I'm back! Well, not really. I am only here to let you all know that I'm very much alive, and I've started writing again! I actually started writing a story this week and I'm 9 pages in. I'm thinking of selling for the Kindle once I'm all done with it, but just for you, my loyal readers, I will allow a sneak peak! Here are those first 9 pages. It is still very much a work in progress, so feel free to leave comments with suggestions or thoughts. Enjoy!
Title: Truthful Sands
By: Benjamin Piiru
C. 2011
Orin Kess paced back and forth with an agitated twitch in his eye as he kept watch over the barren expanse of sun-bleached sand dunes before him at a forward desert post. He was more agitated than usual as he felt the sun seemed to be beating down on just him. But he had a job to do and he wasn’t going to complain.
The Reksus had not ventured passed the veil in 100 suns, since the last skirmish of the Great Conflict, but in case they did show up, someone had to be there to push them back long enough for the seekers to arrive. That was Orin’s job. He was only just born around when the 300 Suns Great Conflict ended, and he had only seen images of Reksus in official visual materials provided by the official press of the army. Given that, he wasn’t altogether sure that if a Reksus did appear on the horizon he would know it.
Upon seeing a Reksus, his orders were to kill it, report the incident to his undercaptain, and promptly get back in position. Simple enough, but Orin had only ever discharged his weapon in the safety and security of the range, and had never come close to actually aiming at a living creature.
In truth, Orin didn’t much care for violence. He was more interested in reading than fighting. His uncle, whom he had lived with since birth, was an overcaptain in the great army during the Great Conflict, and it was he who urged Orin to enlist. He resisted at first, much more inclined to pursue a life acting on a stage or writing poetry, but he ultimately decided to follow his uncle’s advice upon realizing that he had very little talent for either.
During training, Orin stuck out from the crowd of other enlistees. He was a stumpy specimen of Gerodite, and his overseers picked on him because of it, telling him that he was built more for the grain fields at Keroth than soldiering in the great army. Generally speaking though, Orin was a good soldier and he was proud of his occupation. He followed orders well, and always kept his green uniform neatly pressed. That’s all that really mattered to anyone anyway.
Upon finishing his training, Orin was chosen to stand guard at one of 15 forward desert posts, all of which were scattered at considerable distances from one another along the border of Gerod and the desert. The Gerodites called the desert Ghert il Youk, meaning “Truth in every step,” in the old language. Since before time, elders have always said “truth is known only by the desert and those swallowed by it.” Orin suspected that “truth” in this case actually meant something closer to “death,” so he was happy to be where he was, on the very edge of the desert.
Each forward desert post housed one guard and one duty shift lasted until both suns set below the horizon. This meant that Orin found himself alone quite often and for very extended periods of time, which he actually very much enjoyed. Or rather, he tended to enjoy it.
Today was not one of those days. The glare from the suns seemed brighter and more intense than usual, which made him uneasy and restless. He wished for the end of his shift, but his time piece, which he kept safely away from the elements in his inside coat pocket, said that he still had much time to go.
“You’ve got a bit left there, Orin.”
“Do I? Is that what you say?”
“As a matter of fact, dear friend, that is what I do say. ”
“Yes. I will think of what to do.”
At moments like these, when alone and left to his thoughts, he often struck up conversations with himself. He liked to practice languages and pretended to be in other countries on holiday, even though he had never himself ventured outside Gerod. His grasp of Capital Gero was that of a native speaker, but his knowledge of the lesser dialects spoken on the fringes of Gerod was rather limited. Very few Fringers, as they were called, enlisted in the great army, so his exposure was next to nothing. The great army consisted mainly of a certain type: the tall, strong, uneducated and poorer residents of the Capital, known as the underclass, of which there were more than enough to fill the lower ranks. Their dialect was formed by the mashing together of the tongues of the immigrant nations with that of Capital Gero. Many despised this pidgin formation, and it was frequently called a deformation or bastardization of true Gero, but Orin found it fascinating and rather nice to listen to.
Recently, Orin overheard a group of underclass chanting a melodious round while digging out a trench. He didn’t quite understand its meaning, but that mattered little. Orin listened intently from a ways off, and memorized every word. It was his new favorite piece of poetry, and he hummed it to himself often. He decided that Ghert il Youk would appreciate a recitation, so after a deep breath, Orin closed his eyes and spread his arms out wide as the song broke from his lips.
I saw me a go-go bird, dancing in the sand
Twas a thing to behold, a go-go bird on land
Went to the left, he did, then up and down a tree
Slow to the quick was I, the go-go bird was me!
I saw me a go-go bird, flying through the air
A black speck in truthful sands, all without a care
Came down to land, he did, too tired to be free
Slow to the quick was I, the go-go bird was me!
I saw me a go-go bird, buried in the ground
Happier than a keeble-bug, peace he had found
Life proved to be too much, and in the end you’ll see
Slow to the quick am I, the go-go bird is me!
Orin opened his eyes and looked out at the sands for some sort of response to his recitation. Ghert il Youk stood steady and silent as it always had, not acknowledging Orin’s pretty poem.
