Haruki Murakami

"Well, there was no point in attacking a big bakery. All we wanted was bread, not money. We were attackers, not robbers." The Second Bakery Attack

i'm on a roll

Vain Human Labor

Mining in a pine forest,
For rooster eggs and old ship heads,
Listening for what and who,
Your pickaxe breaks in two.

No more light,
it left with the horses,
A sleigh, that way;
there’s enough pine
But no time.

Forgetting a reason, lost in your heart,
All ships have sailed and words,
Written only on post-it notes
Get lost amongst directions.
Was it north or blu-fin?
5.8 miles then turn left,
Arriving at the soil’s epidermis.
You’re really lost now, but does
It matter?

Did that pick un-soil enlightenment?
Maybe that forest over there
Will offer you more,
A talking rabbit,
A blue stained rainbow,
A treasure box with answers.

But if this be the only green world,
Perhaps you should
Fix that axe,
Set it aside,
And call it a day.

sonnet

i wrote this sonnet today. don't know what to title it. any suggestions?


A maple leaf fell from its tree today,
Twas reddish-orange, a plain frequent sight.
Me walking away, till ears heard it say.
This tree’s been my life, since born one Spring night.

And then three more fell upon the wind’s sigh,
Friends of the one, a curious thinking.
I never knew them, the lost one blew nigh,
Yet a fate still the same, we four linking.

The leaves now lay there, hard sidewalk their home,
Some most pleasant shapes, ‘gainst a morose stone.
Not-friends now huddled, still scared to be known,
Not long until rootless body turns bone.

A curious bunch, these four strangers look,
A terrible death, this strong friendship took.

Experiment with Words and Your Brain

(from teachgoodwriting.blogspot.com) I just had to share it cuz it's awesome!

A Poetry Experiment

Ed Pacht wrote, "You know, the very existence of a word is a powerful attack upon randomness. Every word or phrase, even a bit of nonsense like 'slithy tove', is a purposeful ordering of reality to an end. I'd say further that it is impossible for a single human mind to make a truly random selection among words. One's brain is, it would seem, wired so as to make connections, even when they are not apparent. Actually, the list I worked from, if I'd found it without attribution, would have made me think of a personality much like what I've come to know of yours. I would not/could not have made that selection myself. Writing the poem actually felt like taking a journey with Alice into her own wonderland."

This caused me to wonder what would happen were Ed to provide me with a random list. Would I create a poem that reflects his inner world? So I proposed an experiment and he wrote back with his list and said: "You're on -- as random as I could make it. A couple of them popped into my head. I randomly did page roulette on a thesaurus, a dictionary, my BCP, my Bible, and a couple of books I've been reading. Even so, the choice can't be entirely random as what was chosen is whatever caught my attention during the process -- and my attention is uniquely mine."

Here is Ed's list: tinder-box --magic-lantern slides--peace offerings--semi-transparency--tabernacle--headstone--visible sign--careful observations--gaunt little man--leaping lizard--hearing impaired--attention deficit--waterfall--bright image--spring pollen--bouquet--diamond sheen

And here is the poem I wrote. I wasn't able to use the phrase: magic-lantern slides.


Athos Tabernacle
Alice C. Linsley

Gaunt little man in monkish garb
beside his hermit house sits
in contemplation of the headstone moon
streaming light on his bearded face.

From gnarled fingers flow whispered prayers,
a waterfall of beads on a black cord with a diamond sheen.
At prayer, attention deficit, though not hearing impaired,
He strikes a bright image of semi-transparency.

Careful observations of high soaring hawks and leaping lizards
Of spring pollen from earth’s bouquet,
He too is a visible sign of Heaven’s peace offerings,
His soul a tinderbox for the Divine Fire.

Sonnet

To be loved in a time of cholera
To be seen in a world of fallen doves
Is a wish that I have for all of us
A wish on behalf of the one who loves.

