so not blogging

Hello, world!

2011-08-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

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.”

---

stupid ethnic writers

2010-12-27T11:34:00.000-08:00

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.

And we're back.

2010-12-27T08:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-05-18T19:30:00.001-07:00

i turned the air conditioning on when i drove home from work today in the hopes that it would numb me to my pain. it actually just made my tears colder.

whoever said that your 20's are the best times of your life should be taken out back, put in a burlap sack, and beaten with reeds.

2010-05-18T05:33:00.000-07:00

grandpa died this morning

Branching Pathways

2010-05-13T11:06:00.001-07:00

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.

grief - haiku

2010-05-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

About grief and loss
I tried to write a poem just now
But the words aren’t there.

untitled

2010-05-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

The sun breaks
and here I am, still
again.
Please do not stab at
the bloody heart of my blackened womb
where the love of you once sat
now burned
now crispy and brittle
and dry.
The sun breaks
and here I am, still
again.
Cry with sorrow as you break my bones.
Wail wildly as you gouge out my eyes
and stab at the bloody heart of my blackened womb.
Red and violet lights flashing under my skin.
Angry purple scars streak over my soul and chest,
where the love of you once sat,
now vacant, cold, and deafening in its silence.
The sun breaks
and
after you have had your way
after you have shattered my will, my soul, my love
thrown against the wall and ravaged on the floor.
After that.
Here I am.
Still.
Again.

Body of Lies

2010-05-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

The first thing my father said to me today was ::head nod::. The second thing he said was (in response to me asking if he was going into work today) "yeah." The Third thing he said to me, and his first full sentence of the day, was "you need to not eat."

And thus encapsulates my relationship with my father.

It wasn’t always that way. I was 5 once, and things were good then. High school was when the talk of weight started, when I switched from Shaolin to Aikido. Aikido is slow moving, and emphasizes internal exertion rather than the physical sort. You should be able to throw your opponent across the room with little more than a nudge in that direction. I suddenly switched from a high impact and fast paced martial art to one that requires you to move as little as possible. My body responded in kind, as I continued to eat the same things that my mother cooked.

Through high school, I was a large kid. I never “fit in” in the usual sense of the phrase, partly due to my mixed heritage and partly to do with my physique. Very long story short, I developed an eating disorder in senior year.

Anorexia nervosa.

Since then, I’ve managed to keep Ana in check. There was a stretch back when I was living with Justin that I toyed with the idea of starting up again, and pushed the boundaries of what is safe and sane. Of course being around taekwondo kids all the time hasn’t helped. I always feel worse about my body around cutting time, and everyone else being anorexic encourages me to go there too. I personally have refused to cut weight while competing for Cal, so that I might not jump back into the comfortable routine of starving myself. That is likely why I have been largely (pun intended) unsuccessful in my taekwondo competition career, having only won 1 fight as a black belt. All the other middle weights are so much taller than me! While my taekwondo years were my healthiest ever, I still had trouble every day with eating, and it’s probably a good thing that I’m no longer in that environment anymore.

I attribute the biggest portion of blame for my eating disorder on the media. Easy scapegoat, there. But, and it hurts to admit this, I know that the primary blame rests with my father. Through high school, his comments every day piled on top of one another until it became too much to carry. Just so that he would stop criticizing me, just so that he would look at me with love rather than disgust, I looked for a quick fix. If it weren’t for a couple great friends, I might have stuck with it for longer. I would very much like to say that I had some intervenors back then and it all went away, but once you date Ana, you can’t let her go.

Now that I have this cursed broken foot of mine, cardio is very much out of the question. I’m overweight, and the comments he makes are getting louder in my head. I live at home, and it is harder to tune him out when his room is right next to mine. My own personal body image has always been skewed and warped, and I am never sure if what I am seeing is what other people are seeing. When I was at top fighting condition, I still saw flaws in my body. Picture me then and picture me now and try to tell me that I haven’t changed that much. I don’t need my father’s disgust to wash over me when I have disgust of my own.

I would like to say that it’s not a problem anymore. I love food, and I love to eat, but there is still a twinge of guilt at the back of my neck every time I finish a meal. I’ve been able to ignore the itch for a while, but it’s an ever present reminder of the easy way out.

Last week’s episode of Glee (the one titled simply “Home”) made me cry. Christina Aguilera and Linkin Park got me through high school. My love for my friends keeps me going today.

I need to move out. All the negativity is eating away at me and my defenses. Slowly. Slowly.

Surely.

Real Niggas

2010-04-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

I am a success story. I grew up in the ghetto. On my street, there are only two kids from my generation that "made it." I use the term loosely, because I haven't quite done anything in my life by my own standards yet, but I've graduated from high school, so that means I made it. That's how bad it is here. I grew up with gang violence outside my window, drugs and alcohol, gun fire every night, and loud hip hop hurting my eardrums. But I somehow managed to leave it all outside and go off on my own path. I thank my parents for allowing me a chance to rise up out of those dire straits. I thank my parents for sacrificing so much so that I could reach higher than they did.

I saw one of my childhood associates on Sunday. He's three years older than me, lives across the street, and hasn't managed to pull himself out of the ghetto. He is, as his own mother puts it, slime.

Sunday, we spoke for the first time in more years than I can count. I’ve been away at college and making a life for myself while he never left the block.

He didn’t outright say it, but he resents me. He resents me for being successful, and not letting him share in that success.

“You’re successful. I aint successful.”

That was his one admission of weakness. He fancies himself the king of the block and even referred to himself as Jesus more than once.

He wonders why I never went to his house to acknowledge him or let him know that I had graduated from Cal. To that I responded “It’s not a one way street.” He expects my respect, as if he did something to earn it. He expects me to fall in line behind him.

Then:

“Man, I gotta get home. I have work tomorrow.”
“Shit, nigga, I aint keeping you here. If you wanna go, go!”
“Alright, I’ll see ya.”
“Hey, you wanna come over to my house?”

It was half joke and half pleading. I went home.

To think that I could have turned left instead of right one day and ended up where he is now.

White people have moved into the neighborhood. Things aren’t quite the same anymore. But things are still the same.

He added me on facebook. He had as his status “real niggas ring my doorbell.” I guess I’m not a real nigga then.

But I’m okay with that.

Change in flux

2010-03-23T10:42:00.000-07:00

It appears that I am always in a constant state of flux. The moment my life manages to settle down for a second, the gears of the world start turning again.

I’ve only been in this current job for 4 months, since December, and I’m already getting laid off. I guess that’s what you get when you work for the state of California. I’m planning to stay working here for free at most until the end of May. What happens after May? I’m moving to Socal.

I’m 25. It’s time to get started on the adult stages of my life. I’ve fooled around for a long time. Time to pick up the ball and drive toward the basket.

I’m currently looking for a new job in Socal. Hopefully something in the energy industry, since that’s the field in which I am currently employed. I’m really hoping for getting a gig at Southern California Edison, the utility for much of Southern California, but the positions currently being offered are not at all what I’m looking for. I’ll keep looking. I’m living at home, so I’m not in a desperate need to find a job. Alhamdulillah. Thank God.

I haven’t had time to write creatively. I saw Joel this weekend, and he asked me if I’d been working on our TV pilot. Flat answer was no. I haven’t had time or energy to invest in such a project. It’s sad, but it is the way of things.

I mentioned in my last post that when anything is written here at work it is “drafted.” My colleagues draft white papers, they draft proposals, they draft presentations, and they draft speeches. I suppose my more literary approach requires me to use the word “compose” for all those tasks. Each time I write a speech, I’m composing it with beauty and substance, far beyond what my fellow interns can do. I’m very happy to be able to use my English degree; not many people can say that they use their degree in the workplace, least of all being English majors. They subtle notes of humor and agile sarcasm are what keep me excited about the next line. I became an English major because I love to write and not because I love to read.

I’m reading Kafka on the Shore. It’s really weird… Very distinctly Asian. Though, I would say, it reads more like a Korean story rather than a Japanese one.

I close with a haiku, yet again.

I haven’t written
In so, so long
The pen creeping close

what is in a name

2010-03-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Ms. Christina Lok is going to start blogging and she asked me to help her think up a name for her project. The conversation is as follows:

Christina: i need a witty title
not too cheezy
not too kiddy
grown up, but pretty
me: there's your title: "grown up, but pretty"
Christina: come on
assist me with your extended vocab skills
serenity
if that's not already taken
me: my life pixelated
Christina: .keep em coming.
me: addendum
my future right now
paraphrasing
revisionist history
let them eat cake
waiting for the dough to rise
my kingdom for a slice of cake
marzipan dreams; sour cream life
Christina: whoa there
too many words
haha
i'll think about it at the gym tonight
me: i think these are pretty legit options, clok
Christina: clok!
me: i hate you.

I will compose an update later about what is going on with me. For now, I will say that I find it interesting that here at work people "draft" written materials rather than "compose."

change

2009-12-06T17:21:00.000-08:00

I don't like change. I never have.

This year has been very transitional for me. First came graduating from Cal. That's obviously a good thing in my life, and I'm thankful for my education and the opportunities I have had that have put me where I am now.

Graduating meant looking for work. It took me a while to find something that would last me, first starting with tutoring, then taking the CBEST in order to ub later down the road, and now I'm working at the CPUC in San Francisco as an intern. Last week was my first week, and I'm already a little overwhelmed with everything they're throwing at me. This won't have any explicit effects in helping me become a better educator, but it will provide me another route to travel on if my education track is delayed.

