chief looked the other way. This brutality could be the reason for the prisoner’s mocking tone; a way for him to express the scorn he felt toward his captors; but that answer did little to satisfy Barkley’s craving for an answer. The prisoner’s maniacal laughter had disturbed Barkley’s sense of social propriety; insanity in criminals was a common theme, but though this prisoner had fits of apparent lunacy, his icy composure and frank openness indicated some other explanation. Barkley knew without a doubt the police chief and other investigators would take one look at the prisoner’s peculiar manner and declare his insanity from the rooftops of the small prison, as they had before, but Barkley was not satisfied, and resolved to return for further questioning of the prisoner. On his way out, he walked past the chief’s office, nodding politely, while the chief, with a glance of suppressed mirth, gave an over-emphasized nod, almost bowing his head to the desk.

A week later, the smirk of the chief had been replaced with a vacuous stare of disbelief. Barkley had been visit the prisoner and had spoken with him every day of the week, sometimes twice a day. After allowing Barkley to question the prisoner alone, the chief’s latent paranoia sprung up, causing him to send whatever officer was on duty down to sit idly while the prisoner and Barkley talked. At first, the officers reported that the prisoner would rant and rave for the first part of each interview, but after twenty minutes of yelling, he would calm himself and spend the next hour in speaking in hushed tones. The officers were so annoyed with the prisoner they would block out his droning and doze for the hour and a half Barkley would spend with the prisoner. What the officers didn’t know is that each meeting was deliberately started with the prisoner acting like a lunatic, and once the guard was sufficiently bored, the two would begin their conversation in earnest. The prisoner saw a trustworthy and honest man in Barkley, and took his chances divulging the terrible secret that had plagued and afflicted him. Barkley listened, skeptically at first, but after experiencing the prisoner’s brutal honesty and total sincerity, he began to suspect their was some truth–if not comprehensive reality– to the prisoner’s tale. The prisoner often became irascible when he suspected contradiction from Barkley, but after their second meeting, Barkley was mostly convinced; and from then on, the prisoner’s petulant fits occurred less frequently.
The chief stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides, gazing into the empty cell the prisoner had occupied just thirty-six hours earlier. Naturally, every able bodied law enforcement officer had been dispatched to search the nearby area for any signs of the fugitive; but with the miles of wilderness surrounding three sides of the town, the chief had little hope of recapturing the prisoner. The chief had screamed and swore at “that pompous little shit,” as he now referred to Barkley, accusing him of complicity, but the negligence of the officers gave Barkley deniability; after all, the officers had seen nothing but the ravings of a madman and Barkley had made no indication of sympathy or assistance. No case could be made against him, and Barkley was fully aware of it. He went along with all the formalities; denying everything and trying to make it seem like he was running the gamut of human emotions. In reality, he felt rejuvenated: his mind was clear and the recent stress had vanished. Tromping through the small town streets without a care, he found joy in all that was around him. But occasionally, he would stop in his tracks and focus intensely on a single object; his eyes would harden and a distant, detached look would mask his pale face. No sorrow was there, only a pensive look of concern. He would stand–posture erect, eyes slightly downward–gazing for eternity at a dandelion. “Is it really there?” he would ask himself, “Is it more than just a well-founded phenomenon? Does anything REALLY exist?” It is unclear whether the dandelion ever answered him.

Chinese New Year Resolutions

2008-01-08T05:27:00.001-08:00

(writing the resolutions)

I prefer to make life resolutions, as opposed to good-intentioned New Years Resolutions that end after a week-long struggle of separation anxiety. I feel strongly about this; but I have no qualms making New Years Resolutions for others; in fact, it's one of my favorite pastimes. What better way to circumvent the guilt of failed resolutions than to make them for others instead? Unfortunately, the calendar New Year has come and gone, but Chinese New Year is on the horizon! So, with no further comment, here are my 2008 Chinese New Years Resolutions for the city of Shanghai.

I resolve to stop pestering foreigners to buy my "rare" goods that are available at EVERY other shop on the block
I resolve to stay within my lane, signal before I turn, and not kill pedestrians
I resolve to stop screaming into my cell phone in public places
I resolve to not build a new skyscraper every 3 days
I resolve *cough, cough, cough... aah... aahh... aaaaaCHOOO!!!! to end pollution
I resolve to stop honking my horn at everything that moves
I resolve to stop using freetranslation.com and pay an American to translate signs into English
I resolve to stop selling bootleg DVD's filmed from the hip
I resolve to not build two KFC's on every street corner
I resolve to not chain smoke 50 cigarettes a day
I resolve to stand patiently in line without pushing, shoving, or cutting
I resolve to throw up the peace sign in every picture I'm in
I resolve to physically punish anyone trying to sell Rolexes or Watchbags
I resolve to be considerate of other's personal space... Ok, ok that was a joke
I resolve to imitate the fulcrum stunt Tom Cruise pulled in MI3
I resolve to give refunds for faulty products
I resolve to put more than one national hero on every value of currency we have
I resolve to stop burping at inappropriate times
I resolve to efface Chinese characters from the written language
I resolve to supply toilet paper for public restrooms
I resolve to build a Panda Express on every corner, because I'm serious about maintaining our rich cultural history with authentic Chinese cuisine

A Crash Course in Chinese History

2007-12-27T06:43:00.000-08:00

Outside noisy, inside empty
-Chinese Proverb

Yesterday, I went for a walk around Renmin Square while my mom was in her Mandarin lesson. Renmin, or, People’s Square as it’s commonly referred to, is in Puxi. (across the river from my apartment) It is a large public square with many notable landmarks, including Shanghai City Hall, Shanghai Museum, and People’s Park.

For the first hour, I contented myself by walking the streets, stopping now and then to poke my head into a shop or bookstore, and quickly moving on. The one place I spent time in was a foreign language bookstore that was a small-scale version of Barnes and Noble. Several books were tempting, especially for 20 rmb, but I controlled my compulsive book-buying habit, and left to continue exploring.

