l'arbre de Vie

It's interesting for me to see where my impulses lead me from day to day, week to week. I am in an extrodinarily "musical" mode right now. To the right of me is a pile of my favorite recordings: Brahms sonatas, Beethoven Quartets, Saint-Saens concerti, Mozart piano music, and the like. For me listening to these recordings is like dropping in with old friends. So many places and people are associated with these pieces, not to mention the emotions which come back to me. Through it all, I am never surprised at what happens to be when I listen to Bach.

Bach, that grandaddy of us all. For the longest time it was he alone that I thought was worthy to carry the title "composer". His works in the minor key have a certain weightiness and depth to them. If somebody were to ask me what my single favorite piece of music is I would hesitate a bit, then answer: Bach's "Double" violin concerto in d minor BWV 1043, for two violins and orchestra. It's a pretty famous piece in three unique movements of vivace, largo ma non tanto, and allegro. I grew up listening to the now famous Itzhak Perlman and Isaac Stern recording, and in due time I learned the piece myself measure by measure, line by line, movement by movement. Unlike most people I learned the middle movement first, then the third, and finally, the first. I couldn't understand why. The first seemed to be technically the easiest of the three movements. It was mostly in odd positions with that monstrosity near the middle which could only be done in second position. But heck I didn't question. It was a privilege playing that thing and I remember coming home from lessons excited to practice until I was half deaf in my left ear.

In 2007 I was blessed to give a concert of this concerto with one of my friends in three public performances. The experience was cathartic. I had so much energy invested in the concerto that the performances left me really tired. After all, how is one to express one's interest for a piece that has been such an integral part of one's life for so long? How could one do justice to the music of Bach? Somehow we did it. We practiced weekly like crazy, coming up with common fingerings and bowings. The other violinist played the second violin part, which is traditionally known as the test of bow arm agility. I played the first which has been regarded as one of the more challenging pieces in baroque repretoire because of its seemingly mild pyrotechnics which require great precision if the line is to stand out. Somehow we had to bring those two elements together without saying a word to one another.

I remember very clearly our rehearsals. We practiced in the chapel at school. It's a rather large round building with a piano to the left next to the altar. Looking straight ahead we could see just about half of Diamond head through these huge sliding glass doors. We'd agree to meet when I got out of meetings, more or less at 5PM. We'd practice til 9. Those four hours flew by like no other. We played our selves out and disagreed a great deal. The other violinist and I seemed to have fundamental disagreements on the nature of baroque music: she claimed that the line should increase in volume proportionate to higher pitches while I maintained the opposite. She had no problem using vibrato in her solo sections while I decided to be a bit more spare with ornamentation. I began my trills on the note above the written one while she began as written. Most of all we had a different sense of timing. Being the romantic she is she'd slow down at the end of phrases which drove me insane. We sometimes relied on the metronome but that would never work out. It was a fun and frustrating experience. Near the end the discussions were tiring, so I just went along with what she wanted. I didn't care any more. To my surprise she took notice of this, backed down, and was adamant that my viewpoint was the right one. Now that is something I couldn't have planned.

After we worked out our issues I informed the conductor and his assistant that we would be ready to practice with the full orchestra. I suggested that only the principals meet for the first time so there would be greater transparency of thought and playing. He utterly rejected my thesis. That's not the kind of situation you can argue in. So we showed up one night, stood up there between the concertmaster and the conductor and had a go. It was pretty awful. As first violinist I technically had more control over the speed and pacing than the conductor, which in principle was anachronistic to the Bach we were performing. Things weren't working out at all. The concertmaster (my teacher) even went as far as to suggest that he and I write a jazz percussion part out for the concerto. He said it was creative. I knew he knew we had some serious tempo issues as a group.

After a month the whole thing began coming together. We all learned to communicate with one another. The bass lines finally figured out that they were the steam behind this huge locomotive, something which I thought was evident from the very get go. Two weeks before the first performance we gave it a run through. It was pretty damn good if I can say so myself. There were some intonation issues between me and the rest of the first violinists. Later we found out that I sounded a bit sharper when I turned my back to them. It was an illusion of their highly gifted ears. They had to somehow ignore my sound yet be aware of what I was doing. And with that we were ready to hit the road.

As I mentioned, there were three performances. The first was at this retirement home in Punahou. We had played there before. The audience there is always appreciative especially if they know the musician is young. So here it was, my solo debut. No friends were there, neither was my family. It was strangely lonely that night. My mother had called me about a half hour before the concert and began to argue with me over something about my father. I told her that what ever was going on it wasn't my fault and that I can't be the vent for her right now - I'm about to play a freaking solo against an orchestra. She didn't know what that meant and went on anyway. I turned off my phone, threw it in the case, and let go of that. I remember sitting in the musician's area quickly converted from a chapel. For some reason I am beginning to realize I remember what I see at moments like these. But in any case, I could see the side of Maryknoll school. I could see gray lockers and ti leaves and torch gingers. Before I knew it they announced my name. I grabbed my partner by the hand and came out of the door, took a bow, and put the bow to the string. The rest happened so quickly after that. I can hardly remember what it was like. I do remember standing there awkwardly as the second violins began their ascending scale which sounds much like the beginning of that old cartoon "Inspector Gadget". After I began I remember feeling abnormally powerful. I had stepped into the "zone".

The very last few measures of the concerto is this descending scale in thirds down to the D above middle C. We held that note longer than I would've ever dreamed of doing it, but hey, people expect that kind of ending. Somebody presented me with a lei and a bouquet. Instead of walking back through the doors I came from, I walked straight out the doors. Something said to me, "just walk and keep walking." And there I was, out in Honolulu traffic with a plumeria lei, a black aloha shirt and slacks, violin in hand. What the hell was I doing? It beat the shit out of me. A walk around the block was in order. I didn't want anyone to steal my instrument so I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my shirt and slid my instrument in there. I held the bow against the back of my arm. The moon was out that night. I could see Tantalus in the distance bathed with a soft glow. The walk toward Makiki was a bit of a victory lap - again, a lonely one.