And then Irene left for India. I become attached to my close friends, and I was sad to see her go, and was feeling selfish and abandoned. After becoming friends with her, finally, in the last semester of college, and seeing her nearly every week for this or that, her absence was immediately felt.

Living at home is a big deal. I didn't want to move back home, but I didn't have a job and was running out of money so that was the only viable option for me. My room is no longer my own. I no longer have a space that is all of me and my own creation. Not to say that the apartment was "mine" per se, but it was my own space. And moving away from Daniel was tough too. He was a good roommate, and we got along well.

Then So-Youn died. I had already dealt with the loss of two loved ones earlier this year, and I wasn't expecting this. No one was. A completely random and senseless moment of sadness. I was a mess for a few weeks after hearing of her passing. I didn't want to see anyone and didn't want to talk to anyone. Almost as if me keeping away from the world would cause everything to stand still for just a bit longer. Everyone would stay put and I wouldn't have to bury another friend. I'm still sad, but less so. My grieving process is always a long one.

I don't like change. It's very hard on me, and I don't accept it easily. I get very attached to spaces and people, and when I have to let them go, I feel as if I am physically torn from them, leaving a part of me behind with the missing pieces. It takes me a while to feel whole again, but I eventually do. I don't know if I'm there yet, but I'm working on it. Trying to keep busy. Trying to stay focused.

Kevin told me that change is a part of growing up. More specifically that death is a part of growing up, and that we're going to have to experience the pain of loss again and again in our lives. I understand this. I accept this. I just don't like it.

Moving down to socal will be my next big change. I dread it and yet I am excited for it. I am not afraid. I am just attached. When it comes time to leave socal, if that time ever comes, I'll not want to leave.

Why? Is it because it's too difficult? Is it because that staying put is just easier? I don't want to claim that as the answer, but it certainly sounds like it could be.

--

On another note... Next semester, I'm going to get my black belt. I know why I want it now. And I'll do it at UCMAP. It'll mean more. It took me 3 years to figure it out, but i think I'm ready for it now. Last year, when I was training for it, I kept thinking about what I would say when the panel asked me "why do you want to be a black belt?" The only answer I could come up with at the time was "because you want me to," or "otherwise I won't be allowed back." For me, getting a black belt in a martial art is something more than "just the next thing." It's not just the next thing. It's a big deal, at least to me, and I needed to make sure that my motivations were legitimate and my own. I'm ready. I'm going to begin training again this winter.

Such a Beautiful Disease

2009-08-28T06:39:00.001-07:00

No time for a reflection from yesterday. I'll sum up before having to depart out into the rain of the city today.

I've never seen so many black people in my life.

People are nicer here than the media lets on.

Italian Hot Dog = instant weight gain.

Sunrise over the Atlantic is something else. When you wonder about the sublime versus the beautiful, think of the sunset over the Pacific and the sunrise over the Atlantic.

Things, they do fall apart. Things, they do get picked up again.

I haven't been getting nearly enough sleep. But this is the city that never sleeps. When in Rome.

I'm going to rough it on my own for a couple hours. The prospect of blending in (which will not really happen) excites me a little.

When my uncle introduces me as "My nephew from California," everyone responds with "Yeah he looks like from California." A lady we met last night told me that I sit like a Californian. Apparently in New Jersey, everyone sits as if ready for the next thing. I sit ready for what is happening.

There are some beautiful people here. The beauty here is something different, a new animal altogether from the beauty back in California. That was expected of course. It appears that people here are more fashionable than elsewhere, even LA, and yet still comfortable in their skin. It be a combination of LA materialism and SF comfort. That is very appealing to me. Especially since I've been wearing the same pants for the past week, and I've run out of unworn shirts. Perhaps I'll go shopping today. Nah. There is still much to see.

Hm. I'm hungry. Do I want a bagel again this morning? I told my uncle yesterday that I had eaten a "New York bagel" for the past two days. He stopped me and said "You mean you ate a bagel. All others are fakes."

There is so much to inspire. As I walk the streets, I'm writing in my head stories about the people who walk by. So many stories to tell.

I am not a Jewish American Princess

2009-08-26T20:46:00.001-07:00

Erika took me to SoHo. From there we walked to Chinatown. From there we walked to Little Italy.

All the restaurant staff of the different restaurants stand outside and beckon you in with talk of "the best canoli this side of W45 St" and "all you can eat pasta, only $8" or "cheap cheap Chinese food, only 3 dollar eat lots eat lots" (okay maybe that last one was a little bit racist, but 'everyone's a little bit racist' ^_~).

After Little Italy was Union Square. New York is big. New York is condensed. New York is spread out. Chinatown and Little Italy are all larger versions of the San Francisco counterparts, and yet it is all pushed together and each are fighting the other for expansion and contraction of their turf. Despite the vast amount of space, the Chinese and Italians are shoulder to shoulder, silently ignoring each other just around the next corner.

Everything smells vaguely of urine, vomit, alcohol and sewage, but the streets are impeccably clean and you are hard pressed to find a single homeless person begging for money. I find it rather ironic.

The city is very consistent. The buildings are all red, brown or beige brick. And if they aren't, they're made of stone. The sky scrapers mimic the look but have central air and are made of glass.

Times Square. It's everything I thought it would be. One of those places where you wouldn't mind going to once, but once there you immediately realize that you'd rather be someplace else.

Broadway. It's everything I thought it would be. If I lived in New York, every weekend would be live theater. I'm in love. I want more.

Best Japanese food I've ever had at Soba Nippon. Fucking kinako ice cream! I was dying from rememories of my youth. Fucking legit.

In New York, the Japanese population is so small that when someone calls someone else a Jap, they actually mean 'Jewish American Princess.' I guess that is indicative of the attitude towards the Japanese in general and sentiment in regards to Pearl Harbor happening "over there" as 9/11 happened "over there" to me. I suppose I should visit ground zero tomorrow to be able to connect and say that it happened "right here." We'll see where the F takes me.

In the Heights. It was more than I thought it would be. It is fucking fantastic. Possibly the best musical I have seen up until this point? That's a hard statement to make. I relate so well to it. Struggling Latina trying to make it at Stanford from growing up in the shadow of GWB. That is me, minus the Latina part. The militancy of Sonny speaks to my inner militant Black Panther. My parents are the Rosarios, struggling to push me out from where they found themselves stuck. Abuela Claudia is my precollege education, passing too soon, but leaving an indelible mark on my future, and offering a second chance at a dream. Benny is who I could have been if I had not the fortune of my primary school education which led to Lowell which led to Berkeley. I think it very appropriate that we have our names in common, and that I will not allow anyone to ever call me Benny. I saw a new side of New York that I hadn't seen in real life or previously on other stages. As we left the theater, New York was being blanketed lightly by rain, a symbolic washing away of my prior misunderstandings of The City, allowing for a new sun to rise. Where does the sun rise? In the east. I'm in a place now where I can see the world for what else it is and could be. I will be watching the sun rise tomorrow over the Atlantic Ocean. It will be the beginning of something new. New light from a different angle.

It was a great day. An awesome day. Many thanks to PB.

Start Spreading the News

2009-08-25T20:36:00.000-07:00

I'm in New York. First time on the east coast. First time taking a vacation where my sole responsibility is to have fun and be a tourist, taking lots of pictures and being wide-eyed about all that I see around me.

The flight into JFK was a subtle version of exhilaration as I saw the Manhattan skyline in the distant horizon from my window seat on Virgin America flight VX 22.

On the Airtrain out of JFK, I observed that a city that calls itself "the city" cannot really be called "the city" when this airport is almost just as big, if not bigger.

The dark places of Manhattan are brighter than many of the bright places of the bay area

There is red brick everywhere. All the buildings exude age, and yet the young urban professionals have all moved in.

Everything is flat. I don't quite understand how that works, but it makes walking about quite easy.

Even though it was a Tuesday, there were people abound at all hours of the day everywhere, in all nooks of the city.

I noticed the tall apartment buildings all have mismatched air conditioning units wedged onto windowsills. Not something you see in the bay area.

At night, the buildings take on a theatrical presence in the world. It could be that all I know of New York are the representations as seen on stage and TV and screen, so I am biased when I say that. All the lights are relatively low to the ground, and at night the buildings are all lit up at their bases and not their tops, so it appears robed in shadow. It is almost as if the lighting director of this play decided the action was taking place on the street, and not the bedroom.

Another theatrical observation of the city was that in theater backdrops I have mainly seen depictions of New York as tall buildings pushed together in uncomfortable tangles of brick and wood, while the streets are all wide and open like a stage. This is not far from actuality, as there are no spaces between buildings, but the streets are wide and open. When you're a jet, you're a jet all the way.

Now i'm sitting on Erika's leather love seat, while she's yelling at the New York Times.

Happy.

confusion

2009-08-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

you touch my hair
lean into me lightly
our bodies, joined in platonic embrace

and you confuse me more

your voice tells me one thing
your body says another

and you confuse me more

you change the rules
change our plans
to see him, and him
and you take me for granted

and you confuse me more

what are we
a question i ask
of the wind
because you aren't there when i ask

i want to ask for more
but i don't know how

happy mother's day

2009-05-10T17:12:00.001-07:00

What is in a word?
Semantics. Definitions.
These are short of close

What do I think of,
When I hear the word: mother
No dictionaries

Google doesn’t know.
Wikipedia neither.
I am left with me.

