Go forth young cosmonauts,
explore the wilds of witty thoughts.
Write at work if you dare,
or on your couch in underwear.
Just be sure that you do and post it on the blog too.
11.15.2011
Come Hope
Oaks clutch falling leaves
Chill winds encircling for months
April cavalry
— a haiku version of a previous poem: Winter Months
Chill winds encircling for months
April cavalry
— a haiku version of a previous poem: Winter Months
11.11.2011
11.08.2011
7.25.2011
Non-Fiction Musings
Reflections of the Unseen
Much in this world is a reflection of the unseen, or what lies beneath the surface. Take for instance a barren tree: a mass of trunk, branches and twigs—woven in a complexity that mirrors what is below the surface –the same tangled pattern of the roots. So both that which is collecting life and that which is displaying life are a reflection of each other. Of course as we know, that which is below the surface, the unseen, is much deeper, wider and intricate: especially true of the root system of trees bearing fruit. It is the same with other such reflections in this world. The unseen is more profound. But what is physical and evident to us, leads us to understand the unseen.
I’ve been thinking about this reflective nature in terms of my future lately. My future is unforeseeable. Yet we pretend to see the future. We make all kinds of plans for the future as if we can see it, as if we’re constructing it for ourselves. Let’s transition to the physical reflection of this abstract. I am near-sighted. My eyesight is so bad I can only see with clarity what is right in front of my face. Everything else is a gradient abstraction: a field of colors and shadows with puddles of light.
For a long time, I resented my poor eyesight and would pray to wake up with perfect vision. In the same way, I have tried to see the future, and prayed for “insight.” But these prayers are the same. And the answer to both prayers was given in the summer of 2008 when I stepped into the new international airport in Beijing. For those of you who have not visited this airport—it's a wonder to behold! As you walk in, you are confronted with a colossal cavern ribbed with rafters each bearing what from your vantage point looks like a string of Christmas lights. This legion of lights bounce off the brilliant floors and give a sense of the ethereal. Everyone gasps as they step through the entry. I had a 9 hour layover in this airport. At one point I took my glasses off to clean them and froze. Light stretches with my nearsightedness; what I was beholding with my bad vision was more than incredible: like the light from another universe. And I honestly feel sorry for you if you do visit this airport and don’t have near-sightedness. Again last September, as I took in the Chicago skyline from my 11th floor hotel room, I was impressed. When I took off my glasses, the whole scene transformed into the fantastic. Vision in the form it has been handed to me transforms the world into a stunning scene of twinkling orbs.
The answer to my prayers was: “No.” My eyesight lets me see something more dazzling than precision. The same with the future. It’s good we don’t know. It’s good that tomorrow is hard to see, and years down the road are cloaked in mystery. It’s beautiful this way. A clear vision isn’t always the best view. What God has made a mystery is best kept for…when we walk closer to it, later on. Everything will come into its apparentness in time. Meanwhile, I can stop squinting, and enjoy the view from far away. I thank God I’m near-sighted. It reflects perfectly my vantage point in life, and illustrates the beauty of limitations.
Much in this world is a reflection of the unseen, or what lies beneath the surface. Take for instance a barren tree: a mass of trunk, branches and twigs—woven in a complexity that mirrors what is below the surface –the same tangled pattern of the roots. So both that which is collecting life and that which is displaying life are a reflection of each other. Of course as we know, that which is below the surface, the unseen, is much deeper, wider and intricate: especially true of the root system of trees bearing fruit. It is the same with other such reflections in this world. The unseen is more profound. But what is physical and evident to us, leads us to understand the unseen.
I’ve been thinking about this reflective nature in terms of my future lately. My future is unforeseeable. Yet we pretend to see the future. We make all kinds of plans for the future as if we can see it, as if we’re constructing it for ourselves. Let’s transition to the physical reflection of this abstract. I am near-sighted. My eyesight is so bad I can only see with clarity what is right in front of my face. Everything else is a gradient abstraction: a field of colors and shadows with puddles of light.