Somebody had sent me a youtube clip of the performance the following week. I sent it to my mother so she could see what was going on. We had another performance coming up in a few days. And wouldn't you know it, she and a few family members said they'd be there. This venue was perhaps the most impressive. It is Paliku theatre in Kaneohe. The acoustics there are pretty spectacular. The soloists had their own dressing room. I could see and hear what was going on on the stage via closed circuit TV in my room. At the prearranged time the same process: I took my partner by the hand, bowed, and played. This time I was nervous. I actually knew people there. Two friends had come, one of whom meant a lot to me. Well, they both did but the girl even moreso. And no, it wasn't because she was a girl. My mother, her sister and husband, and another relative came too. I was shocked that they would fly to Oahu just for this.

Halfway through the middle movement I began to lose feeling in my left hand. The fingers kinda flopped there like fish out of water. I was still playing in tune and with good tone but the tactile experience was weird. During my rests I stopped and massaged my hands. The conductor gave me this really concerned look but I smiled. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Fatigue? No way. My hands knew this piece inside and out. Nervousness? I wasn't shaking any more. But as I continued to rub my hands I found that the warmth was helping. Between the second and third movements I whispered to the other violinist, "Is it me or is it super cold in here?" She said she was losing feeling too. Nevertheless we plowed through. What a relief.

And so what's the overarching theme here? I miss the music scene. A prodigy or well known professional I am most definately not. Am I good? Meh. I think I kinda suck. But apparently good enough to others. I miss that rush of performing. I miss putting on concert clothes, getting into my car, and driving to the venue. Most of all, I miss mingling with the audience when its all over. They'll tell you all sorts of stories, what the piece said to them, and sometimes but not very often they'll ask your age and side you a small envelope with a decent amount of cash in it. Gigging life was pretty similar, minus the mingling. We'd play at events and had to provide atmosphere. We were paid with bank checks. And for the polar opposite of these two venues, Mariachi was perhaps the most fun of all. We carried the life of the party, made fools of ourselves, and took requests - all in Spanish. We had to sing although I can't carry a tune if my life depended on it. We did our best and ended quite successfully almost 100% of the time. Oh gosh, except this one gig at a nightclub in Aiea. That was a disaster.

I miss my musician friends. They were neat people with interesting stories. Come to think about it, I miss music, period. Luckily life comes in full circle. Again, though thousands of miles away from my musical community I am brought back to those faces and notes through my recordings. I feel closer to them somehow. It is one big musical communion.

Youtube has an audio-only clip of the concerto I played. It is that recording which I know so well played by Perlman and Stern.

Here is the first movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vesrqFeq9rU
Just listen to how heavy that sounds. You can hear the basses bouncing up and down in the foundation. It's just...heavy. I'm not talking about emotionally taxing. I'm talking about the creation of a physical weightiness, like Atlas or seeing a huge machine slowly coming to life. When the solo violins enter they do so in a mock canon fashion. Their melodies interweave creating a tension resolved only at the very end.

Here is the second movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axFUvA_he-o
Absolutely stunning. The melodies arch and embrace. At once the voices are separated yet comingled. At any one time one violin tries to move beyond the single line, only to be pulled back by the other. As the movement develops it seems as if the two violins realize that their strength lies in their relation to each other. Out of everything Bach wrote I think this really is the pinnacle of his art. No joke. It is my favorite movement to play, hands down.

And here is the third movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6gOeE5QTXk
This one is such a rollercoaster. The two violins chase each other in an almost exact fuge only a half bar long. They never quite catch up to each other except in the final tutti. Of the three movements this is the most difficult to get in sych with the orchestra. The bass is playing this syncopated obbligato and the higher strings' beats fall on those penultimate to mine. There is so much complexity here. I am positive that one could spent at least five years analyzing this one movement.

And there it is. The source and summit of my life in three movements.

cont'd.

So I gave in and replaced the Obligatos with Dominants - Silver wound G, aluminum wound D and A. I vaguely remember using a silver wound D a long time ago and felt that the aluminum was just as good if not better for a lower price. The cost of today's musical homecoming: only about $43, taxes included.

I just strung them up about twenty minutes ago. And let them settle for a second or two before playing them. They sound great. The response is immediate and I feel much better about the whole thing.

So there's this girl that works at the shop. I don't know her name, but she's this petite, quiet, and kind girl. She's got this plain jane thing going on for her and it fits her perfectly. I approached the counter and said, "Hey, long time no see. The obligatos aren't cutting it for me." She looked so shocked. I know it's a popular string but it was true. After looking over their price list I decided to be conservative and stick with the Dominant choice although it was tempting to try the Visions. She probably thinks I have issues, especially for a switch from Obligatos to Dominants, from silver wound strings to aluminum ones. She probably thinks I am a crazy person. Poor girl.

picky picky

So here's a post solely for myself and the extremely curious. Although there are some people who read this and don't post replies (lurkers), this one should be even more incomprehensible to others than previous posts.

I'm traditionally a Pirastro guy. I use their Eudoxa strings for the G, D, and A strings. They're made with braided sheep intestine wound with silver and aluminum. For the E string I use either a Pirastro gold label (medium, loop end) or a Goldbrokat 26 gauge. This violin is pretty sensitive to the tension on the E string. It does not tolerate excessive tension nor does it speak properly with too loose a string. I am currently finding that the Goldbrokat is giving me the best sound. It is a neutral yet sweet string - not too bright and with just enough edge to make the sound interesting, especially in first position. Higher positions require less bow pressure otherwise I can star to hear the high partials and harmonics distort. What I like about the Goldbrokat is how it sounds when open. It's got that nutty and dry sound like a gut one.

But anyway, as I said, I am a Pirastro guy. I absolutely love the Olivs but they're expensive. The Evah Pirazzis seem to be extremely popular but their high tension doesn't mesh with my violin. The Eudoxas offer a compromise: medium tension, medium voice. However, I am hesitant to use them at this time of the year given the humidity fluctuation. Gut is still an organic material which expands and contracts when it absorbs ambient moisture in the room. Consider the fact that the player breathes close to the strings, adding a constant variable source of less dissipated moisture. I suppose one could hold his or her breath while playing gut strings but that would be no fun.