“What do you suppose a go-go bird is, Orin?”
“I don’t know, Orin. Never heard of it before.”
“Might be some extinct creature.”
“It might very well be. Hey, Ghert il Youk, do you know what a go-go bird is?”
The desert remained silent.
“Doesn’t seem like he has much to say.”
“Maybe he can’t hear you. He’s old, so you have to talk loudly for him to hear you.”
“Ah you could be right about that. Oi! Ghert il Youk! What do you suppose a go-go bird is?!”
Just then a hot shock of wind picked up a dozen or so grains of sand and hurled them into Orin’s face, getting in his eyes and mouth. Orin flailed about in pain for a moment as he attempted to wipe away the granules from the sensitive bits. The moment after flushing his eyes with tears he settled his gaze angrily at the desert that had just attacked him. Before he could let fly a flurry of curses at the offending sands, a bright glimmer off in the horizon caught his attention. Orin squinted at whatever was there, but the glimmer had already disappeared.
“Must be imagining things now,” he said to himself, reassuringly. “Nothing out there for the suns to reflect off of. Right? Right. Nothing’s out there. Just my imagination. Just your imagination, Orin.”
But, as if on cue, there it was again, in roughly the same spot. And then it was gone again, as quickly as it had appeared. Orin rushed over to his standard issue field pack and fished out his standard issue far-sight. He pointed the view finder at where the distant glimmer had been and looked closely at the screen. Nothing yet; just sand formations touched only by the desert winds. Orin handled the dials on the far-sight to zoom in and sweep around. There it was again! The far-sight whirred as the mechanics inside worked to produce an image. And finally, he saw it.
The image flickering on the far-sight’s screen was that of a figure, inching forward on all fours. The glimmer was the reflection of the suns on what appeared to be a metallic container of some sort, dangling from what appeared to be a belt. Orin was not at all sure what to do next. Whatever it was that was out there was clearly suffering. It did not appear to be a Reksus, but how could Orin be sure? The official images given by the official press were hand-drawn and depicted monsters twice the size of a normal Gerodite with pointed daggers for teeth, freakishly long ears, and sinister glowing red eyes. At this distance, it was impossible to tell that the creature wasn’t a Reksus, but conversely, who could be sure that it was a Gerodite instead?
“Alright, Orin, what to do, what to do?”
“Go save him.”
“Can’t do that. I should call base.”
“By the time anyone gets here, it might be too late. He might die.”
“Better him than me!”
“Orin.”
“But what if he’s a Reksus?”
“What if he isn’t?”
“I’m fine with those odds.”
“Orin.”
“Dammit.”
Orin stuffed two water sacks, four field ration packets and the far-sight into his field pack, clasped an emergency heat diffuser onto his belt, extended his solar visor, strapped his bolt shot around his shoulder, hopped onto his sand-surfer and glided swiftly into the desert.
---
By the time Orin reached the creature, after a short glide into the desert, it had seemingly fallen over, and was motionless save for its labored breathing. Without a moment’s thought, Orin pulled out one of the water sacks, unclasped the binding and poured a small amount into the mouth of the creature at his feet. The condensed cooled water hit its lips and brought life back to its face. It grasped the water sack, and poured half the contents down its throat. Orin removed a field ration packet from his field pack, tore off the protective wrapping, and placed it in the creature’s hand. The creature opened its eyes slightly and looked at Orin through strained slits.
“Eat that.”
The creature’s brow furrowed slightly upon hearing Orin speak, but made no objection before devouring the ration.
“Now, do you feel better?”
The creature made no response.
“It’s very dangerous for you to be out here. If I had not seen you, you would probably be dead, you know.”
Still no response. Orin paused for a moment. Maybe the creature didn’t understand, or couldn’t speak, or was deaf. Those options sounded much better to Orin than what the warning bells in his mind were telling him.
The creature was resting, on its back, with its eyes closed. It wore brown and gold colored garments, including a thin hood made of animal skins. It appeared to be a tad taller than what is considered tall for a Gerodite. Its skin was much fairer and smoother than a Gerodite’s and the usual ridge just above the nose was missing. It had the same amount of toes and fingers as a Gerodite, but the hands and feet seemed somehow fragile and delicate.
“You’re not a Gerodite, that much is clear. What are you, then?”
The creature’s eyes opened, this time more than before. There was no insidious red glow, as in the pictures Orin had seen, but rather a soft green circle swimming in a milky lake. The creature slowly sat up and dusted itself off. Its breathing was at a steady pace now, and it no longer seemed to be in any discomfort.
“Reksus?”
The creature nodded its head once.
“You don’t look as scary as press makes you out to be.”
The Reksus blinked and squinted at Orin while tilting its head as if trying to listen harder.
“Well, Reksus, I have a job to do, you know.” Orin removed his bolt shot from around his shoulders and held it in his hands in a neutral stance. “I’m supposed to kill you, you know. Those are my orders.” The Reksus pursed its thin pink lips and breathed deeply. It nodded sadly, turned around away from Orin and sat facing where he came from. It spoke, and when it did, Orin could perceive much sorrow in the voice, despite not knowing its actual meaning.