For a long time, I resented my poor eyesight and would pray to wake up with perfect vision. In the same way, I have tried to see the future, and prayed for “insight.” But these prayers are the same. And the answer to both prayers was given in the summer of 2008 when I stepped into the new international airport in Beijing. For those of you who have not visited this airport—it's a wonder to behold! As you walk in, you are confronted with a colossal cavern ribbed with rafters each bearing what from your vantage point looks like a string of Christmas lights. This legion of lights bounce off the brilliant floors and give a sense of the ethereal. Everyone gasps as they step through the entry. I had a 9 hour layover in this airport. At one point I took my glasses off to clean them and froze. Light stretches with my nearsightedness; what I was beholding with my bad vision was more than incredible: like the light from another universe. And I honestly feel sorry for you if you do visit this airport and don’t have near-sightedness. Again last September, as I took in the Chicago skyline from my 11th floor hotel room, I was impressed. When I took off my glasses, the whole scene transformed into the fantastic. Vision in the form it has been handed to me transforms the world into a stunning scene of twinkling orbs.
The answer to my prayers was: “No.” My eyesight lets me see something more dazzling than precision. The same with the future. It’s good we don’t know. It’s good that tomorrow is hard to see, and years down the road are cloaked in mystery. It’s beautiful this way. A clear vision isn’t always the best view. What God has made a mystery is best kept for…when we walk closer to it, later on. Everything will come into its apparentness in time. Meanwhile, I can stop squinting, and enjoy the view from far away. I thank God I’m near-sighted. It reflects perfectly my vantage point in life, and illustrates the beauty of limitations.
6.15.2011
Epic
I thought I'd drop a line to say, we are all currently working on an Epic together. This means...your wildest dreams are pretty much just about to come true, dear reader. We're hard at work on it (I think?), and we'll not only be posting, but also publishing when it comes together.
to tide you over til then, I'll write a spontaneous proverb:
Just as the seed is planted in spring
And the return gathered in autumn
so patience is a virtue you must wait for.
to tide you over til then, I'll write a spontaneous proverb:
Just as the seed is planted in spring
And the return gathered in autumn
so patience is a virtue you must wait for.
4.16.2011
The Galliard
Never time passed with so little definition. Neither the present nor his memory had its usual edges. His days were as weeks, and his months were sometimes less. In that initial moment in which he was again self-aware, he knew nothing — which is to say, he was uncertain of everything. His mind, or his world (at first he wasn't sure), was all murk and distortion of sight and sound, thought and feeling: as though all were as speech underwater.
As Richard came a little more to himself, he found his body moving with intent in a room of masked dancers, one arm extended toward his partner. The dancers kept, what seemed to him, an unnatural distance from each other. The dance was a galliard, and the song melancholy, with repeated rounds like a chant — a melodious rhythm to which rose and fell the shoulders of the whole party in perfect time. The masks they wore, they wore uniformly: not a face could be seen without. Consistent too was the slight, unnerved feeling Richard had whenever he allowed his attention to remain too long on any mouth or eye in the crowd. Not that anything appeared to be wrong with them — on the contrary, they all looked superficially like happy mouths and merry eyes — but Richard had the peculiar sensation that they were somehow far away, and the longer he tried to focus on any one, the greater the feeling of distance. It was all a trick of lighting, he supposed, or of whatever drug he now began to think he had been given.
But how had he come to this now? He had a thought of taking his leave of the dance to collect himself, but there came to him a strong thought, almost solid, like a sound: “Once one has begun to dance, one ought never to stop before the music ends.” So he continued, but doubted the voice. The voice spoke within him, but didn't sound quite like his own voice, as if his conscience recalled not his own values, but those of another.
Disturbed, Richard began to introspect, fearing what he would find within the one dull brown memory of the indefinite, recent past. It was no black spot in his mind, no unconsciousness. It was, rather, a vague, blurry mixture of all the things he had apparently experienced, having taken on the accumulated color of all he had seen and thought and felt into one great intermingled stain. But no sooner had he concentrated his will upon the task than the dull brown thing began to divide itself, as white will divide when applied to a prism and reveal the many colors that coalesce to make it. Images and emotions, all in very strong color pulled away from each other and lined themselves up in a sequence — but whether the correct one, he could never afterwards discern.