After an hour-and-a-half on the go, I found myself back in the heart of People’s Square, where a week or so before my dad and I stopped to talk with a large group of Chinese university students. They wanted to practice their English and ridicule our Mandarin, so they invited us to tea; they took us to an authentic tea house where we chatted for several hours. Despite their ridicule, they were very nice, and didn’t hesitate to initiate conversation which, for many Chinese people, seems to be a great difficulty.

Before we were sidetracked a week earlier, we planned on walking through People’s Park, a conspicuous area located in the center of the square, meant to bring some balance to its completely urbanized surroundings. I seized the now available opportunity and strolled through the park, soaking in the beauty of the weeping willows, dropping their long branches low enough to gently rest on the surface of the water. Seeing a bench with a good view of it all, I stopped to glance at my Mandarin phrasebook, intending to practice before my mom’s lesson was finished.

As I sat, reading my book, a wizened old man came and sat across from me. He examined me for several moments before speaking. “You study Chinese?” he said. I told him yes, but that I didn’t really know any. He smiled, showing his uneven yellow teeth, and nodded his head vigorously and said, “You teach me English, I teach you Chinese.” I couldn’t refuse my pontificating friend, and so he proceeded to talk to me in English for the next half hour. It was choppy, and he struggled with pronunciation, but I was able to decipher most of what he was saying.

At first he talked about relatively harmless things, but he quickly launched into a prolonged diatribe against the former chairman, Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution of the 50’s and 60’s. Between furtive glances to all sides, he told me of the terror and injustice carried out by Mao through the Cultural Revolution.

The Cultural Revolution was a movement launched by Mao under the guise of furthering real socialism and wiping out the remnants of the liberal bourgeoisie, but the generally recognized motive now was a deliberate move by Mao to retake control of the communist party. Many groups were persecuted by Mao’s red guards, most notably religious groups, and higher education. The guards burned, pillage, and looted churches, killing or torturing anyone who tried to stop them. Universities were closed, and their students and faculty given a crash course on Mao's zero tolerance of the "Four Olds." The Four Olds were old ideas, culture, customs, and habits. Mao saw these as poison to his new vision of China, and chose to destroy any evidence of their existence.

The man described how horrible the Cultural Revolution had been; at one point explaining to me that anyone caught listening to American radio would be arrested. (He couldn’t pronounce “arrested” and so he put his wrists together and imitated the handcuffing motion.

I was astonished at this man’s bravery in confiding in me. The issue is still a touchy one today, and I’ve heard from others that it’s not a good idea to talk about it. Either way, I was ecstatic to catch a glimpse of Chinese culture, as well as getting a firsthand account of recent history. The man is an artist and told me to come back on Sunday and he would do a sketch of me. So, hopefully there will be a part two to this post...

Bargaining for Peace

2007-12-25T07:51:00.000-08:00

I dreamed a thousand new paths… I woke and walked my old one.
-Chinese Proverb

After settling into life in China, I’ve had time to sit down and think about my experiences thus far. It’s difficult to weed out which events lack significance to the rest of the world, because to me, they all seem inimitable when compared to my prior knowledge of things.

One thing I’ve found great pleasure in, is bartering with the local shopkeepers. Shanghai, like many non-western cities, is comprised mostly of shops that overprice their goods with the expectation that customers will bargain the price down to something more reasonable. When callow foreigners, thrilled with the seemingly low prices, willingly pay full price, they miss out on one of the most enjoyable Chinese cultural experiences.

Picking up some Chinese phrases is helpful in the bargaining process, and in doing this, I’ve been able to work out several deals that would have been difficult had I been a completely naïve foreigner. Though it’s been fun finding steals in the local markets, there is one negative side to the whole thing. Being blatantly American has brought me nearly unending grief. Wherever I go I’m accosted with cries of “Hallo! Have a look sir, DVD, watchbag, Rolex, you look!” Oh the dreaded “watchbag.” I’m still in the dark as to what a watchbag would look like if it existed, but I would go to great lengths to avoid ever looking at that monstrosity.

The pestering wouldn’t bother me if it wasn’t coming from every single shop I pass; strangely enough, I think I’m even getting used to the harassment and have started tuning out all but the most persistent solicitors.

I may have already mentioned how hazardous it is to be a pedestrian in Shanghai, but I just discovered an astonishing figure. Everyday in China, 600 pedestrians are killed in street accidents! Since my discovery, I’ve made sure to look both ways the entire time I’m walking across an intersection.

Today was Christmas in China, and what a novel event it was. In the States, everything is decked out in ornaments, lights, and holiday cheer, but here in Shanghai, people don’t even blink for Christmas. Life goes plowing on without even a hiccup. It was great to be with part of my family, but difficult to not be in a familiar atmosphere. No tree + no stockings + no lights = disappointment.

I’m quickly running out of steam; no matter how many times I say that I’ve beat the jetlag, it comes back to rear its ugly head. Until next time…Merry Christmas!

Transportation Woes

2007-12-20T04:49:00.000-08:00

If you are in a hurry, you will never get there

-Chinese Proverb

I’m not sure if “Shanghai” translates into English, but if I had to guess, I think it would mean, “the city of 10,000 taxis.” 10,000 sounds like a good, strong Chinese number, but I’m afraid this a gross underestimation. The city of Shanghai alone, has over 40,000 taxis! With anywhere between 15 and 20 million people, Shanghai is the third largest city in the world. But everything is packed air tight, and the omnipresence of taxis is nearly stifling.

There are few rules of the road, and even fewer of these rules are enforced. Taxis routinely swerve in and out of lanes with no warning and the only punishment they receive is the endless honking from the cars, buses and taxis they cut off. Though this reckless driving would seem to cause unending terror for passengers, I find myself strangely at peace whenever I hop in a taxi. Despite the chaos outside, I tell myself the driver knows what he/she is doing and is in control.

Riding in a taxi can be a frightening experience, but being a pedestrian in Shanghai strikes fear into the hearts of even the most experienced j-walkers. In the states, it’s generally acknowledged that the pedestrian has the right of way, and even in big cities, people are generally courteous enough to allow the pedestrian right of way. Not so in Shanghai. The signs indicating the appropriate time to cross mean almost nothing. Cars will run red lights, and they won’t slow down to let you finish crossing.