“Itah kalutcher. Liet sallah ni chukta Itah. Itah peko ni Ghert il Youk.”
“Whoa there. I’m not actually going to, I mean I can’t. I saved you. I can’t go and kill you after having just saved you.”
The Reksus turned its head around with a puzzled look on its face.
“Did I hear you say Ghert il Youk?”
The Reksus’s eyes grew with surprise. It nodded cautiously.
“Ghert il Youk.” It spread its arms and motioned to the desert around them.
“Yes! Ghert il Youk! The desert!” Orin copied the Reksus’s arm motion. “That’s what we call it too!”
The Reksus nodded again with an unsure smile on its lips. Orin strapped his bolt shot back around his shoulder and sat down on the sand, facing the Reksus.
“Alright, what am I going to do with you? First, what am I going to call you? Do you have a name? You must have a name.”
The Reksus squinted at Orin again, shrugged its shoulders and said “Itah kalutcher nai.”
“Okay, right, different language.” Orin pointed to the Reksus and said, “Reksus.” Orin then pointed to himself and said, “Gerodite.”
The Reksus nodded, saying “Ro, ro Reksus Gerodite.”
“Okay, so you know that already, good.” Orin then pointed to himself again and said “Orin.”
“Orin? Ah, Orin. Piel!” The Reksus pointed to itself and said “Itah ni Rith’el. Rith’el.”
Orin clapped his hands excitedly. “Good, good! Nice to meet you, Rith’el.” Orin bowed his head and touched his fingertips to his forehead in greeting. Rith’el bowed its head in turn.
The moment its head returned from its bow, Rith’el sprang to its feet with a crazed look on its face. With desperation, it pointed to the desert and exclaimed “Itah no trelit! Allah beki chukta itah no trelit mo!” Rith’el grabbed Orin by the arm and lifted him up to his feet as effortlessly as if Orin weighed no more than keeble bug. Frantically, Rith’el gestured into the desert. “Itah no trelit ni dooms!”
Maybe it was because “dooms” sounded a lot like “doom,” or it was the intensity with which Rith’el cut the air with the word, but Orin felt a sudden cold dread wash over him and he knew what Rith’el was pleading for him to do. Rith’el’s friends were in the desert somewhere, either dead or close to death, and Orin was the only one who could save them.
Orin shook his head. “No! I’ve done too much already. Sorry to say, but you’re definitely on your own from here on out.”
Rith’el knelt to one knee, put its right hand on its chest and placed its left hand firmly on Orin’s. “Kanalida’a, Orin. Kanalida’a.”
“No way! I’ve put myself out on too many limbs today. I’ll give you some water and some rations, but I can’t go with you. Here.” Orin opened his field pack and removed the remaining water sack and field rations, emptying them on the sand between himself and Rith’el. Rith’el looked down at the provisions in the sand, realizing Orin’s answer in his action. It was all too much for Rith’el to carry by himself. It pointed at Orin’s field pack and gestured for him to hand it over. Orin knew standard issue field packs were not in short supply, so he readily handed it over to Rith’el. Rith’el scooped up the water and rations, dumped them back into the field pack, and fastened the pack to its animal skin belt.
Rith’el turned to Orin, said “Liet sallah, Orin,” and abruptly turned away toward the direction of its friends.
Orin watched Rith’el from a distance for a while. Rith’el hadn’t gotten far, and was having an obviously difficult time traversing the sand dunes on foot without the help of even sand-shoes. Orin knew that if Rith’el didn’t get to his friends soon, they would all be dead and buried beneath the sands or eaten by scavengers. But still Orin just watched. He did not enjoy the reality of what he had done by sending Rith’el off without further assistance. He understood very well that he’d most likely sent Rith’el off to meet its dead friends off in the middle of the desert and perhaps its own death a short time after. But what was he supposed to do? He’d already violated his orders by helping a Reksus. Helping more would be nothing short of treason.
“Stop it, Orin. Just go back to your post. Pretend like nothing happened.”
“But it’s going to die out there.”
“You don’t know that. And anyway, that’s not your responsibility.”
“It’s going to die, and it’ll be my fault when it does.”
“You did all you could. Turn around and go back to your post.”
“But it’s going to die!”
“You’re not a hero, Orin. Turn around.”
“It’s going to die.”
“Turn around! This never happened. Turn around, go back to your post, and continue living your regular and ordinary life. You’ve had enough excitement for some time.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to!”
“No, I can’t! I’m going.”
Orin hopped on his sand-surfer and sped off toward Rith’el.
---
Orin and Rith’el had been skimming over the dunes on Orin’s sand-surfer - which was really designed for only one user at a time, by the way - for what seemed like quite a bit of time until Rith’el spotted its companions at a distance. After dispensing the remaining water and field rations, Rith’el introduced Orin to the group of five Reksus. After the introductions were had and the thanks were given, the Reksus group huddled in a semicircle a little bit away from Orin to discuss their current situation.