The content of the images themselves were mostly rather plain, but his reactions to them were inordinately potent. None of this felt right. The queer idea occurred to him that the things in his mind were not rightfully his own. He did not like this at all. Neither his conscience nor his intuition could be quieted, though his memory and the associated emotions were struggling to muffle their cries. In another man they might have succeeded, but Richard was not unaccustomed to fighting himself and winning. He had been conscientious as a boy and had learned to listen to the voice that told him what was wrong to do or good to do, and thus he knew what it was to discern the tiny whisper of character despite the raucous tantrums of self-preservation, desire, or rage. He had long been consistent in telling the truth, even when it spoiled his plans or negatively affected his reputation. Of course, it is such little deeds of goodness which can alone reliably make one capable of great deeds of goodness. Richard's grandmother had once told him, “A real hero — not a warmonger, mind you — is made when a little boy is honest and peels the potatoes and stands up to a bully for another and sits with the neighbor when her cat dies.” Richard had taken these words to heart and was now was steeled against the battle for his will.
Upon a slight pause in the music, a second before the crescendo of the galliard, Richard perceived a quiet, muffled sob. And suddenly he whirled with a flash of memory and a bite of realization in his clearing mind. He saw at once that he was in the midst of a great, dangerous cult. He saw that some unnamed man had resisted, had taken to the brainwashing imperfectly, and was cursed therefore to endure his half-twisted mind alone in the prison for which the basement below this ballroom served. The only door was in sight and reach, but Richard knew at once that he could not now free the man from the prison, but neither could he put the man from his mind. He could not dance now; he could not laugh now — not while he was here and the outcast man there, apart. So he stopped: a pillar of will in a shifting tide. He stood with the weight of a great burden, but began a stride to the door. With each step his conscience assented its approval and his will grew more resolute. The weight grew lighter until at last the burden became his wings. With each false, grinning dancer he passed, his love for this humanity — his brothers and sisters — grew bolder until it could no longer be contained by decorum and broke its fences into a run. Removing his tie and disregarding all the stares and gasps of disbelief, he pulled open that horrible door before he could be stopped, and bounded down the stairs.
Richard sat on the floor next to the man who had only increased his sobbing since Richard's intrusion, and pulled his trembling brother to his chest, awaiting the man's freedom. Richard was already free.
As Richard came a little more to himself, he found his body moving with intent in a room of masked dancers, one arm extended toward his partner. The dancers kept, what seemed to him, an unnatural distance from each other. The dance was a galliard, and the song melancholy, with repeated rounds like a chant — a melodious rhythm to which rose and fell the shoulders of the whole party in perfect time. The masks they wore, they wore uniformly: not a face could be seen without. Consistent too was the slight, unnerved feeling Richard had whenever he allowed his attention to remain too long on any mouth or eye in the crowd. Not that anything appeared to be wrong with them — on the contrary, they all looked superficially like happy mouths and merry eyes — but Richard had the peculiar sensation that they were somehow far away, and the longer he tried to focus on any one, the greater the feeling of distance. It was all a trick of lighting, he supposed, or of whatever drug he now began to think he had been given.
But how had he come to this now? He had a thought of taking his leave of the dance to collect himself, but there came to him a strong thought, almost solid, like a sound: “Once one has begun to dance, one ought never to stop before the music ends.” So he continued, but doubted the voice. The voice spoke within him, but didn't sound quite like his own voice, as if his conscience recalled not his own values, but those of another.
Disturbed, Richard began to introspect, fearing what he would find within the one dull brown memory of the indefinite, recent past. It was no black spot in his mind, no unconsciousness. It was, rather, a vague, blurry mixture of all the things he had apparently experienced, having taken on the accumulated color of all he had seen and thought and felt into one great intermingled stain. But no sooner had he concentrated his will upon the task than the dull brown thing began to divide itself, as white will divide when applied to a prism and reveal the many colors that coalesce to make it. Images and emotions, all in very strong color pulled away from each other and lined themselves up in a sequence — but whether the correct one, he could never afterwards discern.
The content of the images themselves were mostly rather plain, but his reactions to them were inordinately potent. None of this felt right. The queer idea occurred to him that the things in his mind were not rightfully his own. He did not like this at all. Neither his conscience nor his intuition could be quieted, though his memory and the associated emotions were struggling to muffle their cries. In another man they might have succeeded, but Richard was not unaccustomed to fighting himself and winning. He had been conscientious as a boy and had learned to listen to the voice that told him what was wrong to do or good to do, and thus he knew what it was to discern the tiny whisper of character despite the raucous tantrums of self-preservation, desire, or rage. He had long been consistent in telling the truth, even when it spoiled his plans or negatively affected his reputation. Of course, it is such little deeds of goodness which can alone reliably make one capable of great deeds of goodness. Richard's grandmother had once told him, “A real hero — not a warmonger, mind you — is made when a little boy is honest and peels the potatoes and stands up to a bully for another and sits with the neighbor when her cat dies.” Richard had taken these words to heart and was now was steeled against the battle for his will.