She’s that special one.
Steadfast. A pillar of strength
When your world falls down.

She listens to you,
And shares with you her well earned
Experiences

Shedding light on life
Demons sent to the shadows
With a hug and kiss.

Where would we, I, be
Without the love of momma
I don’t care to know.

the future

2009-04-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

Sitting in silence
I saw my future right now
And I'm terrified

But I tell myself
I saw my future right now
Why should I be scared?

It's just because I,
I saw my future right now
Is that not enough?

All in -- final edit

2009-04-29T00:48:00.000-07:00

All In

The windowless building is a depressed and ugly brown. There are no words on the marquee, and the only source of light, a single bulb dangling by its socket, flickers as it sways in the wind. The chill cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the handle, and turn. A sudden wave of warm, stale, and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The only sound is that of the players.
As I enter, Frank is seated atop a metal table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished lock box. My eyes shift from wall to wall, showing my apparent amateur discomfort to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. Even though this is just a false show of apprehension, the circular motion of my fingers stirs thoughts around in my head. There is still time to leave.
I told her that I have to work late again tonight, not that she really believes me anymore. I try to vary the lies, but I usually end up using work as my excuse. I guess if I continue down this path, she’ll leave me. I’ve thought about it before, about the unseen damage that all the lies must be doing, but I figure I’m not hurting her or anyone else, so there’s really no problem. Every man needs a vice, and this is mine. And anyway, what she thinks I’m doing isn’t nearly as bad as the truth. I’m the one who controls my hobby. The hobby doesn’t control me. I could walk away anytime, easy. But I’m here, so-
What’s the buy-in?
Two thou’.
Two thousand dollars. The buy-in has increased quite a bit since I started coming here however many years ago, but in the end, a higher buy-in makes it that much more interesting because you have that much more to win. I take out my wallet and leaf through the contents. I know exactly how much I have on me, but I still methodically count out the bills and place them in four stacks of five hundred dollars each in front of Frank and his lock box. Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, and he knows my game. Counting out the bills, my unsteady gaze across the room, and the unsure fumbling of my keys are the first steps of my pregame show. I’m pretending, acting like I’m someone else when I come here; someone unsure and hesitant. I’m showing the sharks that I’m new to the game and here just to have some fun. This tactic of mine won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.
What table?
Frank, without looking, makes a lazy gesture with his hand in the direction of the playing floor. Any table will do at the start of the tournament. And anyway, sitting at a table with the night’s winner would afford me the same odds as being placed with the night’s first loser. In theory, at least.
I carry my stack of clay poker chips with me to the nearest table with an unoccupied seat. As I sit down, I purposely drop my stack, scattering the chips on the table.
Oh, sorry.
No harm done.
The first to speak is a balding forty-something with a pair of ostentatious purple and pink sunglasses covering a third of his bristly face. He gives me a forced smile, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Sunglasses no doubt thinks himself a regular pro in relation to me, but he’s already fallen into my trap. I find the over confident ones and slowly but surely eat away at their stack of chips until they realize too late that I’ve done this before. It usually stops working after the second time, but like I said: any advantage is welcome. Sunglasses helps me gather up my chips, and I give him a trusting smile in return.
Thanks.
Sure. You be careful, now, son. Another slip like that and the sharks’ll be all over you.
I’ll be careful. Thanks.
With a wink that I can just barely see behind the black plastic of his glasses, he sits. Making sure to take obvious note of how the others at the table have stacked their chips, I neatly arrange my multicolored disks in towers of five chips each, and then put them in a tidy row in front of me. The others at the table, including Sunglasses, observe me, but say nothing. Frank stands from his table and blows a whistle he had stowed in his pocket. Time to begin.
No limit, Texas hold’em, blinds starting at ten and thirty, tripling every half-hour. Pay out to the top two, with the second getting only half of their money back, and the winner getting everything else. It’s a smaller than usual crowd tonight; only forty some odd players. With any luck I’ll be home before my wife goes to bed, with some inexplicable extra cash lining my pocket. But luck is a harsh mistress to rely on.
There are two people you need to watch out for when you’re playing tournaments like this. The first one doesn’t have a name. He always sits directly across from you. He never smiles, never frowns, and he never loses. His face is frozen in a look of stoic and apathetic patience as he stares at you with unreadable eyes, never giving away his hand. He doesn’t need stupid gimmicks, like good luck charms or giant sunglasses to take all your money. He’ll clean you out without saying thank you, and without so much as a victorious glance in your direction. And then you’re out, and it’s time to go home and explain to your wife, mother, or children why you’re late and a couple thousand dollars poorer. He’s your biggest fear, and at the same time your highest hope. He’s the one you want to become; the one that other people fear and respect. More importantly, he’s the reason you go to these shady card rooms late at night in the middle of nowhere. He’s the hope of glory and a better tomorrow that the down-and-outs cling to as their reason to wake up every morning. But no player like that exists anywhere. He’s really an itch in a place you can never scratch, but you always try anyway.
While it is this ghost from a dream that brings you to this place, it is Lady Luck herself that keeps you here. She’s always standing there, behind your chair, urging sweetly and quietly in your ear for you to pay to see the river, because after all it’s just one more card, and she knows for a fact that the other guy doesn’t have the flush that presented itself on the turn, and your two-pair is the best possible hand on the table right now. She’s the really dangerous one to watch out for. She’s tells you, “It’s okay. We’ll get him the next hand. That was just a fluke. You’re really better than him; than all of them.” It’s not that you can’t leave. You don’t want to leave. With one hand on your chip stack, and the other down your pants, she keeps you in your seat, primed and ready to see the next card.
I had some good luck with the cards so far, and won some pretty good hands. I managed to knock Sunglasses out of the game early on, at the fourth hand. When we turned our cards over after I put him all in at the turn, he took his sunglasses off, and with a peculiar nonchalance tossed them onto the table in front of him. For the first time, I saw his eyes, no longer masked behind plastic, and I felt a painful twitch of compassion. Suddenly he was no longer just my opponent, but he was a man. There was something about him vaguely familiar in the way his eyes closed and his hand rubbed roughly over his scalp. He was someone’s father and someone’s husband, and, just like me, he found himself here, chasing the hint of a better future, but unable to finish the race.
He showed no emotion as he looked from my pocket nines to his king, jack, off suit. Not a bad hand under normal circumstances, but I was showing a full house against his two-pair, and he was all in. The last card, the river, came and was help to neither of us. Without a word, he stood slowly up from his chair, as if carrying on his shoulders the weight of all the possible excuses he was going to have to give his wife when he got home. As he turned to leave, Rabbit’s Foot, another player at the table, pointed out that he was leaving his glasses behind.
Keep ‘em.
I couldn’t watch him any longer, because the next hand was already being dealt. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Sunglasses was the first to go home tonight. A few more hands passed. I won some, and I lost some. And then I forced Rabbit’s Foot, then Cowboy Hat, and then Unlit Cigar all in; the eighth, thirteenth, and fifteenth to go home tonight. Frank’s whistle sounds to signal an increase in the blinds for the sixth time as the tenth place player packs his things to leave. We’re down to the final nine.
My usual tactic worked unusually well against the small fry, but now it’s time to get a little more serious. Seated at one table, the last nine of us eye each other over. I know most of them, but there are some newcomers too. Newcomers are always dangerous, so you have to keep all your senses working in order to glean any kind of hint at their playing styles. I’m not very good at reading the tells and all that, so when I get to this point in the game, I play conservatively for the most part, folding at more hands than I usually do, and going in only when I have something good.
I recognize Headphones, Keychain, Pocket Watch, Silver Dollar and Robert. Robert owes me some money, that’s why I know his name, and aside from that, he doesn’t have any gimmicks that he brings to the table. None of us are family, and none of us are friends, but the regulars, that’s including me, all know each other to a certain extent. Last week, Robert asked me if he could borrow three hundred dollars to play. “Think of it like an investment,” he insisted. “If you win tonight, you’ll just get it back anyway.” I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but I was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day, so I gave him the money, and made him write out an IOU on the back of a cardboard coaster. In retrospect, it’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t do a lot of smart things. Now, without so much as a thank you, Robert tosses me the coaster with three one hundred dollar bills rubber-banded to it. I smile at him, and without looking at me, he smiles back. He’s my toughest competition at the table. He plays fast and loose when it suits him, and intelligently close to the vest when he needs to. I’ll have to watch out for him.
The newcomers end up not being particularly good, and are the first of the nine forced home. The others follow suit and Frank’s whistle blares for the tenth time of the night, as the blinds are raised to a frightening level of one ninety-six eight-thirty and five-ninety four-ninety, the third place player slams the door on his way out. It is down to Robert and me.
I have the unfortunate position of being the short stack by nearly two hundred thousand chips. If I continue to play conservatively, Robert could easily end up taking all my money by consistently raising before the flop. And that’s what he does. The first hand of the eleventh round, he bets double the pot without even looking at his cards. With a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye he nods at me. I see that I have literally the worst possible pocket in the game, with the least statistical chance of coming up with anything good: two, seven, off suit.
I fold.
I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know, but I can’t play just yet. I have to be smart. And lucky. As the cards are collected by the dealer, I close my eyes and pray to the faceless and nameless gods of this forgotten and forsaken place. The man without a name sits across from me now, showing no emotion as he carelessly glances at his facedown pocket cards. His stare is indelible on my forehead and he’s going to win if I keep playing like this. Lady Luck’s grip on me stiffens and her silent whisper in my ear gives me a temporary boost in confidence.
You’d better start playing.
The dealer deals to me and then to him. I’m the small blind, so I am the first to make a move. I have a pair of pocket tens. I know for a fact that if I call, he’ll raise, and if I raise, he’ll call, so, to stay in, I have to raise. I can’t afford to be wrong, so I raise double the pot just to be sure. He looks at his hand for a long time before finally calling. Is he unsure if he should stay in or unsure if he should raise higher? The flop is king of clubs, three of diamonds, and seven of spades, and it gives me nothing. I knock once on the table. Check. He looks at his cards again, and then looks at me. I can see the gears behind his eyes working to figure out what I have. Looking back at the flop, he squints and taps the table with his finger. The next card, the turn, is the king of hearts. I now have two-pair, kings and tens, a dangerous hand to play in any circumstance, but I put in half the pot’s worth of chips from my stack. Robert smiles and throws his cards at the chips in the middle of the table. A small victory.
The back and forth between Robert and me continues well into the thirteenth cry of the whistle. The small blind is five million one hundred forty-four thousand four hundred ten and that’s over a third of my chips. The game will likely be over shortly. On the table is a flush draw, three and seven of clubs with the seven of diamonds on the flop, and the queen of clubs on the turn. I have in my pocket the five of clubs and the king of clubs. It’s Robert’s turn to play. For a long time he looks at me with expressionless eyes, no doubt calculating the odds in his head, but still not giving anything away.
How much do you have there?
He nudges his chin in the direction of my chips. I take longer than needed to count out my stack.
Fifteen point seven, give or take.
I’ll put you in for half.
Okay. I’ll call.
The river is the two of spades and does nothing for me, but could potentially be a problem if Robert has a two in his pocket. Without any hesitation, he checks. This worries me. I don’t know what he’s planning. If he has something good, he could be trying to check-raise me, or maybe he really has nothing. His eyes continue to drill holes into my skull.
What do you have?
Two, seven, off suit. You?
Ordinarily, that would be an excuse to let out a little chuckle, but now, with a two and a pair of sevens on the table, two, seven, off suit actually gives Robert a full house against my king high flush. Is he lying? There’s no way he would go in on two, seven, off suit. No sane person would.
Full house, huh?
Did you get your flush?
Maybe.
That’s good.
I have a really good hand, but, if he’s not bluffing, so does he. The choice is not an easy one to make. Robert closes his eyes and scratches at his messy black hair. Leaning back in his chair, he stretches as if he had just woken up from a nap. His lips move but I hear the words whispered sweetly in my ear.
It’s your move.
Then it hits me. There’s only one thing I can do. If I lose this hand by checking, then I might as well just give him the rest of my chips, but if I win… I lean forward and push my entire stack to the center of the table.
I’m all in.