After an animated conversation, Rith’el walked over to Orin with a smaller, but not that much smaller, Reksus following alongside. Orin was short for a Gerodite, so being in the presence of creatures taller than normal Gerodites made him slightly uneasy, but he did his best to remain calm.
The Reksus alongside Rith’el spoke to Orin first. “I Tchik’el. You Orin. That right?”
“Well I’ll be,” exclaimed a startled and intrigued Orin. “You speak Gero!”
“Please, not fast. Gero not understand whole. You understand, Orin?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Thank you. Thank you save I.” Tchik’el gestured to its group and Rith’el. “Please, question have. Good?
“Yes, good.”
“Thank you. Please, why you save I?”
It was clear by Tchik’el’s gesture to its group that when it said “I” it actually meant “us,” and it was also clear to Orin that the group of six Reksus were just as wary of him as he was of them. The real meat of the question, the part that was left out because of the language barrier, was “why haven’t you killed us yet?” Orin didn’t quite have an answer. He wasn’t altogether sure why he didn’t follow procedure and kill Rith’el the moment he confirmed its species, he wasn’t sure why he saved this group of Reksus in the middle of the desert, and he definitely wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next.
Orin thought for a moment about how to articulate his words in a way that Tchik’el could understand. He spoke slowly, with intention behind every breath.
“Why I save you, I not understand.”
Tchik’el nodded and translated for Rith’el.
“Kolet Orin chukta Itah, Orin kalutcher nai.”
Rith’el nodded slowly. “Soraki. Tipel Orin katoo shikchu raka.”
“Ro, Rith’el. Thank you. Please, what you… next. Next? Next good?”
“Next, yes next is good, I understand. What happens next. I don’t know.”
“Please, not understand.”
Orin thought for a moment again, his red eyes piercing the thick space between them as he tried to express himself adequately. And then he had it.
“I not understand, but Ghert il Youk understand.”
Tchik’el smiled and nodded. To Rith’el it said “Katoo shikchu raka Orin kalutcher nai, eto Ghert il Youk kalutcher.”
Rith’el let out a thundering laugh and beamed down at Orin. “Ro! Piel!” It turned to its friends still standing a short distance away and said “Orin kalutcher nai katoo shikchu raka, yok Orin kalutcher nai chukta Itah, eto Ghert il Youk kalutcher!”
All the Reksus let out laughs as well, though not quite as thundering, as they still seemed to be recovering from being close to death. Orin smiled a little himself, for he knew what he said and understood the joke, even though he was the butt of it.
Rith’el spoke again, this time directly to Orin. “Itah yill allah, Orin. Prek allah ni sokarit nai, prek nai, eto Itah yill allah.” Rith’el motioned at Tchik’el to translate.
“Rith’el like you. You path, not path Rith’el not understand, eto Rith’el like you. Good? Orin understand?”
Orin smiled. “I understand.”
Rith’el spoke again. “Piel. Orin, allah killak iki ni Itah no ataka.”
Tchik’el looked at Rith’el with puzzlement and a hint of concern. “Rith’el. Ni saka prolith?”
“Itah yulkoor, Tchik’el. Ilyarit.”
“Eto Rith’el-“
“Ilyarit, Tchik’el.”
“Ro, Rith’el.”
Tchik’el again turned to Orin to translate. “Sorry, thank you. Rith’el say you go I home. Orin, understand?”
“Sounds like you’re telling me to go home. I go home?”
“Yes, Orin go I home.”
“No, you mean… Orin go to Reksus home?”
“Yes. Good?”
“No. No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. ”
Tchik’el translated for Rith’el. “Orin chook ro nai.”
“Allah killak konde Gerodite seekers ni kiku allah.”
“You will go I home. Gerodite seekers follow you here.”
Orin spun around in a panic to survey the desert in the direction from where he came. Seekers were the most elite and ruthless warriors in the great army, and were most often used for assassination of highly dangerous targets. They wore special cloaking fields and rode on cloaked sand skiffs when under such orders in order to infiltrate and withdraw without being seen. It wouldn’t be hard to believe that Orin had not noticed a pod of seekers following them into the desert. Regardless of the fact that seekers were terrifying to nearly all who saw them – or didn’t see them for that matter – Orin was more afraid of his inevitable conviction of treason.
Those found guilty of treason were met with the most horrible punishment possible. Upon receiving a guilty verdict, all of the traitor’s blood relatives are gathered in Freedom Plaza in the capital and burned alive with fire liquid until only ash remains. The event is broadcasted live to every viewer in the nation as a deterrent against future treachery. The absolute worst part of the ordeal, however, isn’t the fact that the traitor loses his entire family, but rather that the traitor himself has to pour the fire liquid over them.
For all Orin knew, his uncle, the only family he had, could already be in chains in some secret capital detention center. If seekers really had followed him, Orin could no longer return to Gerod and would have to follow the Reksus back to their home, to an unfamiliar people and toward an uncertain future. He cursed himself for being so recklessly heroic.
“Dammit, Orin, you were right. I should have listened to you. I should have stayed where I was. I should have been content with being ordinary.” His other more cautious and reluctant self gave him no answer in return.