My instrument isn't a particularly valuable one nor is it cheap. The guy who made it is currently selling his other violins for $15,000. I play on a bow I bought myself for graduation for about $4,000. Together these two things are the most valuable things I own and will own for a long time. They were big investments and I trust that they will be lifelong friends. To be technical about it, the violin was gifted to me by somebody who believed in my musical abilities in 2003. I was intending to purchase a violin by a contemporary maker and had plans to pay him bit by bit over a few years. Luckily I met the right person at the right time and it was mine to own without having spent a single penny. The bow is a different story on the other hand. That put a hole in my bank account but I needed it. All that to say that the instrument isn't some cheapie that doesn't notice changes in strings. Not to brag about it, but my instrument pretty much rocks. If it could speak it would say, "Excuse me, I'm kind of a big deal!"

I sent it through FedEx about ten months ago for its yearly checkup with its maker. I had Pirastro Obligato strings on it at the time. When I got it back the same Obligatos were on the violin and still sounded decent. At the same time I had received a free set of Evah Pirazzi strings compliments of the manufacturer in thanks for a review I wrote for them. I don't know why I took off the Obligatos and put the Pirazzis on, but I did. It was terrible. I didn't want to buy new strings so I just dealt with it until summer, when I had the cash to buy the much cheaper Thomastik Dominant strings in Hawaii. They were purchased as an interim set as the humidity of Hawaii both tarnishes the strings as well as makes me sweat, which corrodes the windings and causes string failure. I had planned to buy a new set of Obligatos when I reached Berkeley.

Three weeks ago I bought a new set of Obligatos and kept my Goldbrokat E. As soon as I put them on I realized how much better I liked the Dominants. My complaint about the Dominants was that they sounded too bright to the point of sounding superficial and "edgy". The A was fine and had a beautiful bel canto quality in the upper positions - fifth and above. The D was pretty excellent too and held up to heavy bow pressure. But the G was just awful. It never developed a full voice and sounded like a raspy whisper. At the time I changed the strings I had been preparing a Mozart duo in G Major. The strings fit the piece well. The sound was bright, cheery, accessible and golden. When I try to play the Mozart with the Obligatos I don't get that effect unless I push down hard. This causes all sorts of tension in my left forearm so my articulation suffers. When I think about it its clear that my bowing is compensating by using the upper half of the bow with plenty of pressure on the side of the forefinger. I can tell these accomodations don't work for the violin because many passages sound "choked". Indeed, I am not pleased with the sound. I haven't been excited to practice since the new strings and things must sound awful.

So the point? I am interested in going back to the Dominants but spending $60 on the Obligatos makes me want to give them even more of a chance. I can't waste that much money. On the other hand, I am very unhappy with the current playing arrangement. These strings would work well for stuff like Brahms or Beethoven or perhaps second fiddle in French impressionistic quartets. Problem is, that's not what I am doing right now. I am playing for myself, for fun, pieces of the high classical period. Haydn through Mozart. It is so difficult to get a lightness of tone with strings that demand heavy bow pressure. On top of that, the strings seem to want to play in notes by themselves. I mean that the difference between a G and a G# is pretty drastic. In the style of Mozart the leading tone is always played a bit sharp. For example, the Duo is in G Major. The leading tone is F# when in the major key. I haven't been able to raise that F# high enough to make my cadences more musical. It sounds like I am in D major or something which is so annoying. Again, maybe that would fly for Romantic literature but for Classical and Baroque (the mood I am currently in) that will not do.

The point: Man, remember that Dominants work for Mozart, Obligatos for post 1800. Obligato response is slow, Dominant is quick. Obligato has depth, Dominant has joy. Obligato is expensive, Dominant is cheap. Obligato bad, Dominant good. Simple as that, right? The interesting insight is that the Obligatos sound decent when the humidity goes below 70%. Otherwise the violin sounds like it's being played underwater. It's got no zest. It just sounds tired.

I guess it'll just have to be a snap decision: either keep the Obligatos because it is economically prudent or change to Dominants and preserve my love for the art. We shall see. I am more than willing to not eat through the weekend just so I can sound good again. Maybe I'll want to practice things other than scales at five minute intervals. Maybe I'll be able to go and start playing pieces all the way through again instead if "scrippa scrippa, screech screech, woo woo." I am sure that my neighbors will appreciate that most of all.

I'll be gone in a day or two

Well, I just turned in my transcript requests on campus. We'll see how long it takes for them to get around to it. Quite frankly I am surprised about one or two of the places I decided to apply to. We'll see what happens. I need to finish my statement of purpose tonight. Speaking of which, something really interesting has happened. One of my former professors has asked me to write a letter of reference/recommendation on his behalf to the Rank and Tenure Committee at the school. His instructions were simple: let them know what I have done for you. At first it seemed simple enough but on second or third thought it was clear to me that this would take some time. It isn't that he hasn't done a lot for me. Quite the opposite. The letter that I would want to send to the Committee would show them very concisely that this guy cares about his kids. After all he has done for me I don't want to let him down. If the Rank and Tenure Committee has half a brain they'd let this guy in. I can't think of anybody more worthy of tenure. But still, what a trip. Talk about role reversal. I guess today is the day to write both the statement of purpose and this tenure letter. Gosh. It reminds me of that one song currently popular on KCCN FM 100 in Hawaii: write me a letter and put your picture in it too.

A former classmate sent me an email last night that I wasn't quite prepared to read. She and her partner are considering adopting. I didn't know how to react: it was the greatest idea I've ever heard anybody say regarding children. I can't believe it. I honestly back her up 100%. For some reason it just "clicked" in my mind. Now she and I aren't close friends but I we're pretty familiar with one another. Her aptitude in interpersonal relationships is unmatched. Let me put it this way: I would want her to adopt me. She has a heart of gold. I am praying that this works out for her and her partner. That child will be blessed beyond measure. I think I feel this way because I trust her sense of love. She is so grounded, so real. She isn't exactly quixotic but her personality lends to a general feeling of optimism. In short: I am terribly excited for her and her partner. Words cannot begin to express the joy within me right now. These women have my unconditional support. They will love the child with an even greater love than they have already given to me.

