A poem from Saturday morning:

Living God
In you I live and move,
and have my breath,
but
Can I see you in it all?

The vast mountainscape,
churning ocean,
tipping tides, now near,
now out of reach;

Can I hear you over the rumble
of city-people-life,
the growling engines and
jibber-jabber cell phone talk,
the hissing barristas,
pounding car stereo bass...

I have strained ears and eyes
to touch your face,
to see your hands;
and hurtling through outer space,
all creation groans as the metro bus
lurches by, each breath of diesel fumes
floating up like incense, like a prayer,
like trees stretching ethereal branches to
heaven.

You are there, I'm sure,
aware of it all,
creating it all somehow,
hearing the nothingness in noisepollution,
and the distant cry for salvation
in the opening of a bill heavy mailbox.

I see you in it all,
though my eyes and ears search endlessly,
and my fingers only filter wind;
I see you, and there I bury my hope
deeply.

-Jon Seruyange, 8/6/05

Went to a blog that I check on and off when I can. Someone I don't even know. But the blog wasn't there. I got a message about a URL not being found and yada yada yada.
I just sat there and stared at it. It's funny. I don't even check the blog everyday. Yet, somehow it felt like being cut off from someone I know. I tried several times to access it, but the same message kept popping up.
So, you anonymous blogger, all I have left is the book you mentioned, "Salamander". I actually ordered and am reading it. Ironically, my connection to you, a bookmark on my browser, no longer works.

I've reheated my coffee from this morning 3 times today. It must be radioactive by now. Monday always whacks me on the head in the morning, drags me through muck most of the day, and spits me out like Jonah's whale whenever the day ends. But that's okay. K kept me going with her belief in me (Athos, I know you're wretching right now) and I was held up by reheated coffee and Madeleine Peyroux. As the day goes on, it becomes more and more about believing you actually are a super hero in the making rather than seeing that you're not where you want to be. Or as the Little Engine put it, "I think I can, I think I can..."
Hang in there people!

For those of you who are in both of my online worlds, I'm going to be crossposting my blogs on both blogger and myspace (Crossposting--oh the horror!) If you don't care, keep reading whichever one you prefer!

3:08 and only time for a quick rant. Here goes:

I'm not entirely sure why it is that certain people simply do not wish to reciprocate a smile with a smile. I mean, the way I see it, we've got one chance at each day, one shot at each individual interaction with a person. I have a chance to make you happy, frustrated, ticked off, sad, depressed; why waste an opportunity? So I try to smile at people I pass on the street, at grocery checkout clerks, especially if lines are long and they look tired; at nurses who are giving me injections (you know that actually helps the shot feel less painful), at people who come into my office. Yet, despite my attempt, some people just don't seem obliged to respond in kind.
Example: A guy in the administration building lobby is sitting there with his daughter, obviously waiting for a university tour or an admissions appointment. As I pass through the lobby, we make eye contact for a couple of seconds, so I smile. He gazed evenly back at me, as if trying to break me down or something. What, I ask you, would compel him to such disinterest in the general human good?
Earlier, a student had come into my office, a grimace on his face. This student seems particularly poorly socially adjusted since I've seen him several times inside my office, as well as around the campus, and on every occasion he has the same "I'm just upset that I have to even look at you" expression on his face. You know, every time he comes in I get stressed out. It's not that I'm afraid of answering his questions. Just his presence stresses me out. Yikes. I smiled anyway as I let him in. He frowned back. I proceeded to speak with him in as congenial a manner as I could muster, but wondered all the while at his...lack of social grace.
Finally, a breath of fresh air: a lady came in with her daughter. She was clearly distressed and wondering how to make things happen financially--how to cover a tuition that seemed 10s of thousands of dollars out of reach. I smiled at her as she came in, and she responded...with a weak, tenuous, but genuine smile, even as tears seemed to well in her eyes. As I gave her counsel, the smile did not leave her face, and I thought, finally, someone who gets it!
When life is difficult, you see, the one thing we can do is smile. We can't change circumstance, we can't make other people like us, we can't change "the rules" all the time. But we can change our facial expression and our attitude towards those around us. View others as an obstacle, and an obstacle we have become to them. But smile...smile and the opportunity to feel good for a couple of seconds is not wasted. For you or someone else.
Okay, here ends the rant.