As if all these things weren’t enough to stop you from ever coming to Shanghai, there are the bikes. If there are 40,000 taxis in Shanghai, there must be 400,000 bikes/scooters on the road. They are everywhere, and they will run you over just as mercilessly as the nefarious taxi drivers.

I know there are a lot of negative things here, but take heart people, there is a glimmer of hope left. Discouraged and downtrodden after dealing with transportation issues and jetlag, I pondered if there were any redeeming qualities to be found in Shanghai. I glanced woefully out the window of my cramped, stuffy taxi and there it was! A heavenly ray of light burst through the clouds and rested on the single most beautiful sight my eyes had witnessed since I had left the states. My heart leapt and my spirits soared as the big green letters confirmed my perceived vision of a mirage. Yes, even here Starbucks flourishes as a reminder that now matter where you go, even to the ends of the earth, you’ll always be drinking great coffee.

Joking aside, I’ve enjoyed almost every minute of my time here so far. The transportation system is chaos at best, but it’s entertaining chaos. I’m thriving on the unpredictability of getting from point A to point B.

It’s funny because everywhere I go, people are always staring. They don’t even try to conceal their interest with westerners. If you catch people staring in the States, invariably they will look away quickly, but here, they just keep on boring holes through your body with their stares. I’ve caught myself thinking too highly of myself over the last several days because of all the attention I’m receiving. It’s easy to walk down the streets thinking everyone is looking at you. So, if you’re feeling insecure about yourself, come to Shanghai, it will do wonders for your self-esteem.

One thing that caused Luke and I to stare, and then quickly turn away was a ferry worker relieving himself off the dock, in plain sight of everyone boarding the ferry. The man evidently needed to go, and he didn’t think he’d have time to make it to the bathroom before the ferry left, so he thought the river would be the next best thing. Thankfully for us, we don’t have to eat any fish coming from that river.

An American in Shanghai

2007-12-17T05:45:00.000-08:00

And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.
-Confucius

Cruising 35,000 above Mt. McKinley, the Bering Sea, the Sea of Okhotsk, and a variety of Russian/Asian islands, a distinct sense of insignificance flooded my thoughts. The world is a big place, and I’ve only been exposed to a relatively small chunk. That will soon be changed. I leaned over to Luke made a joke about asking the cab driver where the nearest Panda Express was. Only then did I remember I was flying on a two-story 747 where 90% of the passengers were Chinese. My racial awareness is appalling.

The flight from San Francisco to Shanghai lasted about thirteen hours; it sounds like a long time on a plane, and it was, (6,430 miles) but I had plenty of entertainment to keep me occupied including reading Plato, watching movies, talking to Luke, and trying to eavesdrop on conversations in Mandarin.

The two Chinese girls that sat next to me on the flight did not say a word the entire trip; they didn’t even get up to use the bathroom or stretch their legs until we were thirty minutes from landing. What they lacked in social skills was more than made up for with their bladder control and intestinal fortitude.

I have this pre-conception of Eastern culture that all the people are quiet, courteous, and about five feet tall. Though two of those attributes would apply to much of the Japanese culture, the people of China defy my stereotypes. Many of them – excluding my seat neighbors – are loud and gregarious, and don’t hesitate to strike up conversation. Not only that, many of them are quite pushy and rude. Getting off of the plane was an adventure, because people would push, shove, and climb over you to get their luggage as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do (it is), but I still couldn’t get over how rude they were.

Once we picked up our luggage and breezed through customs, we found Mom and Dad, who took us to a speed train that would take us half of the way home. The train – which is one of Shanghai’s many technological advances of the last fifteen years – was breathtakingly fast, topping out at around 300 km/h! After our brief train ride, we flagged a taxi and drove to the apartment in downtown Shanghai.

Their apartment is strategically placed far enough from the heart of the city to avoid the noise, but close enough for easy access to the best Shanghai has to offer. The twenty-third floor offers stunning, panoramic views, while providing an unpleasant reminder of my suppressed vertigo.

I took a five-minute stroll down to the river, where I was greeted by 6-7 teenagers playing basketball. None of them were going to be the next Yao Ming, but it was a nice surprise. I walked along the promenade where I could see Puxi (xi means west) all lit up. The Bund, a waterfront section built primarily by the English and French in the 19th century, is the most salient of the eastern shore attractions. Pudong’s buildings are almost all made with steel and glass, but the Bund has a much homier feel, with its designs of wood, brick, and stone.

I’m excited to see what adventures I’ll experience in the days to come, but for now, I’m off to battle jetlag.

The Brothers Karamazov

2007-11-29T12:34:00.000-08:00

*This was published in the November 29th edition of the Biola University newspaper

Kurt Vonnegut’s famous character Eliot Rosewater from “Slaughterhouse Five” noted that, “Everything there was to know about life was in ‘The Brothers Karamazov.’”

From theology to philosophy, Fyodor Dostoevsky explores many of life’s most important questions and concerns in his masterwork, “The Brothers Karamazov.” Topics including suffering, free will, lust, greed, justice and redemption are interwoven into the complex story of a dysfunctional family, struggling to coexist peacefully

Set in 1860 Russia, “Brothers” is the tale of a licentious father, whose severe neglect of his sons leads to one of them brutally murdering him. Though their father is a wicked man, the brothers all share guilt surrounding his violent death.

Several characters are counted as some of the most fascinating in all of literature. The youngest brother, Alexei Karamazov, is a young man wise beyond his years. His simple, yet loving disposition causes even his wicked father to question his life of pure self-gratification.

Elder Zosima, a local priest, provides stunning insight into theology and philosophy. Zosima is a perfect example of Dostoevsky’s method of using characters to symbolize ideas.

Dostoevsky probes the depths of the human mind, and even explores psychological subjects. Sigmund Freud was enamored with “Brothers,” calling it “the most magnificent novel ever written.”

Though the book is a pleasurable read, it is not for the faint of heart. Russian authors frequently use many interchangeable names for the same characters, causing unending confusion. Even if one can master the names, they may have difficulty with the length.

Depending on the version selected, “Brothers” will likely be around 750-1,000 pages long. The Russian novelists are known for their meticulous description, and the “Brothers” does not stray from this model.