On another subject, it's been rather cold in Berkeley recently. I wake up at 7 in the morning shivering. It's exactly the opposite of my one and a half years in the dorms. We were way up the hill in the Kaimuki campus (or St. Louis heights if you want to be technical). The view from my room was spectacular. It was of the end of Waikiki. To the far right I could see the dome of the Stan Sheriff center, aka Mecca. Mind you, these were the days where I'd wear green even if I wasn't able to go to the UH Wahine Volleyball games myself. Anyway, to the far left I could see Diamond Head. The view, of course, came with a price. There were few windows that opened. It would get super hot during the day. Nobody seemed to have enough fans to keep cool. It just so happened that the other side of the dorm was very cold. We'd make friends with the person across the hallway and have them keep their door open so the breeze would come through. In exchange they saw out of our window and got a bit of our view.

One of the girls who lived across from me was this girl from Michigan. She was rather...well endowed. She knew it but she didn't show it off. One day I was sitting at my desk reading. I look to the left and see her putting her laundry away while standing in her underwear. I said, "Hey man, why is your door open?" She replied, "Ah, fuck it. I don't mind you seeing me like this" and continued folding her laundry. I kinda sat there stunned and started to zone out while still looking at her. After a few moments I noticed that she was looking at me back. "See? My side has a different kind if view", she joked. I think I blushed and went over and sat on her bed and talked to her. It was one of those awkward bonding experiences. After all, here I was wearing my scapular and there she was half naked. It's funny how the Berkeley cold will remind me of things like this. But I think I'd rather be sweating than shivering. I never thought I'd say that.

Last night my mother and I had a talk about my return home in December. I think I am leaving Oakland on December 22nd. I'll be spending all of my time on Kauai and probably leave on the second week of January. It's time to start thinking about what I'm gonna be doing while at home. One thing is for sure: I plan to be pretty inconspicuous. No doubt I'll be fishing, planting, cooking, swimming, eating, talking, laughing, drinking, sleeping, reading, wii-ing, so on and so forth. I just don't know what I'll do with my time. After losing eight friends to Holiday season car accidents I think I'll stay away from the road as much as possible.

So what is there to look forward to? I want to see my nieces and nephews. Mass at 6:45AM. Sunday brunches. Family dinners in the garage by the grill. Beers and fishing. Going to my grandparents grave. Being in the mountains, smelling Koke'e. Running into old friends. Hiding from relatives. Early sunrise over the ocean horizon. Still, dewy nights. The rain. Dancing. Cleaning the yard. Being on the ocean from sunrise to sunset. Eating at Sueoka's. Eating at Hamura's. Eating at Ishihara's. Eating everywhere, actually. Waimea river. Nawiliwili Borders. Da Imu Hut teri burgers. Wailua river valley. Old orchestra friends. Kilauea lighthouse. Kalalau hike. Freshly pounded poi. Kalua. Poipu. Waialeale. KULOLO. E nani Kaua'i - ka i'ini pau'ole. Ai, a ka makemake.

Outside one of our windows there is a BIG pua kenikeni tree. Now if you know me you know that I love that flower. It is beautiful and smells heavenly. I planted that tree a few years ago. After the first two years it wasn't giving any flower so my mother wanted to cut it down. I of course refused, but she did anyway. I came home one day and the little shrub was gone. Heartbroken doesn't even begin to describe it. Perhaps she didn't pull out the roots because a few months after that it grew back. She wanted to cut it down again but I made sure she didn't get her hands on it. The same thing happened. No flowers. I told her to just be patient, to trust that tree is waiting to bloom at just the right time. My mother is notoriously impatient with things she can't understand. By the time I knew it I had to go to college. I made my mom promise she wouldn't touch the tree otherwise I'd be pretty upset. She held through. For the three years I was in college I'd come home and inspect the plant. It grew alright but still no flower. In 2007 I made the move to Berkeley. It wasn't until 2008 that I got a phone call from my mom - the tree had bloomed. I was ecstatic.

I couldn't understand why that tree waited for me to leave before it bloomed. Maybe it was shy. Maybe it knew that I'd appreciate it all the more when I did come back home. If that is the case that tree is wise indeed. I came home for Christmas and saw all of these little white and yellow flowers everywhere. I picked them and brought them into the house. They were as fragrant as ever. The tree seems to operate on its own time too. Traditionally the flowers open in the very early morning at night when the dew is thick. At this point they are a very pure white and tight flower. As the sun rises the flowers incrementally turn a shade of yellow, then to a dark orange at the end of the day. The weird thing about our tree is that the buds seem to open in the evening. They stay open all night and remain white until sunrise. In this way they either open extremely open or extremely late depending on how you look at it. The result is the same though: these flowers maintain their whiteness longer and thus last longer when made into lei or left around. Even as it blooms in success it does so on its own terms. All for the better.

Maybe that's how some people are, too. Right now I am thinking of two guy friends. One of them is in Japan, the other is somewhere on the East coast. It took me to be away them only to come back and find them in full bloom. They're still blooming on their own terms even against conventional wisdom. What is more, I am glad that I had enough patience not to cut them down before they had the chance. I am glad that I stayed the course with them when nobody else would. They are taking off in their personal and professional lives. One of them has just begun his own family. He has a beautiful daughter. The other, well, is living his dream of being a computer nerd. In both instances I am constantly reminded of the power of the human spirit to overcome early disasters and disappointments only to arise again fuller and stronger than ever before. I am so proud of them.

Rahner

Karl Rahner has a beautiful image for the end of life. He speaks about the freedom of trusting in the mystery. We will plunge into the unknown. Then, "out of the darkness the face of Christ will appear."

That moment of trust in providence is central for Rahner's eschatology. Even more interestingly, I am now confronted with a similar opportunity. All I can do is trust, fully and completely. I am somehow reminded of the peace prayer of St. Francis.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
Where there is hatred, let me sow love
where there is injury, pardon
where there is doubt, faith
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
where there is sadness, joy

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life

the lean, mean, green string bean.