Early

2009-03-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

the wind breaks outside
the warmth of my blankets contains me
and i fall again asleep
the shuffling footfalls of my roommate
and the construction a few blocks away,
heard hammering through my open window,
remind me that it is a new day
a new morning
and it is time for me to get out of bed
put on some pants
take a shower
brush my teeth
stare silently for a moment at my reflection
and go out into the world
to face what will be
and wont be
and deal with it all the same

Actual reflection #2

2009-03-13T00:37:00.000-07:00

today was the tip test for tkd. no one who reads this doesn't know what that is, so i'm not going to elaborate further on definitions. lately, ive had quite a few setbacks in my tkd training. i did something to my back last semester towards the end, near winter break, which forced me off the mat until late february. due to a training partner's slowness, i rolled my ankle soon after coming back. and of course there is the issue of my knee, which is getting worse and worse with each class i attend. it didnt use to hurt when i walked normally. now it does. so now im back on the mat. i havent been able to push myself very hard because of the injuries, for doing double kicks would kill my back, kicking with my right foot causes a great deal of pain to explode from my ankle, and doing forms anywhere close to "good" makes my knee want to buckle every time. i am in no shape to be doing taekwondo, but i continue to do it, partly because i love it, and partly because of the people there. well, to say that i love it isnt entirely true. its a contensious relationship that tkd and i have with each other. i have done several martial arts in my life already, and ive been rather good at all of them, but tkd is the one that i have the most difficulty with, and because of this i keep at it to prove to myself that i can do it. its my activity of choice because i cant do it. thats the draw for me. the challenge. but i have come to realize that i will never be as good as the good people. i look at all the students who grew up with me in the program, and they are all surpassing me. part of me wants to blame my knee, but the other part yells at me to stop being a fucking crybaby and work harder. i will choose that for the time being. but today, like i mentioned, was the tip test, and when the masters gave their assessment of us, they called me average. i am just like everyone else. nothing sets me apart. i personally was upset with my performance, but my mentor was just as upset, having a good deal of critiques for me to walk away with; more than i had expected. it upset me to think that after 6 long years of training, i have only progressed so much. phong once told me that it doesnt matter to him what belt i tie, and that he sees me as a black belt already. it means a lot, coming from him, but at the same time, i dont think i will ever make it that far physically. i will never be an eric, or a justin, or kenny, or john. and that kills me. i have always striven to be excellent at everything i do, and with tkd, i am nothing but mediocre, and will be nothing but mediocre.

kelly tells me to suck it up. that i have the mind of the black belt, so who cares if my body isnt there. everyone knows my limitations by now. but thats not good enough for me. i cannot settle for anything but the best. why would i want to?

so what did i learn today? i am average. and that i hate being average.

all in -- draft 1

2009-02-09T12:47:00.000-08:00

Here is the completed first draft of All In. I realize the language changes significantly from the start to the finish, so I will have to find some way to fix that as I edit.