“Sorry, I not understand. Orin go I home?”
“How do you know the seekers are out here?”
“Sorry, I not understand.”
Orin turned to face Rith’el with suspicion in his eyes. “How do you know? The seekers, can you see them?” Orin pointed at Rith’el and then to his own eyes. “You see seekers?”
Rith’el nodded with a satisfied grin. “Yure ni burato Itah.”
Tchik’el kneeled to one knee and spoke with a measured and low voice directly in Orin’s ear. “Seekers surround I.”
---
Monday
stupid ethnic writers
Okay, one more post before I get back to work.
Do you ever hear Chinese-American writers use a lot of Chinese in the things that they write? Probably not, right? Why do Spanish speaking writers always feel the need to write things in Spanish? Does it make it more authentic? It sounds pretentious to me. Especially when they don't translate in the text. I was listening to some short stories written by some Latina women last night on NPR, and nearly all of them felt the need to be all authentic and write random words in Spanish, when English would have been perfectly acceptable. It's formulaic! It's not just Spanish speakers. I went to a show where some random semi-popular Samoan girls were reading their poetry and doing the same thing. After a while it got annoying. Japanese writers don't do that. In an Ethnic Lit class I took at Cal, the Indian writer didn't do it, the Native writer didn't do it, the Chinese writer didn't do it, but the Mexican one did. It's like a prerequisite! I can do it too. Here:
I sat down with Obaachan at the kitchen table.
Rice powder gracing the stained wood grain.
I put the picture in my pocket.
Nani sore, musuko?
Nothing, Obaachan, I say
Sou desu ka.
Yes, Obaachan, I say
Atashi wa...
Obaachan doesn't finish her sentence.
The deep red maguro and nearly pink toro
Fitted perfectly on the cooked kome, the gohan
She used the chawan and tsugued the rice in the rice-cooker
Nee...
I pay no answer
Nee, musuko. Ano hito... Dare kashira?
I don't know how to respond.
Linguistically, intellectually, emotionally
Ano hito wa... anata no... ne?
She doesn't know how to ask the question. I don't know how to answer.
Ano hito...
Yes.
Ah. Sou desu ka.
The amaebi, tai, hamachi, all finding their place on the sweetened gohan
Ganbatte ne.
She puts down the sashimi and looks at me over her purple megane
Kono kazoku wa... Gomen nasai.
She bows her head slightly. I don't know why she's apologizing.
Aishiteru, musuko.
I love you too, Obaachan.
She starts in on the saba.
I am puzzled.
My phone rings.
It's him.
See?? It's great, isn't it? BECAUSE YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT SHE'S SAYING. It's a stupid device. They use the language like it's a device. So annoying.
Do you ever hear Chinese-American writers use a lot of Chinese in the things that they write? Probably not, right? Why do Spanish speaking writers always feel the need to write things in Spanish? Does it make it more authentic? It sounds pretentious to me. Especially when they don't translate in the text. I was listening to some short stories written by some Latina women last night on NPR, and nearly all of them felt the need to be all authentic and write random words in Spanish, when English would have been perfectly acceptable. It's formulaic! It's not just Spanish speakers. I went to a show where some random semi-popular Samoan girls were reading their poetry and doing the same thing. After a while it got annoying. Japanese writers don't do that. In an Ethnic Lit class I took at Cal, the Indian writer didn't do it, the Native writer didn't do it, the Chinese writer didn't do it, but the Mexican one did. It's like a prerequisite! I can do it too. Here:
I sat down with Obaachan at the kitchen table.
Rice powder gracing the stained wood grain.
I put the picture in my pocket.
Nani sore, musuko?
Nothing, Obaachan, I say
Sou desu ka.
Yes, Obaachan, I say
Atashi wa...
Obaachan doesn't finish her sentence.
The deep red maguro and nearly pink toro
Fitted perfectly on the cooked kome, the gohan
She used the chawan and tsugued the rice in the rice-cooker
Nee...
I pay no answer
Nee, musuko. Ano hito... Dare kashira?
I don't know how to respond.
Linguistically, intellectually, emotionally
Ano hito wa... anata no... ne?
She doesn't know how to ask the question. I don't know how to answer.
Ano hito...
Yes.
Ah. Sou desu ka.
The amaebi, tai, hamachi, all finding their place on the sweetened gohan
Ganbatte ne.
She puts down the sashimi and looks at me over her purple megane
Kono kazoku wa... Gomen nasai.
She bows her head slightly. I don't know why she's apologizing.
Aishiteru, musuko.
I love you too, Obaachan.
She starts in on the saba.
I am puzzled.
My phone rings.
It's him.
See?? It's great, isn't it? BECAUSE YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT SHE'S SAYING. It's a stupid device. They use the language like it's a device. So annoying.
And we're back.
I haven't blogged in 7 months. Not since Grandpa died. Since then, I have moved to LA, got a new job, see very few people that I care deeply about, have lost a little weight, lost another person close to me, moved in with the girlfriend and the cat, and met some interesting people along the way. So, basically, since I last wrote on here, nearly everything changed in my life. Mostly for the better, thankfully.