Last night after the fifth round of drinks at Jupiter the waitress told us that they were closing up. We had a really good time last night. Lots of laugh with plenty of singing. Toward the end we started singing Catholic hymns like "One bread, one body", "Pan de Vida", "On Eagle's Wings", "Though the Mountains May Fall", and of course, "Hail Holy Queen" - Sister Act style. At first it was pretty awkward but we really got into it. Earlier three of us had been singing the chorus from Beethoven's symphony 9, but more than half couldn't join us because they knew the melody and not the German lyrics. But most of all I had a good conversation with a friend I haven't seen in forever. We exchanged some thoughts, shared ideas, and thought about a friend that just left for heaven. I am happy to be closer to her again.

Anyway, as we all went out separate ways one of my friends who lives a couple of doors up the street from me and I continued to hang out. First we spoke on my porch but soon moved to his place when he said he was cold. He wanted to continue drinking - who am I to refuse? At that point I was getting pretty tired so I drank a little more than half of the li hing mui daquiri he had made for me. I sat there in the common dining area and could see his housemates in the other room through the french doors. I asked him, "How are your housemates? Cool or what?" He replied, "Yeah, they're pretty cool. Sometimes I see them do really jacked up things but I have to stop and remember: they're still kids. So when I see them as kids they do some pretty amazing things." Somehow I was blown away by that.

Just then a whole line of them came into the dining area to meet me. I stood up and shook their hands and tried to remember their names. One of them told my friend, "I wasn't feeling what you cooked for dinner tonight. It was funky." My friend just laughed and told her that he appreciates her honesty. All I could do was smile at that potentially awkward but real conversation. The other people there was asking me what I do, what I study, where I am from. Now, my friend likes to point things up a bit. He made it sound as if I was somebody important but I quickly dispelled that with a veritable cornucopia of swear words. They got the picture. I learned that two of them are roughly my age. After what must've been ten minutes of talking they all retired to their rooms for the night.

That experience shook me up. I was confronted with the thought of being "old". Looking at those guys I saw peers, not kids. Granted, my friend is a bit older than me. I mentioned this to him very briefly - that is, how awkward it is to feel old. He said, "You're not chronologically much older than they are. You need to understand that you have a maturity they don't have just yet." I couldn't think of a reply at the time. He was right. I knew it. Hearing him say that made me want to fight it. I'm 23 - still a kid. I don't think I have come to terms with the fact that people are younger than me in a role I still feel like I occupy. It's been such a wake up call. Nor has this been the first time this has come up.

So I just kinda sat there, speechless. It's so hard to think about growing up. Wait, actually no. It's easy to grow up but it's hard for me to accept the fact that others think that I am "old". In this way alone I never want to grow up. Here I was, sitting at this gigantic table with my daquiri, while the others were in the living room playing. I wanted to play too. But it wasn't my place to do that. Instead I had a formal relationship to them as if I was alien to my own kind. Here I was, wanting to be with my peers. And for the first time I saw who my peer was: the other graduate student. How unfair. I'm not trying to say that I am eons ahead of them. No. Quite the contrary. I have plenty of respect for those undergraduates, which is precisely why I wanted to talk to them. At the same time that sort of dynamic was really interesting. I didn't have to want to get to know them. It just happened, albeit on a superficial level. Yikes.

I don't know if I'll ever get used to this sort of thing. That scares me.

ringrazia tutti degli auguri fatti in questa giornata

Now that the emotionalism of last night has passed, I think I can look at things a bit more objectively. Not to say that I recant everything that has been said. On the contrary, I can only affirm what is written below with perhaps now more a nuanced reasoning.

For my reflection today I'd like to call to mind two things: silver and gold and the death of a bird.

One of the things the Sacred Hearts Nuns (SS.CC.) would tell the small children when I went to visit them was a short rhyme that could be sung: Make new friends and keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. At first I was struck by how simplistic that sounded even for a child. I think I've come to a greater appreciation of that a few years after I've heard it. If we are to take it seriously the little rhyme offers really good advice. So often we're tempted to move on too quickly for newer and bluer waters that we forget where we have come from. In these instances we forget that those who have loved us to that point still stand on the seashore of destiny awaiting our return one day.

Am I wrong to assume that in some deep way we miss other people even if we forget about them? Am I delusional? Evidence suggests that I am. It is easy to forget and move on. I can't tell you the names of every friend I've had in my lifetime. Indeed, it seems that we know people for a short time then move on in the beautiful pilgrimage of life. But deep in the depths of our heart are we to deny that we could have carried on so far without the love and aid of others to whom we owe a certain debt of gratitude? Would a simple memory be too much a price to ask of those who opened themselves to us in friendship? Certainly not.

I suppose the real question is how we are to remember them. While clinging to people never dones anybody good - unless this is a life partner - what is the appropriate response to friendship? Alas, it isn't as if there were some chart somewhere which correlates the quality of friendship to the quantity of adherance. I think this is really the crux of the matter. Having established that it is good, beneficial, and right to think about them after they've left our lives, perhaps the question becomes: what does this imply? What does this look like? And how are we to place judgments on something which exists between two people at the same time though neither will probably feel quite exactly the same way about the other? Is it simply enough to think about this person from time to time? Maybe it is. After all, that is what pictures on desks are for. But there's something really shallow about that.

Maybe friendship has meant to me something quite simple: no matter where you are, if you remember me or not, or even if you don't want to have anything to do with me, I am thinking of you always and want the best for you. I might choose to express this through an email, a facebook post, or I might even keep it to myself. Something can remain firm though: that people may come and go but the love will remain. In this way, friendship remains forever.

Of course I won't tell any of my friends that to their face. I'd like to think they'd know what it means for me to call them friend. Some will be oblivious. That's ok. The plurality of the meanings of "friendship" only show the remarkable layers of human consciousness.

At this moment I am thinking of my dear, dear friend in Amsterdam - Marie Louise. Talk about a person grounded in herself. She was so confident, so svelte. Her sense of curiousity is something I miss.

Second, about a bird dying.