-------
All In

It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the hostile and dark winter air. The poorly made and scratchy woolen knit beanie affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is large and heavy and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land and the solitary stump amidst too much flatness to which I am walking is always cold whenever I come to it. I often joke with those I see here that the cold is a half hearted attempt at divine intervention to prevent us sinners from entering this godless church.
The walk to the front door always seems the length of an eternity, despite its relative shortness in actual distance. The grass alongside the cracked concrete path is patchy and mostly a deadish yellow. Not the kind that couples sit on in spring, and not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together eating burgers and drinking cheap wine. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, a single incandescent bulb dangling by its socket on one side of the large front door, its cord crucified to the doorframe, flickers as it sways slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after, and the same is true for me. This is not home, but it pretends to be something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.
The wind cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the handle, and turn. A sudden wave of warm, stale, and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang lazily from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The low hum of the players is the only sound populating the space.
As I enter, Frank is seated atop a wooden dinner table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished metal lock box. My eyes shift from wall to wall, making sure I make my apparent amateur discomfort known to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. There is still time to leave. To go home to my family, to my wife and child, who think I’m still at work. I could easily walk out the door. No one is forcing my hand except for me. So why am I here? I don’t know. But I’m here, so-
How much is the buy-in?
Hundred, even.
I don’t really need to ask. I know it’s a hundred, even. It’s always a hundred, even. I take out my wallet and rummage through its contents. I count out the bills and place them in a nice neat stack in front of Frank and his lock box: two twenties, four tens, two fives, and ten ones; a hundred exactly. I can feel the hungry stares of the sharks on the back of my neck as they plan out their next meal.
Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, so he knows my game. I pretend to be the guppy, new to this part of the pond and naïve about what dangers lie in wait on the sandy bottom. Each step I take, each glance of my eye is well practiced and designed to give me an edge over the lesser sharks of the bunch. This tactic won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.
What table?
Frank, without looking, makes a lazy gesture with his hand in the direction of the playing floor. Any table will do at the start of the tournament. I’m hardly a blip on anyone’s radar anyway, and sitting at a table with the night’s winner would afford me the same odds as being placed with the night’s first loser. In theory, anyway.
I carry my stack of clay poker chips with me to the nearest table with an unoccupied seat. As I sit down, I purposely drop my stack, scattering the chips on the table.
Oh, sorry.
No harm done.
The first to speak is a balding forty-something with a pair of ostentatious sunglasses covering a third of his bristly face. He gives me a forced smile, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Sunglasses no doubt thinks himself a regular pro in relation to me, and that’s how this tactic of mine works. I find the over confident ones and slowly but surely eat away at their stack of chips until they realize too late that I’ve done this before, and then it’s on to my next victim. It usually stops working after the second time, but like I said: any advantage is welcome.
Sunglasses helps me gather up my chips, and I give him a smile in return.
Thanks.
Sure. You be careful, now, son. Another slip like that and the sharks’ll be all over you.
I’ll be careful. Thanks.
Sure.
With a wink that I can just barely see behind the black plastic of his glasses, he sits. Making sure to take obvious note of how the others at the table have stacked their chips, I neatly arrange my multicolored disks in towers of five chips each, and then put them in a tidy row in front of me. The others at the table, including Sunglasses, observe me, but say nothing. Frank stands from his table and blows a whistle he had stowed in his pocket. It is time to begin.
No limit, Texas hold’em, blinds starting at ten and twenty, doubling every ten minutes. Pay out to the top nine, with the ninth getting his money back, and the first getting forty percent of everyone’s buy-ins. It’s a smaller than usual crowd tonight; only forty some odd players. With any luck I’ll be home before my wife goes to bed, with some inexplicable extra cash lining my pocket. But luck is a harsh mistress to rely on.
There are two people you need to watch out for when you’re playing tournaments like this. The first one doesn’t have a name. He always sits directly across from you. He never smiles, never frowns, and he never loses. He stares at you with unreadable eyes, and never gives away his hand. He doesn’t need stupid gimmicks, like good luck charms or giant sunglasses to take all your money. He’ll clean you out without saying thank you, and without so much as a victorious glance in your direction. And then you’re out, and it’s time to go home and explain to your wife, mother, children why you’re late and a hundred dollars poorer. He’s your biggest fear, and simultaneously your highest hope. He’s the one you want to become; the one that other people fear and respect. More importantly, he’s the reason you go to these out of the way card rooms late at night in the middle of nowhere. He’s the hope of glory and a better tomorrow that the down-and-outs cling to as their reason to wake up every morning. But no player like that exists anywhere. He’s really an itch in a place you can never scratch, but you always try anyway.
While it is this specter from a terrible and wonderful dream that brings you to this place, it is the infamous Lady Luck herself that keeps you here. She’s always standing there, behind your chair, urging sweetly and quietly in your ear for you to pay to see the river, because after all it’s just one more card, and she knows for a fact that the other guy doesn’t have the flush that presented itself on the turn, and your two-pair is the best possible hand on the table right now. She’s the really dangerous one to watch out for. She’s the one who says, “It’s okay. We’ll get him the next hand. That was just a fluke. You’re really better than him; than all of them.” It’s not that you can’t leave. You don’t want to leave. With one hand on your chip stack, and the other on your crotch, she keeps you in your seat, primed and ready to see the next card.
Frank’s whistle sounds, and the blinds increase for the fourth time. I had some good luck with the cards so far, and won some pretty good hands. I managed to put Sunglasses all in, early on, at the fourth hand, taking him out of the game. When we turned our cards over, he took his sunglasses off and with a peculiar nonchalance, tossed them onto the table in front of him. For the first time, I saw his eyes, and I felt a painful twitch of compassion. Suddenly he was no longer just my opposition, but he was a man, much like me, who just wanted something better than what he had, and had run dry of ideas. He showed no emotion as he looked from my pocket nines to his king, jack, off suit. Not a bad hand under normal circumstances, but I was showing a full house against his two-pair, and he was all in. The river came and was help to neither of us. Without a word, he stood up from his chair with the heaviness of all the possible excuses he was going to have to give his wife when he got home. As he turned to leave, Rabbit’s Foot, another player at the table, pointed out that he was leaving his glasses behind.
Keep ‘em.
I couldn’t watch him any longer, because the next hand was already being dealt. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Sunglasses was the first to go home tonight. A few more hands passed. I won some, and I lost some. And then I forced Rabbit’s Foot, then Cowboy Hat, and then Unlit Cigar all in; the eighth, thirteenth, and fifteenth to go home tonight. Now, forty minutes in, the blinds are eighty and one-sixty, and the tenth place player just left. We’re down to the final nine.
My usual tactic worked unusually well against the small fry, but now it’s time to get a little more serious. Seated at one table, the last nine of us eye each other over. I know most of them, but some are newcomers to this place. Newcomers are always dangerous, so you have to keep all your senses working in order to glean any kind of hint at their playing styles. I’m not very good at reading the tells and all that, so when I get to this point in the game, I play conservatively for the most part, folding at more hands than I usually do, and going in only when I have something good.
I recognize Headphones, Keychain, Pocket Watch, Silver Dollar and Robert. Robert owes me some money, that’s why I know his name, and aside from that, he doesn’t have any gimmicks that he brings to the table. Like I said before, none of us are family, and none of us are friends, but the regulars, that’s including me, all know each other to a certain extent. Last week, Robert asked me if he could borrow fifty dollars to play. “Think of it like an investment,” he insisted. “If you win tonight, you’ll just get it back anyway.” I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but I was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day, so I gave him the money, and made him write out an IOU on the back of a cardboard coaster. I told him that I wanted to see it every time I saw him. Now, without so much as a thank you, Robert tosses me the coaster with a fifty dollar bill rubber-banded to it. I smile at him, and without looking at me, he smiles back. He’s my toughest competition at the table, other than the three unknown newcomers. He plays fast and loose, much different from my own playing style. I’ll have to watch out for him.
The newcomers end up not being particularly good, and are the first of the nine forced home. The others follow suit and as Frank’s whistle blares for the eleventh time of the night, and the blinds are raised to a frightening level of ten two-forty and twenty four-eighty, the third place player takes his winnings from the lock box and exits the building. It is down to Robert and me.
I have the unfortunate position of being the short stack by nearly twenty thousand chips. If I continue to play conservatively, Robert could easily end up taking all my money by consistently raising the bet before the flop is dealt. And there he goes. The first hand of the eleventh round, he bets double the pot without even looking at his cards. With a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye he nods at me. I see that I have literally the worst possible pocket in the game, with the least statistical chance of coming up with anything good: two, seven, off suit.
I Fold.
I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know, but it’s not time yet. As the cards are collected by the dealer, I close my eyes and pray to the faceless and nameless gods of this forsaken place. The man without a name is sitting across from me. His stare is indelible on my forehead and he’s going to win if I keep playing like this. Lady Luck’s grip on me stiffens and her silent whisper in my ear gives me a temporary boost in confidence.
You’d better start playing.
He tells me what I already know. The dealer deals to me and then to him. I’m the small blind, so I am the first to make a move. I have pair of pocket tens. I know for a fact that if I call, he’ll raise, and if I raise, he’ll call, so, to stay in, I have to raise. I can’t afford to be wrong, so I raise double the pot just to be sure. He looks at his hand for a long time before finally calling me. Is he unsure if he should stay in, or unsure if he should raise higher. The flop is king of clubs, three of diamonds, and seven of spades, and it gives me nothing. I knock once on the table. Check. He looks at his cards again, and then looks at me. I can see the gears behind his eyes working to figure out what I have. Looking back at the flop, he squints his eyes and taps the table with his finger. The next card, the turn, is the king of hearts. I now have two-pair, kings and tens, a dangerous hand to rely on. I put in half the pot’s worth of chips from my stack. Robert smiles and throws his cards at the chips in the middle of the table. A small victory for me, and I can breathe again.
The back and forth between Robert and me continues well into the fifteenth cry of the whistle. The small blind is thirty-two seven-sixty-eight, and that’s a third of my chips. On the table is a flush draw, three and seven of clubs with the seven of diamonds on the flop, and the queen of clubs on the turn. I have in my pocket the five of clubs and the king of clubs. It’s Robert’s turn to play. Without saying anything, for a long time he looks at me, no doubt calculating the odds in his head. He probably has a flush too, and he most likely thinks that I have one also.
How much do you have there?
He nudges his head in the direction of my chips. I take longer than needed to count out my stack.
Ninety-eight three-oh-four.
I’ll put you in for half.
Okay. I’ll call.
The river is the two of spades and does nothing for me, but could potentially be a problem if Robert has a two in his pocket. Without any hesitation, he checks. This worries me. I don’t know what he’s planning. If he has something good, he could be trying to check-raise me, or maybe he really has nothing. He gives nothing away as his eyes bore into my skull.
What do you have?
Two, seven, off suit. You?
Ordinarily, that would be an excuse to let out a little chuckle, but now, with a pair of twos and a seven on the table, two, seven, off suit actually gives Robert a full house against my king high flush. Is he lying? There’s no way he would go in on two, seven, off suit. No sane person would.
Full house, huh?
Did you get the flush?
Maybe.
Cool.
I have a really good hand. A nearly impossible hand, but, if he’s not bluffing, so does he. What do I do?
You know what you need to do, then.
He’s right. I do. There’s only one thing to do.
I’m all in.

all in -- part 3

2009-02-09T03:35:00.000-08:00

I'm mostly done now. I'm really tired, so I'm going to bed, but here is what I have. Not much left. Almost over.