Upon a slight pause in the music, a second before the crescendo of the galliard, Richard perceived a quiet, muffled sob. And suddenly he whirled with a flash of memory and a bite of realization in his clearing mind. He saw at once that he was in the midst of a great, dangerous cult. He saw that some unnamed man had resisted, had taken to the brainwashing imperfectly, and was cursed therefore to endure his half-twisted mind alone in the prison for which the basement below this ballroom served. The only door was in sight and reach, but Richard knew at once that he could not now free the man from the prison, but neither could he put the man from his mind. He could not dance now; he could not laugh now — not while he was here and the outcast man there, apart. So he stopped: a pillar of will in a shifting tide. He stood with the weight of a great burden, but began a stride to the door. With each step his conscience assented its approval and his will grew more resolute. The weight grew lighter until at last the burden became his wings. With each false, grinning dancer he passed, his love for this humanity — his brothers and sisters — grew bolder until it could no longer be contained by decorum and broke its fences into a run. Removing his tie and disregarding all the stares and gasps of disbelief, he pulled open that horrible door before he could be stopped, and bounded down the stairs.
Richard sat on the floor next to the man who had only increased his sobbing since Richard's intrusion, and pulled his trembling brother to his chest, awaiting the man's freedom. Richard was already free.
What I Thought When She Said No
My love is home for her dear soul.
And if in other homes she lies?
It's hers in truth — no less than whole.
The 'giving to' is most the prize.
Love is innately giving free,
and thus it does not need to take.
I can love her as does he,
and wait for what high loves can make.
Never filled in present time,
future will know truer love.
When in ages hence sublime,
we will know the truth thereof.
But, for now, we must grow hot:
to love, as flame does what is not;
to burn, for that is what it does;
for love consumes what evil was.
4.10.2011
Invitation to Sod a Hobbit House
If I didn't sod
I'd be worse than a cod
I'd be a septically putrefactive dyspeptic
But I shall sod
Till the sun begins to nod
And the bullfrog starts to sing his song eccentric
I'd be worse than a cod
I'd be a septically putrefactive dyspeptic
But I shall sod
Till the sun begins to nod
And the bullfrog starts to sing his song eccentric
4.06.2011
Luxury
I am a house divided.
divided time, divided heart, divided mind
I house a hundred potentials
a tug and pull of
left or right
ийшээ тийшээ
여기 거기
this tongue
or that place
that love
or this faith
help myself
or help everyone else?
In the wake of my disunion
lies a morbid trail
of unfinished, unforgotten pursuits:
ghosts in wooden shoes
trod behind me
clambering for resurgence
crying for rebirth.
I'm unable to assemble
all the contradictions
into a Frankenstein
of human ingenuity.
of human ingenuity.
But if I forsake insanity
and toss them all away
there remains one thing:
to know You,
and in it, measureless gain.
make it your every ambition therefore
to live a quiet life before the Lord.
3.27.2011
Carnivorous Hippopotamus
A carnivorous hippopotamus
I hope I never meet one
But if I did
I'd chop off it's head
And I'd be the first to eat one
2.25.2011
Ad Pater, 57 Years Old
You are as young as the morning dew
And more sprightly than a thousand Lady Gagas
Let us rejoice while we are young.
And more sprightly than a thousand Lady Gagas
Let us rejoice while we are young.
2.23.2011
Free Write at the Soviet Glory
1.11.2011
Modern Times
I see the Moon
and the Moon sees me
God bless the Moon
and God bless me
I pay the man
and the man pays me
God bless the man
and God bless me
and the Moon sees me
God bless the Moon
and God bless me
I pay the man
and the man pays me
God bless the man
and God bless me
1.05.2011
writer's block broken
A thought, fleeting and fine,
can stir the ethos and transform the mind.
There's nothing new under the sun
and you should know straight away
that what you've to say
has already been said.
But brilliant and new that thought is again--
once it's got into your head!
can stir the ethos and transform the mind.
There's nothing new under the sun
and you should know straight away
that what you've to say
has already been said.
But brilliant and new that thought is again--
once it's got into your head!
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