In my last semester of studies at Chaminade University, I would often leave campus for lunch somewhere. Sometimes I'd head to Zippy's or Likelike. This way was a particularly good day. I don't remember why, but I felt the need to celebrate alone. I pulled out of Chaminade's driveway onto Waialae, then down Kapiolani. Little Village was my designated celebration spot. The waitresses there know me quite well. It was as if I needed to be known by somebody but not take a friend with me. But anyway, I remember sitting in traffic at the intersection of Kapiolani and Ward, right next to the Blaisedell center on the right. I could see the marquis for upcoming events. To my left a new building was being constructed. The minutes passed and I withdrew into my own world. The song "Trate Olvidarte" was playing on my ipod broadcasting to my car's radio. Suddenly I saw a small group of birds fly from the right to the left. They passed pretty close to the road face. Just then traffic started to flow. All of them made it except one - he had been clipped in the wing by a motorcycle. He laid there with his wings outstretched on the road.

Now, I began to feel pity and wanted to get out and help it. But what was I to do? My light could've turned green at any time. Instead I sat there looking at it. It tried to get up but it couldn't. It rested its beak on the pavement, blinked, then turned its head to the side. I saw that cars were coming and I couldn't watch so I turned away. Forgive me for anthromorphizing but I thought I saw the little bird give up. It pained me for the remainder of the week. I couldn't eat any orange chicken. I had just seen a little bird die. Here he was, flying along with his friends, and wham. Death. I don't think I've ever recovered from seeing that. Yes, I have seen actual people die. But I don't think I've experienced that sense of resign that I saw in that bird that day.

All sorts of problems have been plaguing me with regards to PhD applications. I don't really feel that I am altogether qualified for doctoral work. Then again, I don't know what a really qualified person would look like. Many of the PhD students I meet here are pretty flighty and quite frankly not that bright. I mean they're bright but not in the way that I thought PhD students were to be. I am not putting down my colleagues. Rather, I am beginning to attack my assumptions of what the doctoral level is all about.

As I might've mentioned somewhere, education wasn't a top priority in my household. A simple high school diploma was enough. Every once in a while I met people with a BA or BS and held them in very high regard. It wasn't until I was 17 that I met an academic PhD. Jimmy Christiana. He blew my mind. He had done graduate work at Columbia and Harvard terminating with a PhD at Cal under Robert Bellah, the now famous sociologist. For as long as I've known him, Jimmy has always amazed me with the breadth of his knowledge of just about everything. It surprised me to see how much faith he had in me even if he gave me a super hard time about everything all the time. Most of all Jimmy instilled within me a love of knowing. As my sociology and philosophy professor, he taught me how to make key distinctions in arguments. And what is more, he was always careful to remind me that there are always different levels to thought which don't all converge on the same strata. In short, the man taught me how to think more efficiently. After reading my posts that's hard to tell right? It comes out when it wants to come out. Soon after that I met other key figures. Two of my theology professors guided me into the tradition. They introduced me to the major concepts that I had known about only superficially prior to that. I think their contribution to my life is a love of the tradition itself. I am happy to call these two men my friends today. I couldn't thank them enough.

The point? I've felt like that bird on the roadway recently. I was resigned. I was injured and inert. It was time to give up because there was no hope. But I can imagine seeing me from the outside - would I not be troubled to see "me" give up? Of course. After all they've invested in me, I owe it to both them and myself to try. So I might fail. So what? I am no stranger to failure.

And so, I've formally resumed my application process. I have three distinguished faculty who are willing to write letters on my behalf. Two of them are well established in their fields - one in theological ethics and the other in systematic theology. The third is still establishing her place in the community. She is astronomical and it'll happen soon. I am confident in my letter writers. They are seasoned academics who give a lot of thought to everything. All I should do is trust that they know what they're doing because they have chosen to put their names behind mine. And you know what? To have six people behind me on this pursuit is amazing. That is over 100 years of combined theological experience. Who am I to disagree, the lowly thinker that I am?

le tired

Last night I knew I was going for a drive today. I didn't quite know where - Sacramento? Boring. Lake Tahoe? Kinda far. Los Angeles? Tempting but irresponsible. Reno? I'd lose all of my money. Santa Cruz has always been a safe bet, so I left Berkeley at 9:25 this morning and hit the highway.

I made my way down and stopped in Santa Clara first, checked things around there. Continuing along, I stopped at Office Max at the north end of Santa Cruz. This dickhead pulled up to me and said, "Nice turn signal!" I didn't realize I forgot to turn it on. He gave me the bird as he drove off to the right - without his turn signal. Douchebag. I wasn't aware that Santa Cruz had a large houseless problem. There were people sitting everywhere. Anyway, funnel cake was calling my name but the lack of street parking and the $20/day parking lot prevented that from happening. Instead I just drove around back streets checking out the homes and businesses down there. Looks like a great place to live.

Just then, something in me said "Drive, drive further!" Long story short: I ended up in Big Sur, 70 something miles away. Of course I got out and did little things along the way including a visit to Monterey and Carmel Valley. If there is one place I could live in California it would be Carmel Valley. It is so beautiful and quaint. Gas is cheaper there too. A dilapidated truck pulled up next to my car as I filled up. How it rolled is a mystery. That car was totaled and I could see the corresponding emotions on his face. Poor guy.

Surprisingly Big Sur wasn't too foggy today. The first time I had seen the cliffs was about five years ago when I drove up with friends in a red Miata from North Los Angeles. My friends told me that there is fog that is up to 1000' thick up the sides of the mountains so we might not see anything. Luckily it was very clear that time. Today wasn't too bad either. I pulled over onto the shoulder, took a quick snapshot at Bixby Bridge, and kept going. Only a gas indicator light could've ruined my quest...and it did.

On the way back I stopped at San Jose, Santa Clara University and Palo Alto. I don't think I like that area too much. Being back on Stanford's campus was pretty neat. It's amazing how everything yet nothing changes there. I then came back on the other side of the bay on the 101, through the city, over the bridge and back home. It was one big tiring loop, but worth it nonetheless.

goldberg variations

Tonight I as walked along the seashore I couldn't help but wonder what was in that black water. The thought had been planted in my head through the words of a friend; the subsequent introspection a lonely one. It was as if anything could've been out there. What potential look like without act? What does a visible infinity look like? Where can I see such unconcentrated mass without form? The ocean.