I took some medicine today--a random excursion into downtown L.A.. I found myself smiling as I passed between the tall buildings, some ornate, some plain, some standing there like old pilgrims, dreary looks on their facades while clusters of pedestrians clung to the thin cracked sidewalks at their feet.
A pleasant surprise--the Walt Disney Concert Hall stretched her curving form like a metallic contortionist on the corner of 1st and Grand, a treasure in the crowded streets. I hadn't known I was headed towards the building, and had actually never seen it in person before; now she seemingly billowed between the straight edged streets and edifices.
After rubbernecking as I drove past, I reluctantly followed the streets back east. At the apex of an arching overpass, the lights amid darkness below winked at me like a field of flourescent flowers. I remember thinking vaguely, "That's where all the stars went."
All the while, Sounds Eclectic was playing on my radio, a soundtrack to my drive. I found myself thinking of my brother, out in the wide open spaces of South Dakota, and how the music had changed shape when I had visited there for his wedding; the songs seemed to take on new tunes. Music is a lot like Gehry's concert hall: free of form, full of vivacity, filling the spaces between buildings and over open fields as needed; and always, always lending a little room to breathe wherever we find ourselves.
With the illuminated downtown buildings in my rearview mirror, I rolled down my window and inhaled the cool night air, my dose until the next time done.

I read an article a little while back about Tuvalu, an island nation that is slowly losing ground to the ocean (literally), disappearing as time passes, or so it seems. It made me wonder how much of my identity is linked to places, temporal geographies from my experience. Nairobi, a monolith in my self perception, has changed since I was last there.
Yet even so, it remains, in my memory, home. But what happens when home disappears?
Perhaps for those natives of Tuvalu who pass on the memory of a place as it once was, it will be like a demolished house or neighborhood; a somewhat melancholy nostalgia, a reminder that like places, we as people and cultures change. Despite appearances and sentiments, home is really just a stop along the way.

A couple who are friends of mine are grieving the loss of their first baby today. Born last night prematurely, the baby did not survive the night. There are a lot of things that go on in my heart when things like that happen around me. I see the pictures of myself and wonder at divine planning, wonder at the fact that I am what I am, and yet I survived and others did not. I won't pretend I understand, or even that I fully trust what I know intellectually to be true--that God's plan overrides the mess we sometimes see down here. We often say the words, as believers in God, but don't examine the unresolved things that lurk beneath the hardened crust of faith.

Her voice came over a couple dozen miles of phoneline, drowsy, speech slurred slightly.
"What's the best day you've ever had?" As she drifted off to sleep again, my mind raced over the course of my life. It seemed that the answer should have come more easily; I've had many joys in life since my childhood. Cookies and Sesame Street, walks to "the store" with my big sister, Street Fighter marathons with my older brother, mischevious exploits with my best friends in middle and high school, hanging out with the guys on my floor in college, and of course, my relationship with the sleeping beauty on the other end of the phone line.
As the thoughts kept coming I noticed a theme; every day I could remember, triumphant, depressing, whatever, every day had its darks and lights. That is, every day was a little gray. And actually, I wasn't that surprised. I mean, no one really expects to have a "movie day" where one day defines who you are for the rest of your life. Although that works well for movies, it would actually be kind of depressing in real life; watching your life's momentum slow, its definition clear, your parameters set. Maybe it's just me--I'm a lion, whatever I may appear to be on the outside. We don't deal well with cages.
After much thought, the idea of "the best day of my life" slipped through my fingers like so much water, elusive. Back to the present. Her soft rhythmic breathing over the phone line brings me the image of her curled up under her comforter, the soft light of her desk lamp illuminating tomorrow's to-do list and a neatly organized room. Today's list, completely checked off, is in the trash.

Under moonlight's watch
Sweet forgetting of today--
New day's sun still sleeps

Perhaps I cannot define the best day of my life. But this is best moment of my day.
Goodnight.

Aren't the holidays lovely? All this time to post. Enjoy it while it lasts!

I took some time today to go to the public library down the street, not intending to leave with anything since my bookbag was already full of Harold Bloom; of course I still walked out with two books: Poems from Black Africa and Under African Skies. The latter I have yet to read, but the poems, I've been submerged in for what seems to be the entirety of this evening.
Poetry that speaks to your soul as it longs to be is gold in paper coffers. Tonight as I read The Meaning of Africa by Abioseh Nicol, my treasury of experience was deepened.