If one can muster the courage to face these challenges, the “Brothers” is a rewarding read and a transcendent piece of literature

Lord of the Flies

2007-11-15T00:19:00.000-08:00

*This was published in the November 15th edition of the Biola University newspaper

“And the Lord said to Himself, ‘I will never again curse the ground on account of man, for the intent of man’s heart is evil from his youth.’” This Biblical claim, made in Genesis 8:21, declares that man is evil and has been since his arrival to earth.

William Golding sought to bolster this assertion with his 1954 allegorical novel, “Lord of the Flies.” Golding tells the story of a group of adolescent boys stranded on a desert island. With no adults to instruct them, they seek to establish a primitive form of government, but their plan fails and many of them resort to savagery and anarchy.

With his chilling tale of man’s innate inclination toward evil, Golding has stirred up endless controversy. His story sought to discount those who claimed man was inherently good, but performed evil acts due to the influence of other people. By showing the corruption experienced by innocent youths, relatively ignorant of evil, he built a strong case against advocates of man’s intrinsic virtue.

“Lord of the Flies” has experienced immense popularity due primarily to its simple, straightforward style. It avoids pretentious language and philosophical speculation, choosing to convey its message strictly through the allegory.

It is a thrilling read, and keeps the reader turning the pages to discover what further atrocities will be committed. That being said, it is at times deeply disturbing and gruesome, particularly the description of a mob of the children brutally murdering another child.

“Lord of the Flies” is and will continue to be a refreshingly insightful look into human nature, but also a somber warning for those optimistic about innate human virtue. Surely there is good in the world, and surely humans perform good deeds, but Golding gives alarming evidence that this good is not a natural quality, even in seemingly naïve youths.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

2007-11-06T18:37:00.000-08:00

*This was published in the November 8th edition of the Biola University newspaper

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

Oscar Wilde, a man whose life was a walking testimony of this statement, wrote these words. His achievement as an author was only trumped by his ignominy following a trial in which he was convicted of homosexual activities.

Wilde was an Irishman who gained fame and success as a playwright in London during the late 1800s. Several of his plays, including “The Importance of Being Earnest,” are successful to this day. But it was the one novel he wrote that gave him more recognition than any of his other work.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray” is the story of a handsome young man who becomes obsessed with his own beauty. Dorian’s narcissism stems from a stunning portrait of him, painted by his friend, Basil Hallward, who is inspired by Dorian’s exquisite features.

Dorian possesses beauty in character at the beginning of the story, but as the tale unfolds, Dorian deserts conventional morality to pursue aestheticism, regardless of the consequences.

His transformation is due largely to the influence of Basil’s friend, Lord Henry Wotton, a staunch hedonist who convinces Dorian that “the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Dorian’s obsession with his youth and beauty is fully realized when he wishes that the portrait of him would grow old and ugly, while he remains young and attractive.

Strangely enough, Dorian’s wish is granted. He remains a flower of youth, while his picture ages and acquires negative attributes of his self-indulgent lifestyle.

He proceeds to alienate himself from all his friends and descends into the depths of self-gratification, betrayal and murder.

Wilde’s novel was not well received initially. His portrayal of morality, as well as the homoerotic overtones subtly posited throughout the book, brought immediate castigation from his literary peers. Since that time, it has been recognized as a classic work of modern literature.

Perhaps unintentionally, Wilde clearly demonstrates the harmful effects of unmitigated hedonism through Dorian’s tragic demise. Dorian Gray is a useful reminder for those convinced that pleasure and beauty are worth pursuing regardless of the cost. Because of his blind quest, he experiences more suffering and ugliness than he could have imagined, also inflicting pain and torment on anyone in his path

Waxing eloquent was never a problem for Wilde. Breathtaking description litters the landscape of his prose, but his colorful style never becomes pretentious. It is an enjoyable, gripping tale from start to finish and never loses the reader on unnecessary tangents.

Because of his brilliant masterpiece, Wilde and his radical ideas have not stopped being talked about. Like Dorian Gray, the book never grows old or loses its beauty.

The Metamorphosis

2007-10-31T12:57:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the November 1st edition of the Biola University newspaper

America has an insatiable desire for the wacky, the weird and the unexpected. Psychological thrillers set in unusual circumstances are littered throughout entertainment, and fans flock to read, watch and hear these odd tales.

Much of this fascination with the abnormal can be traced to the work of Franz Kafka. Kafka was a Czech-born, German-educated insurance officer living around the turn of the century. He struggled to establish himself as a writer during his short-life, but has since gained immense popularity with the posthumous publishing of multiple novels and short stories.

“The Metamorphosis” is the only novella published during his lifetime and has become his most recognized work, as well as the epitome of his bizarre style.

The opening scene of “The Metamorphosis” is one of the most well-known in all of literature. Gregor Samsa, a traveling salesman, wakes one morning to find himself inexplicably transformed into a giant insect. Samsa had led a relatively normal life to date, but he wakes to the surprise of a lifetime.

“The Metamorphosis” is no rogue work written in jest; all of Kafka’s works begin with a simple plot or situation, but are quickly infused with a disastrous, abnormal occurrence that the protagonist must struggle with for the rest of the story.

Kafka became so notorious for this that the adjective “Kafkaesque” was created to describe situations resembling his stories.

Samsa searches desperately for an avenue of escape from his situation, but he finds no way to avoid the inevitable truth: he is a repulsive insect with no hope of return to his original form. His family is crushed, and quickly distance themselves from him, all but forgetting his presence in the house. He is left with no friends, no job and no hope.

A strong sense of abandonment and isolation permeates “The Metamorphosis.” Kafka illustrates societies’ unwillingness to accept or even interact with those in different situations from our own. Though his example is an extreme one, Kafka realized the necessity of shocking his audience. Without the astonishing plot twist, his point would risk being buried beneath the narrative.

Shades of existentialism can be detected throughout “The Metamorphosis.” From Samsa’s illogical metamorphosis to the hopeless situation that confronts him, he is forced to create significance in a world devoid of intrinsic meaning.