-------
All In

It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the hostile and dark winter air. The poorly made and scratchy woolen knit beanie affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is large and heavy and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land and its solitary stump amidst too much flatness is always cold whenever I come to it. I often joke with those I see here that the cold is a half hearted attempt at divine intervention to prevent us sinners from entering this godless church.
The walk to the front door always seems the length of an eternity, despite its relative shortness in actual distance. The grass alongside the cracked concrete path is patchy and mostly a deadish yellow. Not the kind that couples sit on in spring, and not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together eating burgers and drinking cheap wine. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, a single incandescent bulb dangling by its socket on one side of the large front door, its cord crucified to the doorframe, flickers as it sways slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after, and the same is true for me. This is not home, but it pretends to be something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.
The wind cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the handle, and turn. A sudden wave of warm, stale, and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang lazily from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The low hum of the players is the only sound populating the space.
As I enter, Frank is seated atop a wooden dinner table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished metal lock box. My eyes shift from wall to wall, making sure I make my apparent amateur discomfort known to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. There is still time to leave. To go home to my family, to my wife and child, who think I’m still at work. I could easily walk out the door. No one is forcing my hand except for me. So why am I here? I don’t know. But I’m here, so-
How much is the buy-in?
Hundred, even.
I don’t really need to ask. I know it’s a hundred, even. It’s always a hundred, even. I take out my wallet and rummage through its contents. I count out the bills and place them in a nice neat stack in front of Frank and his lock box: two twenties, four tens, two fives, and ten ones; a hundred exactly. I can feel the hungry stares of the sharks on the back of my neck as they plan out their next meal.
Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, so he knows my game. I pretend to be the guppy, new to this part of the pond and naïve about what dangers lie in wait on the sandy bottom. Each step I take, each glance of my eye is well practiced and designed to give me an edge over the lesser sharks of the bunch. This tactic won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.
What table?
Frank, without looking, makes a lazy gesture with his hand in the direction of the playing floor. Any table will do at the start of the tournament. I’m hardly a blip on anyone’s radar anyway, so sitting at a table with the night’s winner would afford me the same odds as being placed with the night’s first loser. In theory, anyway.
I carry my stack of clay poker chips with me to the nearest table with an unoccupied seat. As I sit down, I purposely drop my stack, scattering the chips on the table.
Oh, sorry.
No harm done.
The first to speak is a balding forty-something with a pair of ostentatious sunglasses covering a third of his bristly face. He gives me a forced big smile, showing a set of yellowing teeth. Sunglasses no doubt thinks himself a regular pro in relation to me, and that’s how this tactic of mine works. I find the over confident ones and slowly but surely eat away at their stack of chips until they realize too late that I’ve done this before, and then it’s on to my next victim. It usually stops working after the second time, but like I said: any advantage is welcome.
Sunglasses helps me gather up my chips, and I give him a smile in return.
Thanks.
Sure. You be careful, now, son. Another slip like that and the sharks’ll be all over you.
I’ll be careful. Thanks.
Sure.
With a wink that I can just barely see behind the black plastic of his glasses, he sits. Making sure to take obvious note of how the others at the table have stacked their chips, I neatly arrange my multicolored disks in towers of five chips each, and then put them in a tidy row in front of me. The others at the table, including Sunglasses, observe me, but say nothing. Frank stands from his table and blows a whistle he had stowed in his pocket. It is time to begin.
No limit, Texas hold’em, blinds starting at ten and twenty, doubling every ten minutes. Pay out to the top nine, with the ninth getting his money back, and the first getting forty percent of everyone’s buy-ins. It’s a smaller than usual crowd tonight; only forty some odd players. With any luck I’ll be home before my wife goes to bed, with some inexplicable extra cash lining my pocket. But luck is a harsh mistress to rely on.
There are two people you need to watch out for when you’re playing tournaments like this. The first one doesn’t have a name. He always sits directly across from you. He never smiles, never frowns, and he never loses. He stares at you with unreadable eyes, and never gives away his hand. He doesn’t need stupid gimmicks, like good luck charms or giant sunglasses to take all your money. He’ll clean you out without saying thank you, and without so much as a victorious glance in your direction. And then you’re out, and it’s time to go home and explain to your wife, mother, children why you’re late and a hundred dollars poorer. He’s your biggest fear, and simultaneously your highest hope. He’s the one you want to become; the one that other people fear and respect. More importantly, he’s the reason you go to these out of the way card rooms late at night in the middle of nowhere. He’s the hope of glory and a better tomorrow that the down-and-outs cling to as their reason to wake up every morning. But no player like that exists anywhere. He’s really an itch in a place you can never scratch, but you always try anyway.
While it is this specter from a terrible and wonderful dream that brings you to this place, it is the infamous Lady Luck herself that keeps you here. She’s always standing there, behind your chair, urging sweetly and quietly in your ear for you to pay to see the river, because after all it’s just one more card, and she knows for a fact that the other guy doesn’t have the flush that presented itself on the turn, and your two-pair is the best possible hand on the table right now. She’s the really dangerous one to watch out for. She’s the one who says, “It’s okay. We’ll get him the next hand. That was just a fluke. You’re really better than him; than all of them.” It’s not that you can’t leave. You don’t want to leave. With one hand on your chip stack, and the other on your crotch, she keeps you in your seat, primed and ready to see the next card.
Frank’s whistle sounds again, and the blinds increase for the fourth time. I had some good luck with the cards so far, and won some pretty good hands. I managed to put Sunglasses all in, early on, at the fourth hand, taking him out of the game. When we turned our cards over, he took his sunglasses off and with a peculiar nonchalance, tossed them onto the table in front of him. For the first time, I saw his eyes, and I felt a painful twitch of compassion. Suddenly he was no longer just my opposition, but he was a man, much like me, who just wanted something better than what he had, and had run dry of ideas. He showed no emotion as he looked from my pocket nines to his king jack off suit. Not a bad hand under normal circumstances, but I was showing a full house against his two-pair, and he was all in. The river came and was help to neither of us. Without a word, he stood up from his chair with the heaviness of all the possible excuses he was going to have to give his wife when he got home. As he turned to leave, Rabbit’s Foot, another player at the table, pointed out that he was leaving his glasses behind.
Keep ‘em.
I couldn’t watch him any longer, because the next hand was already being dealt. No rest for the wicked, I guess. Sunglasses was the first to go home tonight. A few more hands passed. I won some, and I lost some. And then I forced Rabbit’s Foot, then Cowboy Hat, and then Unlit Cigar all in; the eighth, thirteenth, and fifteenth to go home tonight. Now, fifty minutes in, the blinds are eighty and one-sixty, and the tenth place player just left. We’re down to the final nine.
My usual tactic worked unusually well against the small fry, but now it’s time to get a little more serious. Seated at one table, the last nine of us eye each other over. I know most of them, but some are newcomers to this place. Newcomers are always dangerous, so you have to keep all your senses working in order to glean any kind of hint at their playing styles. I’m not very good at reading the tells and all that, so when I get to this point in the game, I play conservatively for the most part, folding at more hands than I usually do, and go in only when I have something good.
I recognize Headphones, Keychain, Pocket Watch, Silver Dollar and Robert. Robert owes me some money, that’s why I know his name, and aside from that, he doesn’t have any gimmicks that he brings to the table. Like I said before, none of us are family, and none of us are friends, but the regulars, that’s including me, all know each other to a certain extent. Last week, Robert asked me if he could borrow fifty dollars to play. “Think of it like an investment,” he insisted. “If you win tonight, you’ll just get it back anyway.” I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but I was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day, so I gave him the money, and made him write out an IOU on the back of a cardboard coaster. I told him that I wanted to see it every time I saw him. Now, without so much as a thank you, Robert tosses me the coaster with a fifty dollar bill rubber-banded to it. I smile at him, and without looking at me, he smiles back. He’s my toughest competition at the table, other than the three unknown newcomers. He plays fast and loose, much different from my own playing style. I’ll have to watch out for him.

all in -- part 2

2009-02-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

I modified a bit of it, and added a few lines. not a great difference, but i thought i would post it anyway.

------
All In

It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the dark winter air. The poorly made and scratchy woolen knit beanie affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is fur lined and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of salty sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land, this solitary stump amidst too much flatness is always cold whenever I come to it. I often joke with anyone who would listen that the cold is a half hearted attempt at divine intervention to prevent us sinners from entering this godless church.
The walk to the front door always feels the length of an eternity, despite its relative shortness in actual distance, with many chances to turn away, but far more reasons to keep going. The grass alongside the cracked concrete path is patchy and mostly deadish brown. Not the kind that couples sit on in spring. Not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together eating burgers and drinking cheap wine. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, a single incandescent bulb dangling by its socket on one side of the large front door, its cord crucified, flickers as it sways slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after, and the same is true for me. This is not home, but it pretends to be something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.
The wind cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the knob in my naked hand. Turn and open. A sudden wave of warm, stale and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang lazily from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The low hum of the players is the only sound populating the space.
To my left is Frank, seated atop a wooden dinner table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished metal lock box. The game begins here, before I even see my first hand. My eyes shift from wall to wall, making sure I make my apparent amateur discomfort known to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. There is still time to go home to my family, to my wife and child, who think I’m still at work. I could easily walk out the door. No one is forcing my hand except for me. So why am I here? I don’t know. But I’m here, so I might as well get started.
How much is the buy-in?
Hundred, even.
I don’t really need to ask. I already know the buy-in. It’s always a hundred, even. I take out my wallet and rummage through its contents. I count out the bills and place them in a nice neat stack in front of Frank and his lock box: two twenties, four tens, two fives, and ten ones, a hundred exactly. I can feel the hungry stares of the sharks on the back of my neck as they plan out their next meal.
Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, so he knows my game. I pretend to be the guppy, new to this part of the pond and naïve about what dangers rest on the sandy bottom. Each step I take, each glance of my eye is well practiced and designed to give me an edge over the lesser sharks of the bunch. This tactic won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.

all in

2009-01-29T08:49:00.000-08:00

I started a short story a couple years ago about a friend of mine who was addicted to playing poker. I really liked where it was going, and had some really awesome moments in it, but in the recent reset of my computer, I inexplicably lost the document. I'm taking a short story class this semester, and was hoping to improve upon what I had already produced, but now it appears I have to start over again. What I have written so far is below. I know it's not much, but I only just began yesterday.

----------
All In

It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the dark winter air. The woolen knit cap affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is fur lined and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of salty sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land, this solitary stump amidst too much flatness is always cold whenever I come to it.
The walk to the front door is a long one, with many chances to turn away. Many chances to turn away, but far more chances to keep going. The grass along the side of the concrete path is short and brown. Not the kind that couples sit on in Spring. Not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together enjoying a bottle of merlot. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, two florescent bulbs dangling by a socket on either side of the large front door, flicker as they sway slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am again. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after. This is not home, but it resembles something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.