Perhaps we can see out there the seeds of new actions, new experiences, and new thoughts. It has come to symbolize the untamed fringes which border our aspirations. It cannot be harnessed, nor can it be ignored to its own devices. But most of all it is ever changing yet the same. As we may or may not step in the same river twice, we certainly may or may not observe the same ocean again. Its presence remains constant correlative to its change. I think that permanent dynamicism of the whole thing is so beautiful.

It lends to a series of paradoxes. Perhaps the ocean is something that is better described and not defined. I don't think I've quite processed the whole experience quite yet but what I saw tonight blew my mind. I couldn't exactly express what was going on and I still can't. Perhaps the whole thing should be passed over in silence until it has been adequately digested.

Anyway, later I began to think about the problem of metaphysics. It is self-evident that many things get lost in modernity and the new worldviews which arise from it. One of the things which has been passed over, ignored, or discarded is metaphysics. Pluralism in its purest sense seems to severely berate the prospect of metaphysics. At its core, modernism is a post-metaphysical enterprise to begin with. If we take seriously those things which divide us as more immediate and valuable than those things which unite us, metaphysics becomes an obstacle to seeing the facts of the visible world head-on. When seen in this way, metaphysical projects become an oppressive cover for an articulation of the prejudices of the "institution", what ever that may be or how ever that may be defined. In its essense, metaphysics betrays the spontinaeity of authentic human living; it is but a historical roadbump to the aspirations of humanity.

But what happens when we remove metaphysics from ethics? In short, chaos. We can no longer qualify our thoughts as based on some objective reality. An immanentist view of the world can be beneficial for many reflections, but it cannot provide protection from social constructs insituted solely for the control of others. No doubt metaphysics has been used as such in the past and can still be manipulated today. Yet, metaphysics offers the possibility of overlapping spheres of consensus which trace their roots to a nebula of ethical principles in proximity.

Metaphysics is not without its problems. As the fonts of first principles, it is unaccessible to human knowledge in any direct state. Just as we cannot conceive of "one" as a singularity in itself without recourse to the phantasms of "one" of a thing, so too we cannot understand metaphysics without reference to some discreet formulation or description thereof. Here, at the end of metaphysics, the narrative of the interpreting community specifies the principles of metaphysics in secondary processions.

Some have made the case that metaphysics and a narrative tradition clash. It is understood that the following bifurcation is necessary, not a contingency of reason: maximalist/universalist - minimalist/particularist. This suggests that we can frame our ethical warrants either in "thick" form, that is, a set of highly specified precepts, laws, and general ideas toward the ethical life which reflect relevancy for the society in question - or we can spread this "thin" and speak in generalities which cover the most bases for the greatest majority of people, who will then go on to specify them themselves for the benefit of their community.

What I react to is not so much this distinction, which I believe in essence is a good one. Rather, I react to the proported incommensurability of the two. I react for two reasons. First, the general limits of metaphysics, and second, the notion of communitarian cosmology.

First, as I have said, metaphysics itself cannot specify what is to hold true for all people at all times in all places. In fact, our understanding of ethics seems to imply a communal reflection which preceeds action but proceeds from principle. In other words, metaphysics derrives syllogisms which end in action. Middle terms here are not the value of the logic; true action is.

Second, where metaphysics and narratives meet, it is possible to see a new reflection of sorts in development. This interface, usually obfuscated from public view and entrusted to higher academics and intellectuals, is where the real rubber meets the road. The result is a cosmology which though in itself cannot bear to impress onto the community nevertheless undergirds what ever duties which have been established or promulgated, namely, in law.

Thus, I understand metaphysics and narrative to be interdependent and not exclusive. There is no such thing as pure metaphysic nor is there such a thing as pure culture or narrative. The relation between both is not linear nor measurable. Rather, one continually transforms the other, deeply and completely. This cannot be understood as a chronological phenomenon, although the logic of exchange could be reduced. What is going on is a dynamic indwelling. We cannot pour two equal parts of water together and claim that one part has subsumed the other. Rather, we say that the two join together are now a one and only singularity of truth, the absolute of which can be determined by an attempt to separate them. Quite impossible, to be sure. And yet, we know conceptually that one begins somewhere and the other begins another. But at this level the interface as been broken. There is only one singularity. There is only one substance, one essence. And for our purposes, the boundaries of metaphysics have been both subsumed and exalted by a narrative tradition - and vice versa.

This theory assumes much and claims little. Given this fact, to accept it would seem elementary but would be sufficiently contrary to our current understanding of the fonts and roots of ethical discourse. If I were able to pull this off it might earn me a pretty penny or two.

And see? All of this goes back to my experience of the ocean. A single drop within the ocean is absurd; only in isolation can be name it as such. But once it is taken out of the ocean, do we ascribe the name of "ocean" to that single drop? Of course not. Likewise, when we remove metaphysics from the narrative or the narrative from the metaphysics, ought we to call that a sufficient ocean of ethical warrant in itself? Our rationality seems to imply that we cannot.

Who ever knew staring at a glass of water for a few minutes encouraged new grounds for reflection?

estrellita

Over the past 24 hours I've come to realize how much I really miss home. Although there are often references to home on xanga and in random conversations, I can't express how much more I would prefer to be bored at home than to be having fun here. There is a difference of atmosphere. The land is alive there. You can feel it beneath you. Even the ocean speaks. Everything is so alive and vibrant. Now that we have entered Fall in California the trees are starting to turn red and leaves are falling. I remember the first time I experienced fall in Potomac, Maryland. The trees looked so unhappy and sad. Although we have more evergreens here, seeing once lush trees turn into large brambles for a few months at a time is quite sad. When Spring comes around suddenly I feel livlier, happier, and fuller. I hadn't realized it before but it's due in large part to the presence of leaves on the trees. What can I say? Green makes me happy and whole.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Brothers and Fathers at the Mother House. I miss them. Many of them are private, solitary individuals. But most of them are extreme extroverts with incredible people skills. Their joke repretoire is amazing. And best of all, they aren't afraid to hug. Yes, they give great hugs. Dinner at the House is something that can't be missed - the same priest cooks every day. He'll always announce that dinner is ready and lead us in prayer. He'll then thrust a plate into my hands and shove me toward the food. We'll all sit there talking, politicking, talking smack about the Bishop and his phony ways. Somebody will tell a story about their former classmate - an archbishop at this place, a professor at some university, or about the Fathers and Brothers who have since gone to their rest. There are few moments of genuine camaraderie like that left. Of course not everybody gets along, but in general it's a swell time. There's always ice cream to finish. Then after dinner everybody goes to bed, except me and my closest friend there.