Though “The Metamorphosis” is a sad tale, it sends a vital message to a society constantly mistreating people not fitting the status quo. Samsa’s family is a perfect example of how not to treat those different from us. Instead of embracing his transformation, they are appalled and avoid him, trying to forget his, and their tremendous misfortune. Samsa was the victim, yet his family treated his metamorphosis as though it occurred from some fault of his own.

Big Sur

2007-10-23T15:34:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the October 25th edition of the Biola University newspaper

Nestled in the wilderness of central California lays a hauntingly beautiful, 90-mile stretch of Pacific Coast Highway known as Big Sur. Many have gone there to soak in some of the finest fare nature has to offer. Though it is known for its beauty and serenity, Big Sur is the place where the famous Beat poet, Jack Kerouac temporarily lost his mind and recorded the events surrounding his subsequent insanity.

Kerouac spins a riveting tale of his descent into the depths of hallucination, paranoia and insanity. Unlike other autobiographers who recall memories and events from their time of mental instability, Kerouac recorded each occurrence as it happened, bringing a gritty and raw vulnerability yet to be duplicated.

Kerouac gained admiration and venerability through his tales of the Beat Generation. Works such as: “On the Road” and “The Dharma Bums” chronicled the labors and triumphs of the idealistic generation disillusioned with the idea of the American dream.

The term “Beat” was coined and made famous by Kerouac; meanwhile, the Beat movement flourished in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Members of the Beat Generation were known for their spontaneity and uninhibited ways. From hitchhiking across the country to climbing mountains on a whim, they refused to be governed by society’s expectations.

In “Big Sur,” Kerouac returns to his beloved California coast to take one last run at the pursuit of meaning and happiness through various hedonistic quests. A friend offers to let Kerouac stay at a cabin along the Big Sur coastline of central California, and he jumps at the chance for solitude and meditation.

It must be noted here that Kerouac’s detailed description of the rugged beauty of the Big Sur wilderness is unequaled. The splendor of nature, the key source of Kerouac’s inspiration is never portrayed as poignantly.

Despite his optimism toward a retreat from society, Kerouac quickly finds himself questioning the lifestyle he had so ardently pursued and descends into depression and cynicism.

Though his closest friends try to console him and take his thoughts off his despair, he cannot be comforted. His depression morphs into hallucinations and paranoia, and culminates in a night of utter insanity and terror. His openness is frightening, including his contemplations of suicide and murder.

After his night of horror, he wakes refreshed and finds that his life has returned to normal. Things have come back into focus, and he decides that everything will be all right.

This disturbing story is indicative of the loss of meaning accompanied with much of the beatific literature. The Beat Generation sought after something they could not quite explain. Because of this vague quest for meaning through spontaneity and hedonism, many like Kerouac found themselves grasping for meaning in their life.

Though the Beat movement is largely dead, similar views on the significance of life have sprung up in the American culture. Many struggle with the same questions of meaning and significance, and some even lose their mind trying to deal with the loss of meaning.“Big Sur” should provoke pursuit of concrete meaning. It should remind the reader that there is something beyond self-gratification and spontaneity. These cannot fully satisfy and will leave one seeking after ephemeral pleasure.

Candide

2007-10-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the October 11th edition of the Biola University newspaper

In this world, misfortune strikes every day. Anyone who denies this has to look no further than events such as the Holocaust or the atrocities committed in Darfur. Is there room for optimism and hope in such a world?

During the Renaissance, many of the prominent philosophers and theologians had formulated a worldview saturated with optimism. Pain, suffering and the problem of evil still troubled the intellectuals of the day, but they found ways to reconcile an all-loving deity with these alleged inconsistencies and saw room for optimism and hope.

Men such as Baron Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz, wrote convincing works advocating a doctrine of optimism. Though this view was prevalent through much of the Renaissance, the 18th century period of the Enlightenment brought derision and castigation from men who saw this optimism as misplaced and foolish.

Voltaire, the penname of French writer Francois-Marie Arouet, was one of the most notable critics of optimism. He wrote a variety of intellectual work during his tenure, but his magnum opus and most berating work against optimism was “Candide.”

“Candide” is Voltaire’s celebrated satire of optimistic philosophy. He pokes fun at the teaching of men such as Leibniz throughout his entertaining story of a simple man who experiences the worst the world has to offer.

Candide is the bastard nephew of a wealthy baron, who employs a philosophy tutor named Dr. Pangloss. Pangloss’ philosophy is that of unbridled optimism, and he quickly convinces Candide of the necessary truth behind optimism.

Candide falls in love with the daughter of the baron and is subsequently banished from the kingdom.

Despite his misfortune, he is unfazed and continues to think everything in the world is as it should be. He proceeds to have a wealth of misfortunes accost him, including being flogged, nearly dying in an earthquake, losing a great fortune, and having the love of his life stripped away from him.

In spite of his terrible suffering, Candide continues to cling tightly to his now seemingly foolish optimism. Though he stays committed through a ridiculous amount of hardship, he ultimately rejects the philosophy of optimism and concludes with the famous line, “We must cultivate our garden,” meaning that the individual must only take pains to avoid the three great evils: boredom, vice and poverty.

The character of Pangloss is the driving force behind the philosophy of optimism throughout the book. Many believe that Voltaire uses Pangloss to represent Leibniz and the optimism of the Renaissance philosophers.

Voltaire’s legendary wit is showcased throughout the story, but to truly understand much of the humor, one must be somewhat familiar with the philosophy of optimism and the key supporters of it.

Voltaire certainly heightened awareness toward the blatant issue of evil. He did such an efficient job that many lean toward pessimism in the modern day.

Due largely to the impact of “Candide,” horrific events through antiquity will be viewed with decreasing hope and little optimism.

Right or wrong, Voltaire’s stinging denunciation has reversed the way many view the world in the modern day. His influence on popular thought is critical to understanding the manner in which religion and evil are treated today.

1984

2007-10-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the October 4th edition of the Biola University newspaper

“Big Brother is watching you.” This is the famous slogan of a fictional totalitarian society invented by George Orwell. His creation of this mysterious, all-controlling despot in his novel “1984” has provoked a fierce battle against all totalitarian forms of government. During the last hundred years, the powers of the western world have coalesced to combat the threat of oppressive rule. But what if this battle was misplaced? What if the true menace lay within in our own borders?