"I know now that is what you are, Africa:
Happiness, contentment, and fulfillment,
And a small bird singing in a mango tree."
-Nicol, "The Meaning of Africa"

I long for home.

Times like these...my weeping brothers and sisters all around the Indian Ocean, and around the world. Hold on. Just keep holding on.

Christmas 2004 is now Christmas past. Of course the last Christmas song of the day I heard was "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas". There's something comforting about having a day of the year when most radio stations are playing the same songs, just different styles. KOST (a listen at work station) was playing soft-rock-by-the-fire-with-hot-chocolate versions. The classical station KUSC was playing more sophisticated voices singing the same songs. Ironically, (for an African in California) many times I heard references to snow and sleigh bells; the allusions to something many of us in this state are not really familiar with reminded me of "The Most Photographed Barn in the US" from White Noise; something in which we all participate, working feverishly to maintain a reality most of us have never directly seen or touched. I have sung Christmas songs involving snow and a particular white bearded, broad bellied old man my entire life. That this has only been even falsely manifested maybe 2 years of my life that I can remember...Well, I think I'll leave that thought alone for tonight.
The snow, reindeer, jolly old fat man and sleigh bells may be a far cry from my real experience, but maybe that's what everyone needs in times like these. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Wow, the last time I posted I was so enchanted with the ideal. Today I couldn't feel more disparate. I had a very unpleasant conversation tonight; one of those detours from all you've believed important to a different world you suspected was there all along, but never expected to meet head on. I hate those.
I found myself contemplating what matters in life--stability? Family? A "good" job? My friend suggested that maybe I took too seriously what should be more a "side" thing, something you do as a hobby.
And I think that's why I'm up writing at 3:00 in the morning.
Ironically, this all falls on Christmas weekend, the one weekend we're all supposed to be caught up in the ideal...
God help me.

I read Basho tonight. As I read through the moments of his life he had printed in haiku I felt a bond between us, and yet a distant sadness as well. His walk through nature was like that of Adam through that first garden, a cascade of delights that could only be spoken of sparingly, in humility and silence. Perhaps that's something the Japanese held on to in their poetic forms and understanding of mono no ke, the mystery of things.
So as I read Basho I smiled and sighed and wept internally for the revelation of man's soul as God intended it--companion of nature, audience and actor in the greatest work that will ever exist; yet equally, full joy, it seems,has eluded us since we left that first garden. All we can hold on to are the moments of being in it all--a picture beyond words.

*
How I long to see
among dawn flowers
the face of God
*
Man's end-
a bamboo shoot,
or less
*
Sick on a journey-
over parched fields
dreams wander on

-Basho (Each of the above is a separate haiku)

I know thing's may not be complete yet, but once some stones start rolling, their trajectory is sure:

For Kristin
It was an eventful day for all of us, but for you, my dear sister, for you heaven must have panted in exhausted empathy. Even so, smile, though he may not be there today, smile and remember that you've gained another home, another family, another place and people to call your own beyond the one you've always known.
For my fellow lionson, David
California dreaming was never so surreal, I'm sure, yet in the surrealities of life we find ourselves, courageous, strong, happy and well. I know more was going on than you could show; more joy, more triumph, more gratitude, more nervousness. And the happiness; my brother, as you unravel it, it will guide your search for that city we all seek like a beacon.
A blessing: May you find happiness in heaven's chosen journey-mate for you,and may the road together be long, pleasant and complete.

I struggled to stay awake this afternoon, the candy wrappers piled in my trashcan like translucent leaves, covering a couple of Dr. Pepper cans. No, this was not a day of health consciousness, I must confess.
A student came in to see one of my fellow counselors--a straggler. He's still trying to register even though technically it was all over last week. I felt bad for him; his dragons have held on, unyielding, each one dying harder than the last. A missing document, a lost loan application, a denial, a delay. When he left, my coworker and I had a conversation about the direction of higher education, the way it's getting more expensive at private institutions, and the tension between the ideals we try to represent and the financial facts behind running a good university.
There's nothing for it. As an institution of higher learning seeking to hold to ideals, you must bend and break at times, sacrificing one ideal for another. And meanwhile, as workerbees, we employees somehow try to build bridges to the sacrifices "they" have made, trying to show a face, but to represent a name.
Perhaps it's not the institution that is the lengthened shadow of one man, as Emerson put it. Even so, a shadow stretches from some unknown figure, clouding heaven and obscuring our view of God's arm.
Take heart, friends; the dark may well be the shadow of the Almighty.

