Monday, June 30, 2008

Number 9

Ok, one more post before June expires. Wow. June. Gone.

It doesn't seem as late in the year as it really is. (In a couple days we'll be closer to '09 than we are to '07). I think that's because I'm waiting for summer vacation to start. Back home summer started the second week of June. Now here it won't start until the third week of July. Even then, I'll be really busy and time with push me along, like exiting a crowded Tokyo train.

I discovered something yesterday, a small revelation but an important one. I've noticed now with the eyes of retrospect that my relationship with God has been changing, almost in the same way the seasons change. This is not a hot to cold to hot sort of thing, it’s about the evolution of it. The seasons change slowly, but there’re always jumps and lulls of illogic. Maybe it hasn’t been as volatile as Minnesota’s change of seasons, but that really is the point. It’s been changing slow enough that I haven’t been able to identify it until after the fact.


Me and the Lord have been doing well – we’ve been talking a lot and I’ve been offering up quite a few things. Here’s the problem though: being surrounded by so many non-Christians, by so many atheists, by a very small and sporadically spaced network, by a very un-Biblical nation has made me think in relativity. I feel like I’ve already arrived.


This is very dangerous. It doesn’t make me cocky, it doesn’t make me look down on anyone – these people are my best friends - , it doesn’t make me doubt. What I have done is allow myself to become complacent. I’m not trying to be more like Christ because I feel he’s just cool with where I’m at. Arrived.


I have fallen on grace, and I always will, and it will always be the only thing that will save me. But Jesus has also called me to be more like him and last time I read the gospels Jesus wasn’t getting drunk or womanizing. I can still be cool without a cigarette behind my ear.


Now I’m not going to abandon my edge, and I’m not going to betray my personality. God made me unique and I will celebrate this fearfully and wonderfully created life. I just want to love God and love his ways more than I love the world.


God, I need you so much right now. I have so many needs that I’m trying to fill under my own power, and I’m just not making it. There’s always holes and as soon as one’s plugged the water starts spilling out somewhere else and I’ve run out of fingers. Hold me tighter. Crawl into that empty bed before me. Set me upon the world with clarity of purpose and a powerhouse of discipline. Fill my lungs with your cleaner air. Sharpen my mind and deepen my love. Love me until it spills over the edges and floods the lives of the people around me.


You, Lord, and not me.


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Saturday, June 21, 2008

Cloverfield? Or something like that

You know you've just seen a bad movie when on a Saturday night the movie finishes and you say, "Man. I could have done laundry."

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Friday, June 20, 2008

Campaign Finance

I just read this new article on the BBC about Barack Obama's campaign fundraising. He has made the decision to turn down the $80 million that the government will give to each the democratic and republican nominees to run a presidential campaign. Accepting this money means that nominees can't take any private donations. It is meant to make the race fair between nominees of different parties. If I remember correctly, Obama had offered McCain back in February that if he were the democratic nominee, he would run on the $80 mil. only as long as McCain agreed to do the same. I think McCain had tentatively agreed.

However, McCain has been taking donations from "special interest groups" and "private donors" through loopholes in the public-financing bill co-authored by none other than McCain himself, even though he has chosen to take the government's money. Obama has decided that this isn't very fair, and in light of his strong condemnations of SIG money and the fact that he will probably be able to raise more than $80 mil. through private donors, he has decided to go the private-only route. He wouldn't be able to compete with McCain money wise with only public financing.

However, by choosing to take private donations, isn't Obama being influenced by "special interests" of the "worst" kind? One individual's donation means Obama is answering to that individual's interests, rather than a cross-section of the tax-payers (those who checked the box on their tax returns). What about the interests of the poor or those on welfare who can't shell out the $2300? I suppose one could argue that $2300 from any one person is not enough to hold much sway. But what about when individuals with an agenda hold fundraisers to pool their money for Obama's campaign?

Is it even possible to avoid money from "special interests?" How can one investigate every donor's ties to lobbying or lobbyist companies? And does it even make sense not to take money from SIGs? Some groups certainly are lobbying for people and causes that don't already hold monetary and political clout.

It will be interesting to see over the months leading up to November where the money is coming from.

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Thursday, June 19, 2008

Writings on the Ocean

The ocean was flat. That's a damned common word to choose after so many nights of observation, but really it was the best word for it. There were no tsunami waves tonight, running at shore in their rank and file, steadily pounding a rhythm against the concrete. On microcosm you could see the slop and plop water knocking itself about, but he hadn't looked at that; only out over the width of the bay and the stretch between summertime lights. He thought about that day early last spring when the ocean laid still. There were no waves on that afternoon, and no surf - only a slight heaving of the water, like the shallow and dispersed breathing of a dying man, it's white foam frothed at the edges, sputtering out.