In “1984,” Winston Smith is a member of a futuristic totalitarian society in England. A group known as the Thought Police constantly monitors him. Every word, every action, every facial expression is closely tracked by the party.

Though party members are required to comply with rigid standards of living, Winston is disenchanted with his situation and subtly defies Big Brother at every opportunity.

Male-female relationships are illicit within the party, but Winston begins an affair with a sensual, dark-haired woman named Julia. Winston lives in constant fear of discovery, but through his illegal activities begins to hate Big Brother and everything the party stands for.

Despite their caution, Winston and Julia are finally caught and separated. Winston is heavily indoctrinated and subsequently forgets his love for Julia. The book ends with Winston realizing his supposed foolishness and proclaiming his love for Big Brother.

Orwell’s dystopian novel has been a rallying cry for those opposing totalitarian government. Dystopian societies are generally recognized by oppressive governments that disregard the rights of the individual. Other famous novels, such as Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” and Ayn Rand’s “Anthem” are models of dystopian literature as well.

The importance of Orwell’s contribution is difficult to quantify. Through the rise of communism, the world has witnessed the horrors of fascist, authoritarian regimes that brutally mistreat their own people, as well as anyone who opposes them. Hitler and Stalin gave faces to the idea of Big Brother during their reigns of terror.

Though many identify communism as the engine that runs totalitarianism, there is a seemingly innocuous threat lurking in the United States. Despite exhaustive measures taken by America to ensure freedom of the individual’s rights, a recent act of Congress has jeopardized the future of democracy and evoked visions of a world similar to “1984.”

After the terrorist attacks of 2001, President Bush was compelled to fight terrorism, both foreign and domestic. To aid him in this process, Congress passed a bill known as the “Patriot Act.” The Patriot Act gives the government increased freedom to monitor society through increased access to phone conversations, e-mail, medical, financial and a variety of other personal records.

Though the Patriot Act is not a blatant infringement on civil liberties, it should cause concern for anyone familiar with the totalitarian society of “1984.” Despite America’s nearly flawless record against authoritarian government, the Patriot Act is the peak of a very slippery slope.

To retain the original purpose of American government, the people’s rights must be protected, regardless of the cost. Corruption and despotism are prowling at the door, and, if left unchecked, will sweep away every last right the American individual has come to expect and enjoy. “1984” is a warning: America, take heed.

The Purloined Letter

2007-09-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the September 27th edition of the Biola University Newspaper

The modern detective story has captured the attention of American entertainment unlike many others. A barrage of movies, books and TV shows, most mimicking each other, draw on America’s fascination with mystery and keep their audiences’ guessing with every twist of the plot.

Though the popularity of the modern detective story is due to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his creation of the well-loved fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, credit is owed to Edgar Allan Poe for introducing the detective story.

In Poe’s celebrated short story, “The Purloined Letter,” a letter is stolen from a royal personage resulting in an investigation as to where the Minister has hidden the letter.

Despite a meticulous search of the Minister’s apartment, the police are unable to locate the missing letter. In despair, the Prefect confides in a dilettante detective and his friend, the narrator of the story. The Prefect divulges the facts of the case and asks for advice. The detective, Auguste Dupin, responds coyly, giving the Prefect no advice other than to repeat his steps.

A month later the Prefect returns, lamenting that the case is still unresolved. Dupin asks what the reward for the letter is, and after receiving a check from the Prefect, produces the missing letter.

Dupin epitomizes the role of an emotionally detached, egocentric genius with a penchant for solving crime. Using his powers of deduction, Dupin solves the crime, baffling even the most experienced in Parisian law enforcement. Combining observation, logic and a vague sense of intuition, he finds where the Minister has hidden the letter, and successfully purloins it for himself.

This style of detective story is known as a ratiocinative tale. In this form, the central character seeks answers to the mystery using observation, logic and intuition, while the story exclusively follows the main character, giving clues along the way to stimulate the audience and pique their interest. Poe successfully established this genre with stories such as “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie Rogệt.”

Since Poe’s pioneering of detective fiction, a wealth of imitations has surfaced. From Sherlock Holmes to the popular CBS show “CSI,” entertainment has capitalized on audiences’ attraction toward mystery and intrigue.

Despite Poe’s integral role in creating detective fiction, he is rarely recognized. Commendation is reserved for more recognizable mystery authors. Though his work may not be as polished as his successors, it is wildly entertaining and thrills the reader from start to finish.

Try piecing the clues together and discover what you find. Read “The Purloined Letter,” knowing it was one of the first of its kind, and marvel at the ingenuity that has sparked a 160-year phenomenon.

The Old Man and the Sea

2007-09-20T13:19:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the September 20th edition of the Biola newspaper

“’But man is not made for defeat,’ he said. ‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’” These famous words come from The Old Man and the Sea, a classic examination of humanities’ quest for meaning and achievement written by renowned American author, Ernest Hemingway.

The Old Man and the Sea is widely considered as Hemingway’s crowning achievement as a literary giant. The wild success of the book played an integral role in his winning of the 1954 Nobel Prize for literature.
It is the tale of an old Cuban fisherman, who hooks the largest marlin he has ever seen, and the fierce battle that ensues. It is a strikingly simple plot with no more than three characters worth mentioning. Though the story is straightforward, Hemingway intertwines subtle themes throughout, packing a wealth of meaning into a simple narrative.

The primary character in the story is the old man. The old man has not caught a fish in eighty-four days and is considered as unlucky as a fisherman can be. Despite his ill fortune, the old man is determined to reverse his luck. In hopes of success, he sails farther out than usual, and on the eighty-fifth day of his drought, hooks something he did not expect.

The stories’ second prominent character is the marlin. The marlin is no average fish. From tail to snout, it measures longer than the old man’s boat. Such a prize would bring food, money, and an end to the constant derision from his peers.

The epic two day battle between man and fish is enough to excite most, but the real significance of the story is found in the deeper meaning behind Hemingway’s characters.