There’s a girl who cries in her bed at night
For the things she’s seen and the hope that dies.
And no outside world points her to the light
Cause the outside world binds her to its lies.

No but she won’t break, she won’t fall away.
There’s a dove in her mind, she won’t waste time.
She’ll stand up and say, “I’m here for this day”
“This dove will now fly, I’ll follow his rhyme”.

She flies from the deep valley’s of her mind
She flies to a new place where all is kind.

A few poems

I wanted to write some haiku's but instead of the 575 structure, these are 747, after thinking about jumbo jets. i like jumbo jets because they take us to far away places. so thank you to all the jumbos out there in the sky.

I love to see so much love,
an elephant,
Feeding hippo as her own.

That lake use to have water.
Now it's dead fish,
Lined against the craggy shore.

She was quiet in the dark,
but with lamp,
teeth spread, an orotund sound.

I think when we give ourselves a specific set of rules to follow or apply some form of structure to our words, it can actually be quite freeing in the creative process. It allows us to have something to focus on, which I think really helps us to express ourselves. Otherwise it is just like a madman letting any and everything pour out, which isn't bad either. I guess it's just about whatever works for the individual, and for me, I can work either way.

Ode to D. F.

Hello Mexico City!
La Ciudad de Los Angeles?
Oh wait, that's Los Angeles.
I remember you, D.F.
Being amazed at your velocity,
The way you managed to maintain
that old world feel
in a metropolis of speed.
But I wonder
If you remember me.
I'm that lonely presence
that spent Sundays
listening to The Beatles,
All You Need,
As I walked from UNAM
to the hipster, anti-fresa
hangout, where tourists
bought Xicano tee's
and Aztec objects.
I walked with Los Beatles
and stared, sometimes spoke
to a European exile
but mostly looked and looked
hoping to see friend or family member.
I didn't ask much of you
and maybe that was the problem.
You wanted me to want you
to be wrapped in your passions
your people.
I liked your museums
and the metro, I adored.
Xochimilco flowered me
with a Mother's warmth.
But I ignored your narrow streets,
where one had to go deep,
to see.
That I didn't see,
that's why I cried.
I cried for home.
For mi lengua nativa,
mi familia, comunidad.
Mexico City, you made me
feel alone, depressed.
Or did you?
I'm sorry I left in such a scramble.
I didn't say goodbye
and hoped you'd understand.
I wanted to let you know,
It wasn't you, but me.
I do miss thee, Me hi co
but don't know if you feel the same.
Que rica problem.
Perhaps you never cared,
That's what scares me.

Psalm 39

5: "You have made my days a mere
handbreath;
the span of my years is as nothing
before you.
Everyone is but a breath,
even those who seem secure.

6: Surely everyone goes around like a
mere phantom;
in vain they rush about, heaping up
wealth
without knowing whose it will finally
be.

13: Look away from me, that I may enjoy
life again
before I depart and am no more."

A Poem for Water

Land of many rivers,
where crystal water once
flowed like honey.
Not a mustard honey
for sandwich meat,
but a golden honey,
more precious than its color.
This land where woman rose
and tasted the first fruits
of the garden.
This land where man
tended to the cucumbers call,
and the orange carrots cry.
Water reigned on this land
and flowed with the moving earth,
tugged at the dirt,
played with the rocks
and laughed, tickling tadpoles.
You were so happy then,
water,
baptizing life,
making things new.
But now you're gone
and the earth mourns its dear friend.
Why did you stop tickling the tadpole?
Did he hurt your name?
Forgive us, your lovers, water,
then we can caress one another, again.
Surely we will wait on the one
who baptizes us
and gives life.
Surely you will return,
dear,
blue
friend.