The moon tonight shown steady casting its reflection off the water in a perfect line to the bottom of his feet. "Hm." It suddenly occurred to him that it could never be any other way. Why hadn't he thought about that before? You always see the sun coming right at you and that had never seemed strange. "I might have to draw a picture with the sunset reflecting off to the side," he thought. He bet after it was finished, you could tell it looked funny, but you wouldn't be able to say why.

The moon looked lumpy tonight - it wasn't quite full. Or was that just the clouds? A shadow passed moving the opposite way of the traffic, but tonight he didn't jump. The scene was molding him, making him a part of its familiarity.



Honesty. What does that look like? Is it possible to be recorded, even by the best intentions? Does the tip of the pen dull its edges, scratch its surface? Is there much forgotten by the flawed institution of writing? Even if I made up my mind to be honest with you, could I produce it?

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

A Kitachousenjin

He poured through books like water from a clear glass pitcher. And when he was empty, he waited to be filled again. "I'm just buying my time," he thought. But really it was the elements that had control. Sure, he could set himself under the eave of a rooftop, but even then, it still had to rain.


I talked with a guy from North Korea tonight. Kitachousen. All of Korea is chousen; they consider themselves one-people, one-blood. Through our conversation of 95% Japanese and 5% English, I managed to understand his main convictions and the things he so desperately wanted me to understand. His name was Kim, a 41-year old entrepreneur selling Korean food in Shizuoka. His grandfather had been from South Korea and somehow (I couldn't follow this part) this allowed Kim to be in Japan, though his alien registration card showed him as a North Korean.

Kim constantly apologized for the things he was saying, though he raised little offense. He said that Koreans in North Korea would rather keep their own culture, their pride, and starvation, than to be infiltrated by Americanism and the vices that come with it. He said that it was a difficult decision to make between which was worse: starving in Korea or being shot on the street in L.A.

South Korea had become "America's dog." The people were kept sedated with the "3 Ss:" sex, screen and ___. War was business, and America was only after North Korea so that they could be closer to China's and Russia's door, the likes of which would be a "constant pebble in China's shoe." According to Kim, North Koreans feared an aggressive and hostile China as a result of American presence, more than they feared their empty stomachs. He said that if America went to war, they would win, 100%. But maybe not before North Korea would be able to take a retaliatory pot-shot at either South Korea or Japan.

Kim liked Americans, and he couldn't get enough of shaking my hand and patting me on the back. But he assured me that that didn't mean he liked my government. In his mind, Clinton would have made the best president because she would be the most likely to leave North Korea alone. Kim also liked American style business, this probably being the result of his livelihood. The Japanese tended too much to keep their heads down and despair over the low points of the oscillating business curve. He kept a smile on his face and waited for the upswing. Kim wanted everyone to be friends, for there to be peace among all nations, and even dreamed of visiting America someday, if the government ever allowed him to.

"Hontou Gomennasai, I'm really sorry, Luther," he said as he criticised America again. He loved meeting Americans and telling them all about North Korea. "They don't teach you these things in school."

We traded numbers toward the end of the evening. Kim said he would take me out for yakiniku or Korean-style barbecue. I would pay 20%, he would pay 80 because at 41 "he was my uncle." I told him I really liked ishiyakibibimba, another type of Korean cooking. That awarded me another handshake.

Kim was the first North Korean I have ever met, and I do hope to spend another evening with him. This one had turned into a late night, but one that I wouldn't have traded for any night's worth of perfect sleep.

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Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Old Blue Eyes

"You're eyes are blue."
"Yep. Yes, they are."
"That's soo cool!"
I open my eyes wide until I feel the stretch on my eyeballs.
"Do any Japanese people have blue eyes?" I ask.
"No."
"None?"
"No, none."
I wonder what that would be like to not know the possibility of different colored eyes. I know people in America born of the same parents who have different colored eyes.
They ask me why my shirt is so colorful.
"Because I'm American," I say, but that's not the real answer. The real answer is, "Because I'm Luther." That's what people are seeing when they see me. You have to make generalizations about some things though. Otherwise, how could you ever know anything?

The conversation changes to shimoneta - bad Japanese words you're not supposed to say - or more accurately, my kids trying to get me to say a few of those words to the other senseis. I'm one step ahead of them though. I usually don't say anything at all.

This has been a bit damning, though understandable. Recognizing it is the first step to change. I could run through all of the excuses, "They're too busy," or "I'll embarrass myself," or worse "I'll embarrass them." Another oft used line, "I'm the foreigner, they should make the initiative and talk to me." I've found so few people who are willing to initiate conversation, and none who will speak Japanese with me. I imagine their lives rolling on like mine did back in the states, only noticing the foreign born in my peripheries. How lonely and sad life must have been for some of the exchange students at UWEC. I wish I could go back and do it over again. I'd take people to the grocery store, buy them American snacks, teach them jokes and slang, hang out with them on a Friday night. What an important opportunity I missed, all because I could only see to the end of my personal bubble, a bubble I had inflated and marked with delicacy, one to be heavily guarded as if it were important. There were people back there, waiting for me. But somehow I found myself too busy with Mountain Dew cans, sunflower seeds, and games of online backgammon. How many games did I play in those brief years?