Finally Registration is over! Sort of. The students come milling through here during that time every year, apocalyptic looks in their eyes like we hold the key to their very lives...
And yet, each year, life rolls on. Some register, some don't. Some walk away with tears, others with stories of answered prayers. And here, in the cubicles of Metzger Middle West, my desk sits under the measurable condensation of tax forms, letters, phone messages, etc, etc, etc. Most of the questions get answered, some don't. And life rolls on.
I've been thinking this past week about what that means, meditating on Ecclesiastes. It seems we were meant for more than we think, and yet less at the same time. The moments we feel our fate has come, time carries us past in a wave. Almost before we can realize it, the moment has passed.
Outside time, I'm sure the vista stretches out differently--the leaps we make past those days where faith stretches out, almost intangible, those appear as brightness in a larger tapestry, each such spot framed by a myriad of colors which make up the rest of our days; coffee with a hurting friend, the smile at someone in the next lane of traffic, a phone call to let mom know we love her, the ache and ecstasy of real life. The picture is so much bigger, I imagine. But to see it will, I suppose, require getting out of here alive. I'm looking forward to that eventual moment beyond my tapestry, when "real life" shuffles out of the way and I finally know even as I am fully known.

It's taken me long enough to resurface, and for that I apologize. Sub-current there have been many things going on.
I'm listening to Carly Simon right now. She died in 1995. I didn't know that. The first time I encountered her music was back in the 90's, I believe; a chance hearing of a tune that baits your mind as you watch the intro titles to "Working Girl". Certain musical artists dance on the fringe of my mind but never enter its center stage, one or two songs of theirs surfacing and resurfacing on my journey. Suzanne Vega is another one, "Tom's Diner", throwing its hook toward me as I watched the music video and heard the "made for MTV" version of the song.
Chance connections with people I may never meet, and yet somehow feel connected to.
That's exactly what the collective unconcious is about; the world we all seek to grasp, to live in, but only brush against during the wanderings and stretches of our imaginations.

Shock filled me when I heard the news about the beheading of Kim Sun-il, the Korean man in Iraq. I touched my neck with disbelief; that one could so easily cut through flesh and jugular of a man he had never known, a man who was not in the military, who was begging for his life...Mr. Kurtz's words come back to me, "The horror, the horror."
When you hear something like that, you find yourself staring at the undiluted poison of an evil nature, the noxious cloud that veils our origins as the creation that mirrored God. And even deeper, the devilish glint of the murderous blade--how can such evil exist.
A little girl somewhere in the US watched the first beheading on the internet, rapt, unsure of what to think, removed a little by the medium, but knowing reality was what she was watching. Reality was dark, cruel, blasphemous, grotesque. She went home, traumatized, unable to function, unable to stop crying, unable to blot out the knowledge that such darkness exists.
History is a testament to the grace of God; that a man who cuts off another's head so easily in front of a camera is still alive...I won't say what I find myself wishing or hoping.
They'll never hear it, but at least I'll know I've said it. My prayers are with you, all of you who knew Kim Sun-il. To his family, his mother and father, words cannot express my sorrow for you.
God will have his vengeance.

Well, I signed the paperwork for a new car (new to me) today. I still have some things to clear up before I can bring it home, but it's virtually mine.
Funny though, the way things work out to bring up more issues you need to take care of. I spent much of the evening after I got home brooding and reading my bible. You go into high tension situations like car purchases and you find yourself questioning the point of life itself. For me, the questions that came are, "Am I really who I say I am?" and "If I'm not, then just who the heck am I?"
As I read the Bible, peace came to me in Peter's second letter. I'll have to remember to thank him when I get There.

My girlfriend and I saw Hearst Castle on Monday. Right now thinking about that is like imagining things as they'll likely never be, but it was such a great escape. Maybe I'll have some deeper thoughts to share when I'm finished with the purchase of my car.Concern clouds the imagination, and right now I'm perceiving life through pea soup fog.

To Ray