So I've only read the first chapter of Dan Chaon's novel, "You Remind Me of Me", but wow!, it's vivid, powerful and very sad. The descriptions are amazing as well as the randomness which is all too real and by the end of the first chapter, you need a break, perhaps a long one to emotionally stabilize yourself. Dan teaches creative writing somewhere, I forget, and he mentioned in an interview that he usually begins stories with an image that won't escape his head. Usually an intense image, strange; those are always the best. He writes about depressed, Mid-western characters, and the chapter I read is all about the most depressed 6 year old boy you'll ever meet. In class today, we were assigned to go outside and describe what we saw, as if we were a camera hovering over life from a helicopter and we slowly zoomed our lenses in. Here's what I came up with:

The light is bright, like 10,000 summer days compacted to fit on the tip of my finger and then flicked off into the sky. The trees below are as tall as 5,000 clay bricks, piled one on top of the other, creating a haven for the flying workers. A place to not only rest their red, orange and black beaks, but to sing songs for the humans below. The humans huddle between boring brown buildings which match the mess on their heads. The rustling green columns above seem to be inviting these humans to the concert which is about to begin as each bird hums its vowels, smoothing out the curves of each sound. But the humans don't hear because their ears are connected only to their guts, through many canals and fleshy pink tubes. Their ears succumb to these gnawing, viscousy guts. A little less bright now, the light turns its attention to its feathery children, where a momentous event is ready to begin.

Background info on Amelia, a character I'm developing

“6 or 7 Things I Know About Her”
Her Mother’s Power Suits and 1st Criticism

The first shopping mall experience she can remember was when she was barely 6 years old and had just learned to read her first book, The Little Prince. The women shopping, all the clothes and obnoxious noises, was nothing like the prince’s world. She already knew what she dreamed of becoming, the Moon Princess. Her mother, with an arm full of power suits, steered her into the dressing room. What a strange smell, she thought of the polyester, deciding that as a princess she’d never wear such a thing. The room attendant, nosy as she was, desired deeply to see what Mom looked like in the suit. “Oh heavens, don’t you look like a woman on a mission. Doesn’t your mother look lovely”, she asked. The young girl shyly smiled. “Don’t you want to be a professional woman with power, like your Mom,” she hotly breathed over the girl’s pigtails. “I wanna be a princess and live on the moon,” she said, twirling like a ballerina. That made the strange woman laugh out loud. The chubby attendant with painted eyebrows finally caught her breath and said, “Oh honey, that’s quite a dream, but I’ve never seen a princess as dark as you. You better have a back-up plan.” The little girl quickly turned to her Mom, who she was sure would tell this woman that she could still be a princess, but Mom was busy staring at her suit in the mirror.

Dad’s Tickling Hands
He always tickled them. He would hover over Amelia and her sister and tickle their abdomens until not even a cry could escape their mouths. He even tickled the neighbor, Amelia’s best friend who looked like Sleeping Beauty. Dad always called her la guera, but never in front of her parents. Amelia always had friends over, for birthday parties, her parent’s bible studies, or just because. She can’t remember why her neighbor spent the night on that day, she can’t really remember anything from that night. But she knows her father must have tickled the girl because after that he went away and Amelia wasn’t allowed to see blondie anymore.

The Classroom
The kinder garden teacher must have been really naïve. The blocks, puzzles, even a few stuffed animals, were all cute and fine for a pre-schooler, but this was the age to start learning famous quotes so Amelia could discover where she fit in on the playground. Some of the children must have had really intelligent parents who weren’t raised in a small village in Mexico. Their kids were cooler than Amelia. Like Cassie and Jeremy. How else would they know to steal away at nap time, hide under the table, and touch one another’s lips together, tasting tongues?

Listening In
Past her bed time in the lightless room, her head is completely submerged beneath the sheets. “Please, Jesus, don’t let them touch me. There’s too many of them.” She squeezes her eyes shut so tightly, wishing they’ll pop.

Self-Criticism
“I never wanted to be a girl, especially not a dark girl. Well besides the time I wanted to be a princess. But after that I always imagined cutting off my boobs, but what about down there?