I learned a new definition of the word "ruminating" today. It's a psychology definition. It's classified as an addiction, but most people who have it don't know it. It's closely tied with depression and anxiety. It's a definition I've always lived with, but never known. Knowing - recognizing - is the first step.

The words to a poem I wrote 6 or 7 years ago come back to me:

"...I think so much I think I'll puke..."

Thinking is supposed to be a good thing, but when you think in a circle and wonder why your thinking never brings you anywhere.... desukedo...

I pray my thoughts are a reflection and not a rumination. I will work on this.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

The Destroyer of Sound

The devices of Twenty.

From day-1 he laid himself at their mercies.
Lungs that barely filled.
A perfect crush.
He imagined this was the way it was beneath their curl - full life wholly extinguished in the total grip. No side would be exposed to a tunnel of cool air.

Tired of another state that couldn't make up its mind on a season; the blankets came on, the blankets came off and then on again.

Light peaked on the horizon, ducked out curtly and reappeared through the haze. To the east he could see the shore, but it wasn't answering. Slowly the sounds overhead gave themselves up to the inexorable roaring, their life-blood ebbing. whooosh. He was in their curl.

.........



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Monday, June 2, 2008

Night-time walking

Sometimes I go for a walk.

Last night, I was in the walking mood. It's a mood kind of like the mean reds...you know, like the blues except for you're not getting fat and it's not raining. You're just sad, that's all. (And if you get that reference, I will kiss you.) So I grabbed my pack of Camel Lights, and my wallet, intending to buy a Mountain Dew at a vending machine down the road.

I don't smoke much, in fact I do very rarely. More often than not I just put the cig behind my ear. It's for show mostly. To look cool. However, last night I smoked four.

I set the tone immediately, my legs striking pavement cleanly and methodically. It was a bereaved walk. I walked on the left, tensely waiting the passing of each car as it came over my right shoulder. Everyone drives well over the speed limit here.

I made it to the mini oasis where my green slice of America awaited me. But somehow when I went to push the button my body betrayed me. I was convinced last second of the power of 50 lemons worth of Vitamin C packed into one can: CC Lemon. I had been feeling a bit under the weather and Vitamin C is at the very least a placebo for the trickle in my throat. I stood there next to the vending machine like a good Japanese boy sipping my soft-drink. It gave me time to hide in the shadows from the on-coming cars and to further investigate the selection. There was Pepsi-Cola in limited edition cans...that almost took 120 of my yen. There were family sized bottles of sweetened sports drinks for only 200 yen. And then I saw it: "American Coffee." The beige colored can was star-studded with an etching of a giant Cadillac and a voluptuous American woman lounging on the hood, one shoulder up, accentuating the hollow of her collar-bone. I had to have this. I put in my 120 yen, pressed the button, and picked up the can. It was an "American Coffee" but it had a different picture on the side by the same artist. So I tried a second time. This time a second separate design dropped down the chute. So calmly I tried again. We all know that the third time's the charm, but I was fully prepared for a 12-set design, and was going to keep popping hyaku-en coins until I got what I wanted. Anyway, it's not like I don't drink coffee.

As luck had it, the third try was the charm. I slid the other 2 cans down each front pocket and kept the prize in my coat, my pack of cigs opposite balancing her out. And that's how I walked through the rest of the mean reds; my thighs warmed by coffee, my baby linking fingers with mine.


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Sunday, June 1, 2008

Freedom

It's incredible the level of sovereignty I have when staring over a blank page. The world is open to me, and I can take myself anywhere.

Sometimes I sit here, though, and nothing happens. I feel like I want to write, but that anything I put down won't adequately describe my feelings and experiences. So I pack it up.

Other times I sit down and just find myself too tired to type.

I worry a little bit that I'm becoming complacent. That I'm beginning to take things for granted. Then I argue with myself and say that I'm just trying to have a normal life and the fact that I'm not writing about every little thing proves I'm settling in.

But where's the joy in that? I think that if I stop writing I'll become dull.


I biked up into the hills again today. This time by gentsuki. These blue hills are so achingly beautiful. My feelings are often overwhelming as I ride though this land. It makes me want to sit down on the ground and weep. My heart pines for things not yet known as I ride.

I want someone to share this all with. Someone to sit next to and drink in the weight of this heady beauty with. Someone who gets it, silently, and communicates it with one touch of the eyes.

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