The old man represents humanity, while the marlin signifies achievement or purpose in life. When read with this in mind, the story is revolutionized. Hemingway did not mean to write a story simply about a man and a fish, this heroic struggle was intended to portray every man or woman’s battle for meaning and success in life.
He repeatedly demonstrates humanities’ determination with quotes from the old man. “’Fish,’ he said softly, aloud, ‘I’ll stay with you until I am dead.’” The old man’s musings on the roles he and the fish play are both delightfully comical and refreshingly insightful. “Then his head started to become a little unclear and he thought, is he bringing me in or am I bringing him in?”

Hemingway successfully exhibits the struggle to live a meaningful life while raising difficult questions for readers to grapple with.

Using short sentences and clear language for which he is legendary, Hemingway manages to write a captivating novella accessible to all. It is easy to marvel at his ability to communicate clearly, yet with such eloquence and profundity.

The Old Man and the Sea is a must-read for all. Hemingway’s style is adept enough to reach both the genius and the neophyte, leaving no viable excuse for not reading this masterpiece.

Walden

2007-09-13T12:39:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the September 13th edition of the Biola University newspaper

Looking for a book with non-stop, heart-pounding action? Maybe searching for a story about a passionate love affair? If this fits your description of a good book, put that thought on hold for the next five minutes. Instead, embrace a peaceful, serene story of a complex man, pursuing a simple life, to discover the meaning of it all.

“Walden” is the autobiography of a man who chose to reject communal living and move to the woods. During the summer of 1845, Henry David Thoreau moved to a small dwelling he built on the shores of Walden Pond, located near Concord, Mass. During his time in the woods, Thoreau recorded his experiences apart from society’s distractions.

Thoreau describes his lifestyle and thoughts during the two years, two months and two days he spent living at Walden Pond. From building his own house, to providing his own food, he weaves an intricate portrait of a self-sufficient individual. Colorful descriptions of encounters with nature makes readers feel as though they are standing next to him. Vivid language and inspiring phrases dominate the landscape of his prose. He speaks simply, yet his thoughts, feelings and emotions have a profound impact.

Some misunderstand Thoreau’s project and think of him as a recluse, longing to distance himself from others. But Thoreau was no misanthrope. He loved privacy, as evidenced by his famous quote, “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” But his motives for going to the woods were far beyond revulsion toward humanity.

Ostensibly, his intention for isolating himself was to live with only the essentials necessary for survival. But it seems that he had bigger plans in mind.

Thoreau delves into social, spiritual and even philosophical issues. Human nature is a main focus of his musings. Modern society and man’s incessant bustling about are vehemently condemned. He sees man’s occupation with life’s labors as an inhibitor to maximizing one’s time on earth.

Instead he preaches a life of Spartan-like existence. Riches mean very little in his ideal vision of a life well lived. To Thoreau, simplicity is valued far beyond extravagance. His thought provoking admonition against new clothing exemplifies his attitude. “I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.”

He places an emphasis on enjoying life in the moment instead of postponing happiness until one has accrued fame, fortune and family.

The book ends on an optimistic note. Thoreau leaves Walden Pond, but with a renewed appreciation for life outside the woods. His time spent in seclusion gave him hope for the future. He realized the life he wanted to pursue and was satisfied with moving confidently in that direction.

To the modern reader, “Walden” seems to hold little value. Most high school students are required to read it, but few see it as more than a deranged man rambling about nature.

The apparent lack of interest in “Walden” is a tragedy. This work is a timeless masterpiece that should be celebrated by all. I encourage you to read it. If you read it in high school, read it again. But follow Thoreau’s example. Find solitude. Go somewhere secluded. Picture yourself floating in Walden Pond on a hot summer day. Embrace the privacy of nature, and let his words resonate within your soul.

A Return to the Classics

2007-09-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

*This was published in the September 6th edition of the Biola University newspaper.

Why has America stopped reading? More importantly, why has America stopped reading the classics? A recent poll released by MSNBC showed that one in four adults did not read a single book last year.

This statistic should cause outrage on college campuses nationwide. America no longer cares about reading and it is largely up to college students to reverse this statistic.

Not only should that percentage shock our generation into efforts to emphasize reading, it should remind us the type of books that will produce this effect.

The classics are largely ignored in today’s visual society. People feel they lack the time to devote to reading long books with complex messages. Unless one plans on entering an intellectual field or becoming an English teacher, most see little use for spending their free time with their nose in a book. Instead, they choose to spend hours in front of a TV screen in a state of catatonia.

This attitude is highly caustic to our society and is destroying the foundation upon which it was set. There is a surplus of compelling reasons to invest time in reading the classics, but here are three sensible reasons that warrant their return.

The first compelling reason to put down the remote and pick up a classic is the opportunity to interact with the greatest ideas humanity has ever transmitted. These ideas have shaped the thoughts and actions of humanity since the creation of the world. Now men and women everywhere have been offered a look into the history of the world through eye witness accounts. The chance to interact with these ideas and discuss them with others is a priceless commodity. You have the opportunity to access the zenith of human thought since man began promulgating his ideas.

The second compelling reason for a return to the classics is the opportunity to improve skill at speaking and writing. These books are not considered literary classics for no reason; their content and style has been universally recognized as the standard for excellent written work. Their language is rife with rich vocabulary and expressive style. Spend time reading the classics and your ability to speak and write effectively will increase dramatically.

The third and final compelling reason for a return to the classics is the entertainment factor. Though many associate the classics with boring high school English, the classic’s subject matter can be every bit as fascinating as modern literature. Epic tales of love, war, and religion permeate the flow of classic literature. Read the classics with a receptive mind, and entertainment far surpassing cheap imitations will follow.

Rene Descartes, a 17th century French philosopher said, “The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the most honorable people of the past ages.”

So start a conversation. Explore the copious resources of classic literature. Read good books and do not settle for tawdry entertainment. Change America’s perception of reading, starting with the one person you can control.

I will be running a weekly column in the Chimes, reviewing classic books. If you have a classic piece of literature you would like to see reviewed, contact me and I will do my best to oblige you. Next week, I will launch a three-part series on classic American Literature, opening with Henry David Thoreau’s novel, Walden.