Fantasies
Amelia always wanted to be the one under the kinder garden table kissing Jeremy, but she was always too afraid of her father’s jealousy.

www.fccethiopia.com

If I grew up in Africa, would I know what a starburst was? What about a bursting star? Or a burst of stars? Would I feel differently about stars? If a small village in Africa was all I knew, would I know how to tie my shoe? Would I even have a shoe to tie? Would shoes matter to me? I was born in America and shoes do matter to me. Sometimes I wish they didn’t, but I put them on every morning before I leave the house. Sometimes I even wear one of my many pairs of different colored shoes within the walls of the house, even though the floors of our home is clean, not covered in dust or dirt. And sometimes I spend time cleaning my shoes, either in the fancy washing machine, which uses gallons of water, or I take a fancy toothbrush with a soft rubber handle for a comfortable grip, and I carefully brush clean my slightly worn shoes, one square inch at a time. Great care is put into these shoes so that they always appear just right, as if every day was their first. The care I put into my shoes is quite impressive, I’ve actually just impressed myself thinking about it and that says a lot because I am not impressed easily! I’m not even sure why I care so much about shoes. Like I mentioned before, if I had, by chance, been born and raised in a small African village, say in Ethiopia or Sudan, would I have ever been the owner and caretaker of a pair of shoes? Perhaps no. What, then, would I have spent time doing in order to impress others as well as myself? Maybe I should go to Africa, a small village, meet a girl my age and ask her what she does to impress herself. Maybe I’d discover that secretly she dreams of owning a pair of Air Force Ones, along with a rubber gripped tooth brush, so she could spend time cleaning away all the dust and admiring her hard work. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But I think maybe she does. I think that because I think we can’t, as young women, be all that different, right? Deep down, where we can’t reach to clean with a toothbrush, even the extra professional ones, maybe we’re the same, give or take some dust and dirt. I’d like to hope so, at least. I just wish it was easier to reach her and offer a newer pair of my shoes…

No one's perfect! That's why we Need Jesus.

I feel sad. Sooo, soooo, sooooooooo…..Sad! This sadness I feel for humanity is
overwhelming and I have no idea what to do about it; surely the world is coming to an end soon, yet there is something I’m happy about! Well more than one thing, many things in fact. But I still feel sad! I’m glad I’m getting married next year to the one I love dearly and I’m glad I’m not working a 9-5 job right now, those things really kill you! What’s really eating away at me though, is the disturbing situation between my parents. I mean, no one truly likes watching their parent’s marriage fall apart before their eyes, do they? Or maybe I’m just an idealist with too many hopes and dreams for humankind.

Maybe people do like watching their parent’s marriage fall apart! Right? I mean, you always hear people talking crap about their parents and wishing ills upon them, so maybe it makes most people feel a sense of relief when their parents finally go psycho and threaten to kill one another!! If little Bobby didn’t mean to call his Mom a whore and his Dad a wicked midget slut, then why did he open his mouth? People mean what they say right? Like when I tell my fiancé I love him, I mean it! And when I’ll tell my future daughter she’s the prettiest girl in the world, I’ll mean it! So when my Mom told my Dad he was an F-in A-hole (except she said the real thing), she meant it, right? And to think, growing up I believed my parents truly loved one another! That when they said, “I love you, dear”, they really meant it! You would think the world would have made me more cynical by now, after all the pain and lies I’ve experienced, but no, not really. In fact, I’m more hopeful about the future now than ever! Would you like to know the secret to my positive outlook? Well, it has to do with two words, faith and doubt! I’ve learned to have faith in a God who loves me, and I’ve learned to never doubt Him when he tells me, “Sarah, I love you”! Doubt is a wicked and base creature that leads us to being all sorts of crazy, like jealous and deceptive, cheating and murderous. So I try my bestest not to doubt because I don’t want to turn into a cheating, lying and jealous midget hater! Especially since midgets are the coolest ever because they’re miniature sized humans and all things mini are cute!