LA is not so different from the Bay Area. The main differences are of course the weather, the traffic, and the immense geography. It takes so long to travel from any one place to another. And the traffic makes not a lick of sense either. I am glad for the holiday season because no one is going to work, which means my commute is 15 minutes both ways instead of the usual hour.
I haven't written a creative word in months. When I was in the academic setting of Cal, I wrote all the time. Partly to prevent myself from studying, and partly because it was just easier to write when surrounded by creativity. I know I am in the global capitol of the entertainment industry, and I should be in my creative element here, but I'm just not. I haven't been able to write a poem, a story, or (clearly) a blog post since moving down. My life is so far from creative now. I'm a piece of clay that has had the water sucked from it. Even this post lacks a certain beauty that I once had in my writing. It makes me very sad to see this. Perhaps if I write more on here, then I will get some of it back. We shall see how long I can keep this up.
I was looking for a TKD place down here for a few months. No dice. All these places cater to kids, and I'm a little spoiled having trained with adults for 7 years. I would love to train at UCLA, but the hours are a little ridiculous for working professionals like myself, and USC doesn't allow non-students to participate in the program. I went searching for an Aikido place and found two interesting prospects. Once I land a permanent job at SCE, where I am now as a temp, I will definitely invest in a few months of classes to get my chops back up. I really miss AKD. I told the masters at both places that I was only a 4th kyu, which is sort of like saying I'm an intermediate who can roll reasonably well, but can't do much else. It will be sort of exciting to start over again, having beginners mind at a new place to learn from a new master. It will be good martial arts practice for me to empty my cup of all the things I think I know and fill it with things that I do not. That is the true meaning of martial arts practice. The teacher is the student is the teacher.
I have embraced my Buddhist roots a little bit more in the past few months. I have been dealing with a lot of loss, and being able to let those things and people go has been a great unburdening for me. It is freeing to be able to be okay with not having something. Being Buddhist really helped me in all the transitions I have had to do in the past months. I think it may have started up when I was writing my personal statements for USC, which I by the way am not planning to attend. I decided that while my personal statements were artistic and beautifully formed expressions of myself, it was okay to take part of them away and change them completely as needed. Art is a transient experience rather than a solid piece of form. A painting will change in both meaning and actual form from the time it is first created to when it turns to dust. Every stage between is art, and different from the adjacent stages. That does not cheapen the art but deepens it and strengthens it. And then when I had to move back home from Berkeley, i let go of a lot of things. A lot of possessions primarily, but also plans that did not pan out. Realizing that I was where I was in my existence and not before nor after helped me to realize that where I go from here all depends on how I am right now in the moment. One of my Muslim friends said to me "you should just believe in God, Ben." I proceeded to defensively explain my beliefs about what I consider to be "God," which is something similar to The Force in Star Wars. Instead of her telling me something Islam-centric to convert me, she simply said "yeah, sure that's God." In literary theory, it is generally understood that people create art and write to understand and bring themselves closer to what is known as the "sublime." The sublime is considered to be all that which human beings cannot experience themselves. We can climb to the top of a mountain, but we will never know the mountain; we can fly in airplanes but we will never feel what it is like to be a cloud; we can die but no one can know what that feels like or what happens after. Those are all "the sublime." Just like the big lion from Narnia said, "I am known by another name in your world." I think it isn't particularly difficult to reconcile my Buddhist beliefs with my understanding of "the sublime." In Zen Buddhism, the primary practice is to "just sit," where you bring yourself closer to your true self through meditation. What is your "true self?" When you strip away all the things that make you your "false self," all that is left is what the Christians would consider a soul. That is when you, in Buddhism, reach "enlightenment," or "Nirvana." "Heaven." "Jannah." All describe a "place" or state free from suffering and full of joy. Closer to God. Closer to your own divine and true self. It's really all the same. All strive to bring yourself to a level of understanding of yourself, of the world and universe, and all strive to bring you to the end of your worldly sufferings.
I end, as always, with a haiku:
Sitting in silence
What is the mountain? The cloud?
Someday, I will know.
LA is not so different from the Bay Area. The main differences are of course the weather, the traffic, and the immense geography. It takes so long to travel from any one place to another. And the traffic makes not a lick of sense either. I am glad for the holiday season because no one is going to work, which means my commute is 15 minutes both ways instead of the usual hour.
I haven't written a creative word in months. When I was in the academic setting of Cal, I wrote all the time. Partly to prevent myself from studying, and partly because it was just easier to write when surrounded by creativity. I know I am in the global capitol of the entertainment industry, and I should be in my creative element here, but I'm just not. I haven't been able to write a poem, a story, or (clearly) a blog post since moving down. My life is so far from creative now. I'm a piece of clay that has had the water sucked from it. Even this post lacks a certain beauty that I once had in my writing. It makes me very sad to see this. Perhaps if I write more on here, then I will get some of it back. We shall see how long I can keep this up.