More to come as I write more.

an actual entry this time

2009-01-24T08:13:00.001-08:00

i'm coming to the end of my undergraduate career. after many bumps along the road (most of them self inflicted), i am finally going to graduate. my plans for myself through and after college have changed so much in the last six years that i am hardly the same person that i was when i started. i went from being a very mathy geek who wanted to be an actuary and eventually teach college level math, to being an englishy geek with the unfounded notion that i could write noteworthy fiction. that is quite a change i think. i tell people that going from math to english was no big deal, that the skill set is much the same (those are the exact words that i use), but really it was a huge deal. i had spent so much time doing just math, and then i had to take all my prereqs for english in just one semester in order to be able to graduate "on time." i always had a lingering fascination with literature and writing on the tip of my tongue, but i had always figured that writing plays and short stories was a waste of time for someone who should have been figuring eigenspaces of various vectors in the 6th dimension of R. there was of course the resistance from my parents, specifically my father. even now he doesn't really support this "little hobby" of mine as he puts it. and then there's taekwondo. my taekwondo career has been hardly ideal. though i must say, i have made rather grand strides since the summer of 2003. testing for my black belt this semester will be a perfect ending to my undergraduateness.

but now that i'm nearing the end, i'm realizing that it is far from over. i still have to apply to grad schools and teaching programs. nyctf is still high on my list of course, but denial is forcing me to forget that i already failed to get in through the first round of applications and that i will most likely not get in this time around. i am of course very behind the application process, having not done the necessary tests in order to apply to grad school. so what i'm thinking is that i'll take the following year off, find a job, and bum at home until i can get everything in order that needs to be. i already started getting letters of rec, albeit very late (yesterday), so that is one less thing to worry about. so really it's just the tests, the CSET and CBEST, that i need to take. and then i'm most likely in. my expectations for grad school are pretty low. i'm setting the bar at sf state, since i know i can get in. i'll still apply to a few others, but i won't get my hopes up. the lesson i learned through the last year is this: no, i am not awesome, and no one really thinks you are. because really, everyone else is at least just as if not more awesome than me.

i wonder what i will be doing in 5 years. teaching? writing a play? or blogging in the dark like i am now. half of me is eager to get there, but the other half is afraid to turn the lights on.

not moving

2009-01-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

in all of this time
i took just two steps forward
and the world took three

my eyes stay forward
i watch what i could have been
run off without me

waiting on

2008-12-28T12:46:00.000-08:00

waiting on the wind
sitting alone, with a lie
feeling all but none

waiting on the sky
feasting on what used to be
tasting all but none

waiting on the sea
wishing, hoping, for a sound
hearing all but none

waiting on the ground
in the tree, the cheshir' grinned
seeing all but none

Structure

2008-12-20T19:14:00.001-08:00

Here is the play that i wrote for my English 180L: Lyric Verse class for the final paper/project this semester. I employed the use of the sestina structure, which involves 7 stanzas, the first having 6 lines and the last having 3 or 2, wherein each end word of each line of the first stanzas is repeated in the following stanzas in a particular order as the end words of each of the lines, and the last stanza consists of 2 or 3 endwords in no particular order in each of the 3 or 2 sentences. Complicated, I know. Sestinas lend themselves very well to prose as well as verse, which is why I chose to use it for my play's structure. I attempted to analyze the use of structure in poetry and the merits of its use. The use of the structure imposed on the play itself is a statement regarding the "quality" of poetry with structure forced upon it. I wrote the play in 3 sestinas, so it is around 11 pages and consequently should take about 10 minutes to read. See if you can spot the recurring endwords in each of the stanzas, and where the stanzas begin and end. Enjoy.

At rise: HUMPHRY sits at center stage, legs crossed, hands in his lap, looking up at the sky. The stage is blank except for a tree with one leaf that stands down stage right. Humphry speaks to no one in particular.
HUMPHRY
Form is what keeps things together. That much I understand, I think. But I wonder: is there such thing as a better style? And does a poem even need to have some kind of structure in order to be good? Personally, I don’t like the idea of structure. I think using, or being forced to use some kind of template in order to create a work of art hinders your ability to use your imagination.
REGINALD enters from stage right, barefoot, holding a pair of sandals in his hands.
REGINALD
(clapping the bottoms of his sandals together)
What’s that about imagination?
HUMPHRY
Oh, Reginald, can you and I work this through, together?
REGINALD
Are you again talking to yourself about structure?
HUMPHRY
Wait, why do you think-
REGINALD
And again the issue of poetry being good?
HUMPHRY
I’m just wondering about style.
Humphry stands and faces Reginald.
REGINALD
(clapping his sandals together)
Again with style?
HUMPHRY
Are you saying I lack imagination?
REGINALD
You understand me, good!
HUMPHRY
Can we please do this together?
REGINALD
Why is this the only thing about which you think?
HUMPHRY
You don’t find it interesting to discuss structure?
REGINALD
(clapping his sandals together)
Structure, structure it’s always structure!
HUMPHRY
And also style.
REGINALD
You know what I think?
HUMPHRY
Is this once more about my imagination? Can we just please work together?
REGINALD
Well honestly, Humphry, about poetry and things, I’m no good.
HUMPHRY
What does being good-
Reginald interrupts Humphry with a loud clap of his sandals again.
HUMPHRY
Okay, I get it, you don’t care about structure. You don’t care that it is what keeps it all together. You don’t care that poetry can mean different things from style to style. And you think I lack imagination.
REGINALD
I wouldn’t necessarily say “think.”
HUMPHRY
(claps his hands together, and sits back down)
That’s the problem isn’t it, that you don’t think.
REGINALD
(inspecting his sandals)
Humphry, you don’t make me sound very good.
HUMPHRY
(sulking)
I have plenty of imagination.
Reginald does not respond, but instead drops his sandals to the floor and inserts his feet. Humphry looks over at Reginald and opens his mouth to speak, but Reginald cuts him off.
REGINALD
No more structure.
HUMPHRY
What about style?
Reginald ignores him, and instead trots around the stage, testing out his sandals. He stops and takes them off his feet and holds them in his hand. After doing so, he walks over to the seated Humphry and stands over him.
REGINALD
(relenting)
You really want that bad to do this together?
Humphry stands and walks away from Reginald, towards stage left.
HUMPHRY
So what do you think, does structure in poetry stifle the poet’s imagination? Or do you think that forcing people into a certain way could be a thing that’s good? And, lastly, I know this is a lot already, but does having a style necessarily keep the poem together, and does a poem even need to be “together?”
REGINALD
(after clapping his sandals together, he drops them on the floor, and puts only his right foot in)
Sometimes rules can help when it comes to a poem’s meaning.
HUMPHRY
But how is that possible if the mind is not able to run free?
REGINALD
Well okay, and I remind you I’m no good at this, but how about for instance the haiku form?
HUMPHRY
Ah yes, that has a very strict set of rules. Three lines of five syllables, then seven, and then five again.
REGINALD
Does having such a rigid structure, in this case, help or hurt the cause of the poet?
Reginald sits down, and picks up the left sandal. Humphry approaches the tree and stands underneath.
HUMPHRY
When does a poet
Decide and create meaning
Still, I try again.
REGINALD
There, you see how your mind ran free?
HUMPHRY
But I stayed within the rules.
REGINALD
Well that’s just because it’s the form.
Reginald smacks the bottom of his sandal with his hand.
HUMPHRY
(turning towards Reginald)
But I felt a lack of real depth because I had to abide by that form.
REGINALD
Well, honestly, Humphry, you’re not really a poet.
HUMPHRY
I know, but don’t you think real poets would find it rather difficult to come up with good stuff while keeping within the rules?
REGINALD
I see your meaning.
HUMPHRY
To me, it’s so very stifling and without free-
REGINALD
Again!
Reginald slaps his sandal again.
HUMPHRY
What again?
REGINALD
A real poet, a good poet mind you, would not be a good poet unless he could manipulate, regardless of what kind, expertly the form. In this way, the poet is always free. See this, you being unable to work within the style, is the very reason why you’re not a real poet. A real one, you see, could very easily, or at least in a manner more effectively than you, create from the rigid structures of style profound or provocative meaning. The rules-
Humphry slaps the trunk of the tree.
HUMPHRY
Creating meaning and having creativity in spite of the rules?
REGINALD
No, you misunderstand again. A poem’s meaning-
HUMPHRY
You mean to say that a poem is helped by having a strict form!
REGINALD
Do you see now that freedom can come from being bound as well as being unbound for the poet?
HUMPHRY
I’m still stuck on this notion of what is free.
Humphry sits. Reginald stands.
REGINALD
It’s such a vague concept to be stuck on, the issue of “free.” Are you and I not free because we follow our society’s rules?
HUMPHRY
You know very well I mean this all in the context of poetry and the poet.
REGINALD
I’m going to say it again. Freedom to express what you want to express doesn’t necessitate the presence or lack of form.
HUMPHRY
But do either the lack of it or the presence of it connote more or less meaning? I know it is again the same question, but I am just attempting here to get into the mind of the poet.
REGINALD
I answered your question by telling you that rules for poetry can indeed set the poet free. Form, while being rigid, structured, and inhibiting of free flowing thought at times, if you can manage to create something interesting within the limits of the rigidity, it could be that much better, and sometimes working with an outline for how you’re to manipulate your thoughts can help that process, inevitably providing for the poet inspiration and a way to express thoughts that jump around in the mind, which happen to jump around without form; it brings shape, and a way for the common reader to understand that which is without.
Humphry claps his hands.
HUMPHRY
Okay, I’ll give you that. That’s a fascinating argument you make about making what the poet is trying to say accessible to the you’s and me’s out there. But then are you saying that free verse poems, which don’t appear to match with any kind of rules regarding its structure suffer from that which defines them as such?
REGINALD
That’s also a good question. I still contend, though, that I’m not the one to be asking about this.
HUMPHRY
That’s fine, I don’t mind.
REGINALD
(Reginald stands while Humphry sits)
Free verse poems, I would think, since they should directly represent thoughts without structure imposed upon them, tap into more closely what’s going on in the poet’s mind.
HUMPHRY
Okay, I’ll buy that. So then what you’re saying is about this-
REGINALD
Hold on there. I didn’t finish with your question. Poetry itself cannot be so easily broken down as such.
HUMPHRY
As what such-
REGINALD
Speed up your mind! Back to your question. Poetry is not something you can point to and say “poetry is exactly that.” For free verse poetry, since that was your question, see if you can think of one while you sit there.
HUMPHRY
I hold onto this
For this
Is what I wonder because as such
A glance or a look over there
Causes me to think of the opaque poet’s mind
For that
I ask this question
REGINALD
You have a quick thinking mind. So what do you think of the process that is this?
HUMPHRY
What was the purpose of that?
REGINALD
To prove poetry can exist with meaning without rules as such.
HUMPHRY
Oh my pained mind!
REGINALD
Easy there. Easy there. So to your question.
HUMPHRY
Please answer if you don’t mind.
REGINALD
My answer is this.
Reginald jumps up and does a cartwheel across the stage while saying the word “dog.” He straightens himself and does a few more in succession, this time saying: “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. “