But this situation with my parents is not mini and it’s punching me in the gut, daily, telling me to doubt, doubt, doubt! “Doubt Love!”, it screams out, every time my Mom confides in me about what a lazy, jerk my Father is. Does she really think I enjoy hearing this? And when I tell her that he’s only human, she quips back, “I just made brownies, they’re super good!” Brownies? Sure, I’ll take a brownie and I’ll eat it and forget all about words like suicide, double homicide, cancer of the throat and others, that nothing like a little chocolate can’t cure! But yeah, I love my Mom and I love my Dad! With all my heart! And when I say it, I mean it!!
I’m an idealist who believes I have it all figured out but still those closest to me are suffering. Suffering, suffering everywhere! Why can’t they see what I see?!? Live the life of a bee in a tree, never hungry and always free! Yet, still, if one suffers, we all suffer, and this is truth. As long as there is breath there will be suffering. The point is to have hope in the midst of suffering, but I’m not so sure that’s as easy as it sounds! Well not for everyone! Zounds!

I love this photo, "Bucket", by Avijit, one of the kids from the documentary, "Born into Brothels". It's beauty is unescapable and the composition is striking. He was only 11 when he took it. I think he's a film student at NYU right now. There is so much talent on this beautiful earth and most of it needs to be nurtured and discovered by You.

The Red Wheelbarrow

So much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens

--William Carlos Williams

Bridges

I KNOW I need to write more. I KNOW I'm called to write. But the thought of editing, revising and rewriting drains me. Why can't we just write perfectly on our first attempt? Because then everyone would be a writer, Pae would say. Anyways here's a little something I wrote and didn't edit, because well, you know why...

There's a bridge in North East Java, the Suramadu bridge, aka Surabaya-Madura bridge. Interestingly enough the students we taught in Malang were mostly Madurese immigrants, and my first boyfriend's name was Madu. What is my name?, suramadu, close enough. Madura is a small island just north of Surabaya, where we landed upon arrival in Java. Bridges fascinate me, along with many others I'm sure, and while we didn't take a trip to the bridge, I'm sure there's room in the future for one. Madu was my first kiss, but when he told me in a Christmas card that he loved me, I shut down, started ignoring him and had my Mom call to do the breaking up. I wasn't courageous enough to tell him with my mouth and tongue and breath that I was afraid of love from him because that meant I would have to return it. Instead I found my inner coward and summoned her ways. I was 16, some people are married at that age, some people in Madura have families and completely different lives than me at 16. While I was breaking Madu's heart at 16 in San Jose, CA, I'm sure a 16 year old "woman" in Madura was birthing her first child while her husband was out with his second wife or "lover". Perhaps that's why I was afraid of love at such a tender age. I only understood jealous, selfish and abusive love and didn't know what pure love looked or felt like. I wasn't ready to accept Madu's love, whether it was pure or not, just like the Madurese girl didn't understand pure love and perhaps today, at 26, she still doesn't. I do. I should help her find it as well. Perhaps she has 5 children today, from different "men". Maybe her first husband was poisoned by a jealous lover. Maybe she uses love potions to get men to stay with her for the night so she can feel the warmth of a man's arms and wish he would stay with her forever. Perhaps right at this very moment, she's praying to Allah, or a variety of Hindu gods or an animistic spirit for love, to know it and to be known by it. I'd like to help her. I hope my inner coward doesn't take over and like a giant wave knock me off this bridge I'm on. If bridges can connect land masses and people can they also connect the hearts of those people?