Give Craig a Break

2007-09-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

On August 8th, ultra-conservative Idaho Senator Larry Craig pleaded guilty to charges stemming from an alleged sexual solicitation in an airport bathroom. This was the first news regarding Senator Craig’s lewd conduct charge since his arrest on June 11.

The New York Times has been covering the story since its catapult toward national attention. According to the Times, Craig chose to plead guilty without alerting a lawyer or family, hoping that things would quickly blow over.

Karl Vick and Paul Kane, from the Washington Post, said Craig pleaded guilty because he was nervous about attention from the Idaho Statesman, Boise’s major newspaper, which had been investigating reports about his sexual orientation.

Instead, his decision to plead guilty has brought ostracism and ignominy from his supporters and peers, both in Idaho and Washington.

In an interview with CNBC, former Massachusetts Governor and republican candidate for president, Mitt Romney, criticized Craig’s alleged actions.

"It reminds us that people who are elected to public office continue to disappoint," Romney said. "And they somehow think that if they vote the right way on issues of significance or they can speak a good game that we'll just forgive and forget."

I am an Idaho native, so the story is close to home. I have grown up knowing Craig’s character and applauding his positive work done for Idaho. Craig has an outstanding overall reputation for serving Idaho, and has a consistent history of being anti-homosexual.

His history does not rule out the possibility that Craig is gay. The Idaho Statesman says that a forty year old man with close ties to Republican officials told them he had engaged in oral-sex with Craig in Washington D.C.’s Union Station, probably in 2004. Though this story has never been proven, it is worth noting. But shouldn’t his clearly heterosexual history at least beg the question? Why would a man who has made it palpably clear he is not gay, solicit gay sex in an airport bathroom?

Yet, no one is asking this question. Nothing but negative quotes and disparaging headlines have graced the covers of media outlets nationwide.

What about the possibility of entrapment? The police report from the Washington Post reads like an awkward middle school dance. The police officer reported that Craig “tapped his right foot.” The officer recognized this as a signal “used by persons wishing to engage in lewd conduct.”

Craig’s explanation from CNN.com read much differently. “I sit down to go to the bathroom, and you said our feet bumped. I believe they did ... because I reached down and scooted over and the next thing I knew, under the bathroom divider comes a card that says 'police.’ ”

I am not advocating Senator Craig’s total innocence. My message is simple: give Larry Craig a break. Give a venerable U.S. Senator, with a wealth of good deeds under his belt, the benefit of the doubt. Believe him when he says that he made a mistake in pleading guilty, and give him a second chance.

Defibrillator Policy

2007-08-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

After reading about a squabble between the current president's regime and Senator Hillary Clinton's campaign party, my frustration with political rhetoric has hit all-time highs.

Politicians laying waste to ethics, morals, and dignity for the sake of election is not a new development. It is the unspoken standard in today's political realm. Success lies within one's ability to say the right thing, in the right circumstance, pleasing the right number of people.

The problem with this, is that once a candidate expresses a policy, barring a change of events, they are married to that proposal until their term expires. But once they find another policy more beneficial for their popularity, they change faces quicker than Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

It's easy to deride these apparent scumbags, but imagine the situation they face. To combat political rivals making outrageous promises, they are forced to make promises of their own. As a result, they're branded liars once they are elected, and can't follow through with their spurious promises

Their situation is a lose-lose, and the American public is partly to blame. The lack of interest in political matters is causing mass ignorance. Crafty marketing campaigns prey on this apathy; disinterested 20-somethings need a shock to express support for a candidate, and a well-placed claim for a future policy might as well be 150 volts to the chest.

No revival is on the horizon. Politicians wanting power will be always be in plentiful supply, and many will do whatever is necessary for control. The best thing one can do is to sift through the rhetoric, and try to find the true intentions. Educate yourself on candidate's intended policies, and don't allow yourself to be another casualty of the marketing scam that drives this political juggernaut.

Pragmatism vs. Passion

2007-08-10T09:57:00.001-07:00

Work. The very utterance of the word strikes fear into the hearts of weekend warriors everywhere. The guy standing in line behind you at the movies doesn't want to hear about your job, but would love to tell you why he hates his. Those who actually enjoy Monday morning have become a dying breed.

But why is the concept of work given such pejorative treatment? When did one's vocation become a reason for vacation?

To determine the cause of this, it's necessary to find the source of the problem. For many, a career begins during college. Classes are taken, interests are realized, and majors are chosen. Higher education fulfills its duty to prepare students for a lifetime of doing what they love. But at some point in this cycle, something went terribly wrong.

Students began to choose majors based upon lucrative opportunities in the future. They spurned the classes they loved in exchange for financial security in years to come. Ostensibly, there is nothing wrong with this decision. It's difficult to pass up thousands of dollars today in exchange for happiness 20 years down the road. 18 year olds see dollars signs and pick the get rich asap degree. These students may learn some beneficial information from General Education courses, but usually they will specialize too quickly, and are left with knowledge applicable only to their career path.

These naive students spend the first 10 years out of college accumulating as much money as possible. Some are successful, other happy, but a large group wind up making less than they dreamed and despising the same contract they signed in blood when they chose their degree. The guy at your kid's baseball game, grumbling about the upcoming week. The obnoxious woman on the subway, complaining about the mundane tasks for the day. Or maybe you, realizing that your ten year plan left happiness out of the equation. All pragmatism no passion.

So, what's the solution? Find something you love to do, and find someone who will pay you to do it. A simple statement, commonly quoted, but rarely applied.

Go to college to learn about something that interests you. Learn about a variety of things before choosing how the next 50 years of your life will be spent. Acquire all the knowledge available and pursue what is most attractive. Don't blow off what could be the rest of your life. Don't settle for a prosaic position when variety and excitement could be yours for years to come.

Listen to the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, describing a man who follows his passion.

"He walks abreast with his days, and feels no shame in not 'studying a profession,' for he does not postpone his life, but lives already. He has not one chance, but a hundred chances."

Emerson paints a portrait of a man who seizes life's opportunities. This kind of man isn't ruled by a safety. He finds his security in pursuing what he can enjoy during the time he has been given. I can't stress this enough, pursue what you love. Pursue it tenaciously.