HUMPHRY
What was that?
REGINALD
Keep those motions in mind. You need to look there for your answer to the question. There is that answer you’re looking for, as such, because poets do not need structure, and they do not need not having structure in order to get a point across as the form conforms itself as does the poet conform himself to the form, or lack thereof to suit his own needs, for a poet chooses what style he uses, not the other way around. So I guess what I’m really trying to say is that style and form and structure are integral parts of the poet’s creative process, but they need not be when the poet chooses to convey his ideas and emotions without form to use. You will notice that you created, out of thin air, two decent poems, both with a good amount of intelligence and meaning I might add, with words you yourself did choose. A great deal of thought many poets into their poems do infuse. By taking a style, or by not, there is nothing that a poet could lose. I wonder if you can follow me with my clues. I want you to now compose and recite a sonnet, iambic pentameter and all to complete this rhyming ruse.
HUMPHRY
I don’t find funny, your confusing ruse.
But iambic pentameter I’ll use,
Hoping to get to the punch-line of clues.
Want to know why this style you did choose.
Your point and point of view, I think, I’ll lose.
But still I’ll try, this here meaning infuse
What a funny word it is this “infuse”
All part of the rhyming scheme, it’s a ruse
This poem’s meaning quickly I did lose
Why must I with continued effort use
This crazy poetic form you did choose
Enough of this insanity! No clues!
Well if you do, make sure they are good clues
Because I again have to use “infuse.”
Humphry collapses on the ground, exhausted and disgusted with what his mind just came up with.
REGINALD
So you did just now compose a sonnet, because it was the style I did choose.
HUMPHRY
Now, now, what is your ruse?
REGINALD
I wished to show you that not everyone can compose a brilliant poem at a whim because of a random style you want to use.
HUMPHRY
I feel like in this battle of words I’m going to lose.
REGINALD
No, no, you misunderstand, as there was nothing to lose. Do you want more clues?
HUMPHRY
Only if they will help me understand what you’re talking about, then sure I’ll them use.
REGINALD
You tried very hard to into your poem meaning infuse. But here is the punch line of my ruse. You will notice I gave you a very strict structure with which to work with, and I think you could choose-
HUMPHRY
I did not however choose.
REGINALD
Quite true, so in that sense you did lose. That was the only humorous aspect of this ruse. I guess the final clues-
HUMPHRY
No more of that please, just get to the meaning that into your blabber you mean to infuse!
REGINALD
I gave you such a difficult poem to compose, with such rigid form to conform to, and you could not make a really good poem full of meaning and beauty, but is it because of the style I told you to use?
HUMPHRY
Okay, I see what this ruse and your clues were all supposed to be for: it was a double lesson in a way, in that you showed me that structure does not necessarily connote anything about the quality of poetry, and that the quality of the poet is what determines the quality of the poem. A poet, with absolutely nothing to lose, can choose what kind of structure he wants for his poem, based on his own limits or infinite expanses of his own mind and creativity, and would, using either haiku, sonnet, sestina, free verse or whatever else available to him, create something truly personal and individual to the poet and not to anyone else. If given a form that the poet is familiar with and enjoys, it shouldn’t be difficult to infuse the meaning that is jumbled around in the poet’s head, by use of really any kind of style.
Reginald puts his feet in the sandals, and moves around a little to test them out, not yet acknowledging Humphry’s epiphany.
REGINALD
They finally fit.
HUMPHRY
I understand now, Reginald!
REGINALD
I know. It’s like I told you. Poetry just is. Structure of poems changes everything and it changes nothing. Take a sestina for instance.
HUMPHRY
Okay.
REGINALD
Sestinas lend themselves very well to long narratives that aren’t necessarily any more poetic than any essay you might write for an English class.
HUMPHRY
I studied math in school.
REGINALD
Then think of it like a mathematical proof. You can write a proof in the dry language that math uses with the content being nothing more than that which you’re trying to prove.
HUMPHRY
Yes. True.
REGINALD
But you can also make it sound prettier so that the proof is more enjoyable to read.
HUMPHRY
That’s less true. Anyway, what are you getting at? I don’t follow.
REGINALD
Well a sestina is the same way. It can take the form of an essay, or it can take the form of a beautiful lyric poem. It all depends on the poet. More to the point, a specific style does not mean it is any more or any less capable of beauty than any other, it just depends on the words that are used to fill up the empty space. Remember the cartwheels?
HUMPHRY
Yes.
REGINALD
Do you understand now?
HUMPHRY
An empty shell filled with garbage is still just garbage, while an empty shell filled with beauty becomes beauty.
REGINALD
Precisely.
HUMPHRY
So my original question about structure and all that-
REGINALD
Right, well, the imposed structure of a poem can help to focus the poet’s thought process, along with keeping it all in an accessible container for regular people to be able to relate to.
HUMPHRY
It took you that long to explain?
REGINALD
Yes, well, I had some structure imposed on me. And I told you, I’m no good at this stuff.
End.

haiku redub

2008-12-19T12:30:00.000-08:00

i need just one more taste
an EXPLOSION in my mouth!
... maybe just one more

bottle of water.
is it half full or empty?
i’ll take one more sip

pencil to paper
formless thoughts flow recklessly
poem drifts

a

w

a

y

.

the last days of life
what sorrow do I follow,
as my heart escapes

on the bus

2008-12-18T10:48:00.000-08:00

when i get on buses, i keep my eyes to myself
i glance around a few times, just to see who's there
loud black girl on the phone
old chinese woman with the pink plastic bags of groceries
middle aged chicana trying to hide the bruise on her leg
but my eyes never linger
i never rest my gaze long enough to see who these people are
i make quick judgements
assess the safety or danger
notice the faces and where they're looking
notice hands and what they hold
and smell the stench of urine
and BO
and then
and then a new passenger gets on
all set their eyes on her
she's blind
the man with the nice shoes in front gives her a seat
thank you and she sits
folding up her white and red stick
placing it in her lap
my eyes stay transfixed
she is not pretty
not by any means
she is not interesting to look at
but still i stare
i get to know her better than the others
i read her story written across her blank eyes
parents dead
no husband
no kids
small, unassuming home in oakland
vegetarian
listens to trance and classical guitar
black shoes
brown socks
red sweater
blue jeans
white shirt
she's the first that i can really look at
the only one that i can really see
but only because she cannot see me

Completion

2008-12-16T20:07:00.000-08:00

I'm done.

For now,

I'm done.

Until which time,
I am no longer,

and

Starting.

Snooze

2008-12-16T09:32:00.001-08:00

This morning

I hit snooze too many times.

This morning

I stayed in bed,

Listening to the ocean fall.

This morning

I waited for the light to peek through

My window.

It didn't.

This morning

I realized I wasn't prepared -

Am not prepared -

For what is coming.

This morning

I tried to go back to sleep.

But I was awake,

This morning.

Mind wandering

2008-12-15T13:09:00.000-08:00

I don't blog. Or at least I haven't in a long while. I pride myself on keeping my emotions expressed to just myself and a close few friends. So I will not blog here. I will not partake in the usual mess of feelings that so often stream helplessly across the wireless wires. I will not confuse you with my double meanings, and triple entendre. I will not substitute names for names of those you may or may not know.

Okay so this is a tall order. I'll probably disavow all knowledge of ever writing such a statement as the weeks and months and years move on and I succumb to the temptation of writing what I'm feeling and thinking and deciding to be emo about at a given time. For now, I'll consider my entries to be simple discourse, and a method for me to air out my thoughts before I can write them down. You'll probably lose interest after reading a few. I'll most likely put up stories and poems and plays and ideas for all of the above.

If you steal anything, I will hunt you down and rip out your thought process.

That is all for now. I end with a haiku.

In the midst of finals

I take a moment to breathe.

Cold air fills my lungs.