Indonesia

Exactly one week from this moment, I'll be on a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong. I've always wanted to see Hong Kong, especially after watching Chung King Express, followed by most of the rest of Wong Kar Wai's films. I am amazed at how beautiful city lights look at night on film, and although I'm not much of a nightlife person, I love the way the scene looks. I'm very much a visual person and I hope seeing Hong Kong in person gives me that loving feeling. We'll be there for 8 hours, delayed. Delayed sounds like such a bad thing, but this delay will be nothing but good and beautiful. If there were no such thing as delays, who knows when I'd ever get to experience Hong Kong, and for this reason I love delays. Our real reason for boarding the flight is to encourage the teachers and students in Indonesia, whom we'll be teaching, playing with. I'm actually going to be teaching. crazy. I imagined being a teacher once in college when I didn't know what to do with my life, but the thought wasn't pleasing. I don't feel as if teaching is my calling and this almost kept me from wanting to go to Indonesia in the first place. Oh the borders we place on our lives. Regardless of whether or not teaching is my calling, I know I have a beautiful life, one which needs to be shared with others, especially kids in less fortunate countries. Beauty is one of my passions. It may sound superficial, "You're passionate about beauty?". But I have always been fascinated by the beautiful, to the point that I desired to work in Hollywood since I was a wee kid. Of course everyone loves what's beautiful, but I feel it differently. Beauty is a powerful catalyst for change. I believe this because beautiful art has always motivated me. And God, who is ultimate beauty has always led me in the direction of beauty. Children are beautiful, animals are beautiful, love is beautiful. I could ruminate on beauty all day long, take photos of weird beauty all day as well. The garden of eden must have been enormously beautiful. What a beautiful world God has created for each one of us. I pray we allow our lives to be just as beautiful, by trusting in God's plans and choosing beauty and creation over destruction.

How did Chang Noi get in a tree?

An elephant who longed to dream, came upon a bird in a tree.
Must be nice to sit so high, he said to this bird who looked to the sky.
You're free to join and see what I see, my tree is strong, could hold the Mekhong.
A river, I doubt, would fit in your tree, and as for me, it's no place to be.
Trees are for birds, monkeys and moths,
No place for this big, ugly sloth.
Big you may be, but your imaginations is wee.
I'll make a call to my friends at the lakes.
Alone I am weak, but there's power in numbers,
Just wait and see.
Kee-ow, Kee- ow, cried the bird.
Kee-ow, Kee-ow, just wait and please start to dream,
Your imagination has no need for slumbers.
With that said, elephant closed his eyes and focused on seeing,
Things from up high, things beyond the sky.
And for the first time he dreamt about flying,
and his body felt light, like a nice kite worth buying.
As he opened his eyes, he was up in the sky,
Light as the feathers that heard the birds cry,
And came in great number to carry a stranger,
Who shouldn't be dreaming, but took a small chance on hope and believing,
And now he sits high, where the Mockingbirds cry,
Observing the world with a new sense of being.
Thank you dear bird, you cared for me,
A tough looking stranger, thick skin and heart.
You looked at me and saw a dream,
Hidden so deep in my spirit that I couldn't hear it.

when two souls collide

He's in Ms. Williams special ed. class at John Liechty Middle School in L.A., corner of Wilshire and S. Union. I can't believe I saw him again, I thought our connection was a one time deal. How many tears I cried for him, I can't count. I want these kids to be able to be kids and use their imagination to create things that kids create. I want them to dream and explore, the way I did, the way I do. I want them to know that they are special and that specialness goes beyond the classroom. I don't want them to think less of themselves because of how others treat them. They may not learn the traditional way but they can still learn and do amazing things. His spirit is so beautiful and it pains me to the deepest part of my soul to imagine other kids teaching him the ways of the world, corrupting his innocence. I cry because I want to save him, protect him from this world. I love this child and I don't even know his name.

Indonesia, East Java

I'm going to Indonesia in July, 13-28, with 3 others from L.A. and a few other from around the world, to: love the Indonesian students through artistic and interactive lessons that spark that spark the growth of creative roots, courageous thinking, and an enduring sense of self. I'm going to be teaching creative writing/photography and am excited to be a part of something so great.
We're having a taco bar fundraiser on Saturday in San Gabriel so I'll take some photos and post them.