I was looking for a TKD place down here for a few months. No dice. All these places cater to kids, and I'm a little spoiled having trained with adults for 7 years. I would love to train at UCLA, but the hours are a little ridiculous for working professionals like myself, and USC doesn't allow non-students to participate in the program. I went searching for an Aikido place and found two interesting prospects. Once I land a permanent job at SCE, where I am now as a temp, I will definitely invest in a few months of classes to get my chops back up. I really miss AKD. I told the masters at both places that I was only a 4th kyu, which is sort of like saying I'm an intermediate who can roll reasonably well, but can't do much else. It will be sort of exciting to start over again, having beginners mind at a new place to learn from a new master. It will be good martial arts practice for me to empty my cup of all the things I think I know and fill it with things that I do not. That is the true meaning of martial arts practice. The teacher is the student is the teacher.
I have embraced my Buddhist roots a little bit more in the past few months. I have been dealing with a lot of loss, and being able to let those things and people go has been a great unburdening for me. It is freeing to be able to be okay with not having something. Being Buddhist really helped me in all the transitions I have had to do in the past months. I think it may have started up when I was writing my personal statements for USC, which I by the way am not planning to attend. I decided that while my personal statements were artistic and beautifully formed expressions of myself, it was okay to take part of them away and change them completely as needed. Art is a transient experience rather than a solid piece of form. A painting will change in both meaning and actual form from the time it is first created to when it turns to dust. Every stage between is art, and different from the adjacent stages. That does not cheapen the art but deepens it and strengthens it. And then when I had to move back home from Berkeley, i let go of a lot of things. A lot of possessions primarily, but also plans that did not pan out. Realizing that I was where I was in my existence and not before nor after helped me to realize that where I go from here all depends on how I am right now in the moment. One of my Muslim friends said to me "you should just believe in God, Ben." I proceeded to defensively explain my beliefs about what I consider to be "God," which is something similar to The Force in Star Wars. Instead of her telling me something Islam-centric to convert me, she simply said "yeah, sure that's God." In literary theory, it is generally understood that people create art and write to understand and bring themselves closer to what is known as the "sublime." The sublime is considered to be all that which human beings cannot experience themselves. We can climb to the top of a mountain, but we will never know the mountain; we can fly in airplanes but we will never feel what it is like to be a cloud; we can die but no one can know what that feels like or what happens after. Those are all "the sublime." Just like the big lion from Narnia said, "I am known by another name in your world." I think it isn't particularly difficult to reconcile my Buddhist beliefs with my understanding of "the sublime." In Zen Buddhism, the primary practice is to "just sit," where you bring yourself closer to your true self through meditation. What is your "true self?" When you strip away all the things that make you your "false self," all that is left is what the Christians would consider a soul. That is when you, in Buddhism, reach "enlightenment," or "Nirvana." "Heaven." "Jannah." All describe a "place" or state free from suffering and full of joy. Closer to God. Closer to your own divine and true self. It's really all the same. All strive to bring yourself to a level of understanding of yourself, of the world and universe, and all strive to bring you to the end of your worldly sufferings.
I end, as always, with a haiku:
Sitting in silence
What is the mountain? The cloud?
Someday, I will know.
Tuesday
Thursday
Branching Pathways
I’ve been thinking a lot about the past, specifically about the dreaded question of “What if?”
Recently, while at work, So-youn’s email address popped up in my gmail chat list. Knowing that So-youn herself couldn’t have signed on to her email account, my brain immediately processed that someone was posing as her.
me: hello... who is this? I freaked out a little just now...
so-youn: im sorry i freaked out and signed out. this is ***. it says she is on invisible. i didnt mean to confuse anyone. im not even reading her email. i dont know why i logged in.
me: well, I'm not confused...but just surprised. Hello, ***.
Long story very short, ***is very cool and we relate to each other on several tangible (ie. she has my glasses and phone) and intangible (ie. she wants to save the world and she has played with both ends of the academic spectrum) points. She’s loads smarter than anyone I know, and it is all I can do to keep up with her dizzying intellect at times, and I sometimes have to look up words she uses during our internet conversations. Anyway, so I’ve been thinking a lot about So-youn the last couple days, primarily because of my new friendship with ***. I looked back at all our old email correspondences and chat logs on gmail yesterday and the day before. She certainly left a mark on me. She once invited me to her birthday party, and I didn’t go. Part of the reason was that I was really busy with whatever schoolwork I wasn’t doing at the time. The main reason, however, was that I feared feeling awkward meeting people that I didn’t know. Ridiculous, right? Not going to her birthday party is one of my great regrets. So-youn taught me by example the value in reaching out to those around you. She loathed at the term “networking” but regardless of that, she was really good at it. Going to that party of hers was her attempt at connecting her friends together; she said so herself. That was another thing she was good at: finding two people and seeing a thread that would connect them. That is why I think *** and me finding each other through seemingly random happenstance is yet another notch in So-youn’s belt. Even from the next life, she is able to connect people together. It boggles my mind. Wherever she is, I know So-youn is smiling.
I have been having a lot of those “what if” moments recently. Not only with all the potential time I could have spent or moments I could have shared with So-youn, but also in regards to a certain one of my friends who hasn’t yet graduated from college after 7 years. We used to be really close. The closest two platonic friends could be. And then the barrier broke, and we found ourselves infatuated with one another at the most wrong of times. Our friendship as it was ended shortly after that. We can’t go back to how things used to be. Because of what she said, what I said, what we didn’t say, or we did or didn’t do. To skip ahead to the now part of the story, she’s been at junior college for 7 years, since graduating high school. That’s a long time. I would understand if she had real hindrances to entering a university, but she doesn’t. The only thing keeping her back is herself. I have wondered if the end of our relationship, as it was 5 years ago, could be the cause of her not being able to extricate herself from community college. She had maybe 3 positive people in her life going to school with her when I was a city college student, and when we all left to four-year universities, she was left with people who could care less about succeeding in the world. I am not intending this to sound like I am high and mighty at the top of my ivory tower, and that the only success one can have is academic and monetary success. If these people showed the slightest bit of talent in any un-academic field, I would take back my statement, but other than the token wannabe musician, her friends are wasting their lives thinking that figuring out what bling to wear to class is more important than what class to actually take. If I had been there for her back then, if I had perhaps dated her like she wanted, could things have been different? Would we have worked out? Obviously no one can say for certain. I know she has dreams and she wants to do something of merit in the world, but she’s taken and dropped the same math class for the last 4 years, and that one math class is what is keeping her from moving on. What if I had been there? Could I have helped her? Would she even have asked me for help? Again, who is to say?
Ending with a haiku.
Like a cat, it stares.
It’s there, wherever you are.
Then now, then later.
Recently, while at work, So-youn’s email address popped up in my gmail chat list. Knowing that So-youn herself couldn’t have signed on to her email account, my brain immediately processed that someone was posing as her.
me: hello... who is this? I freaked out a little just now...
so-youn: im sorry i freaked out and signed out. this is ***. it says she is on invisible. i didnt mean to confuse anyone. im not even reading her email. i dont know why i logged in.
me: well, I'm not confused...but just surprised. Hello, ***.
Long story very short, ***is very cool and we relate to each other on several tangible (ie. she has my glasses and phone) and intangible (ie. she wants to save the world and she has played with both ends of the academic spectrum) points. She’s loads smarter than anyone I know, and it is all I can do to keep up with her dizzying intellect at times, and I sometimes have to look up words she uses during our internet conversations. Anyway, so I’ve been thinking a lot about So-youn the last couple days, primarily because of my new friendship with ***. I looked back at all our old email correspondences and chat logs on gmail yesterday and the day before. She certainly left a mark on me. She once invited me to her birthday party, and I didn’t go. Part of the reason was that I was really busy with whatever schoolwork I wasn’t doing at the time. The main reason, however, was that I feared feeling awkward meeting people that I didn’t know. Ridiculous, right? Not going to her birthday party is one of my great regrets. So-youn taught me by example the value in reaching out to those around you. She loathed at the term “networking” but regardless of that, she was really good at it. Going to that party of hers was her attempt at connecting her friends together; she said so herself. That was another thing she was good at: finding two people and seeing a thread that would connect them. That is why I think *** and me finding each other through seemingly random happenstance is yet another notch in So-youn’s belt. Even from the next life, she is able to connect people together. It boggles my mind. Wherever she is, I know So-youn is smiling.
I have been having a lot of those “what if” moments recently. Not only with all the potential time I could have spent or moments I could have shared with So-youn, but also in regards to a certain one of my friends who hasn’t yet graduated from college after 7 years. We used to be really close. The closest two platonic friends could be. And then the barrier broke, and we found ourselves infatuated with one another at the most wrong of times. Our friendship as it was ended shortly after that. We can’t go back to how things used to be. Because of what she said, what I said, what we didn’t say, or we did or didn’t do. To skip ahead to the now part of the story, she’s been at junior college for 7 years, since graduating high school. That’s a long time. I would understand if she had real hindrances to entering a university, but she doesn’t. The only thing keeping her back is herself. I have wondered if the end of our relationship, as it was 5 years ago, could be the cause of her not being able to extricate herself from community college. She had maybe 3 positive people in her life going to school with her when I was a city college student, and when we all left to four-year universities, she was left with people who could care less about succeeding in the world. I am not intending this to sound like I am high and mighty at the top of my ivory tower, and that the only success one can have is academic and monetary success. If these people showed the slightest bit of talent in any un-academic field, I would take back my statement, but other than the token wannabe musician, her friends are wasting their lives thinking that figuring out what bling to wear to class is more important than what class to actually take. If I had been there for her back then, if I had perhaps dated her like she wanted, could things have been different? Would we have worked out? Obviously no one can say for certain. I know she has dreams and she wants to do something of merit in the world, but she’s taken and dropped the same math class for the last 4 years, and that one math class is what is keeping her from moving on. What if I had been there? Could I have helped her? Would she even have asked me for help? Again, who is to say?
Ending with a haiku.
Like a cat, it stares.
It’s there, wherever you are.
Then now, then later.
Monday
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