I spoke briefly about my drives in the previous post. This priest likes those drives too. He didn't realize their value until I left for Berkeley and I wasn't around to drive any more. On skype I'll get messages like, "I miss our midnight trips to McDonald's for our french fries and ice cream cones" or "Be sure to send me some of those almond candies from San Francisco!" Those messages make me smile. I wish I were there right now, with them. They're eating dinner at this very hour, unless they've gone out for their periodic Friday treat at a restaurant in town or in the surrounding neighborhood.

Like any other family they have their problems. Many of them. People have done bad things throughout the years. And yet, I have personally only seen the greatness of their work. Two of the best priests I've ever known are of the same Order. Such selfless men filled with love for their churchgoers, can only inspire others to do likewise. We all have our gifts and burdens. Those men are no exception.

If there's one thing I treasure it's my memories. Every single one of them. From growing up in the love of my beloved family to a spontaneous trip for a burger with an amazing friend last night, every memory I possess is a testament to the wonderful people that have been set in my life. The reflection of Hunter the other day brought me back to the immediacy of childhood where I wasn't so caught up with "tomorrow". Looking back on those simpler but perhaps more difficult times, I can see that life has generally gone well. I've lost friends and family to death, to distance, and to neglect and hurt feelings. Regardless of what might've happened, I am happy to carry them with me forever. I'm afraid to lose those memories. I don't keep a journal or take many pictures any more. My greatest fear is losing the mental capacity to retain my thoughts and memories. That would kill me.

A few years ago, a famous ex-Jesuit lay dying with a brain tumor next to his wife, whom he had married only a few years earlier. He recited that beautiful prayer written by St. Ignatius of Loyola:

Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me. To Thee, O lord, I return it. All is Thine, dispose of it wholly according to Thy will. Give me Thy love and thy grace, for this is sufficient for me.

I don't think I have enough courage to face illness as that man did. To trust like that - that is divine.

Earlier in my faith life I was essentially unmovable. Put in Christian terms: I was on "fire". I could feel the presence of God where ever I went. I felt an internal beauty within my soul. I was so sure of the afterlife, the promise of eternal happiness with God and those who had come and gone before me. Now things are a bit more subtle. I miss that relationship with God.

But anyway...

I remember as a very small child waking up in the absurd hours of the morning to get into the car with my mom and drive to the other side of the island to watch the sugar cane burn. It was an impressive sight - at first a thin ribbon of orange, then a large blaze which spewed up tremendous amounts of smoke and ash. It was still dark at the time so it was slightly terrifying for me. We'd sit there drinking cokes and eating these candy bars called "Good News". To be honest those are one of the few memories I had with my mother growing up. Almost every time I drink coke I think about sitting there and watching those cane fires on the horizon. I miss those days.

So what am I to do? I must first and foremost remember that memories are being made today. Sometimes I decline offers from friends to hang out because I am busy reading. Quite frankly, I read constantly. I love reading. It makes me feel like I am in the presence of those thinkers. For example, today we were reading Jean Porter in class. I couldn't help but feel like she was somehow there. I suppose the trick is to recognize that there are different types of knowing. I need more feeling-knowing. Just a moment ago I got a text from Sarah. I can't think of any other friend right now that I love more than Sarah. I am not quite sure if she'd say the same thing but that's ok. She has made such an impact on my life for the better. I've never had a more vibrant, open, and honest friendship. And to think that we're separated by thousands of miles. All that to say that Sarah really gets me. She knows how I feel-know. I think she feel-knows, too. But where to find people like that? They are few and far in between. All the more reason to treasure them when they pop up in life.

I could turn inward. I could put myself in that holy place again if I really tried and just relied on grace. But I'm not looking for that either. I could turn outward. I could bring myself to constantly be around others. But I'm not looking for that either. I suppose in this situation the best answer would be balance. I need to get to Mass more often, see people that have been wanting to see me sooner. Most of all I should remember that this life is the only one I get. In that case, I should never let the memories of yesterday prevent tomorrow's memories of today.

come on eileen

I was invited to a small party tonight - one that ended badly, by the way. There were a few minutes between my arrival and the beginning of the party so I stole a car and drove to Outback. It was one of those parties with wine and cheese, no real food except for pasta - and this was on my mind as I ordered.

The lounge area is almost always open. Tonight they were pretty busy. Only two stalls were open, and of the two one was on the end and had terrible amounts of passing foot traffic. The other was pretty messy. I sat there anyway, facing the TV. Football was on. I don't really care for football but sometimes I can get into it. Florida State was playing against someone else, I don't remember who.

And so, I sat there, eating my chowder, watching the game. Behind me was a small party of five people. One of the men there was speaking in such a loud voice that it caught my attention because it was as if he intended me to hear. He addressed his father across the table: "Dad, you know what I'm doing this weekend? I'm adding something to my resume. Guess what it is?" His dad replied, "I don't know, your mother and I have been clueless as to what you're up to next!" "Well", he began slowly, "I'm going to be marrying two of my friends at a bar during halftime. I've known them for about seven years now." Dad replied, "What the fuck are you talking about?" in a muttled English accent. "Yeah, it's real easy to marry people nowadays. You just get online, search around, sign some papers, and you're a minister. These two folks have been married for five years so I'm just renewing their vows. I've even got a little speech prepared. Being a minister doesn't seem that hard to do."

There it hit me: no wonder the priesthood gets such little respect. People just think doing ministry is that simple. Marrying people. Funerals. Baptisms. You know, all of that holy shit. Or, as one of my priest friends says, "All we seem to do these days is hatch, match, and dispatch."

Anyway, that was my random moment today.

Tonight after I dropped a friend off at home I took a short drive around Berkeley. Many people were dressed up in costumes at many of the houses. They were laughing, having a good time, and chilling. I then realized that I miss being an undergraduate.

Thoughts came streaming back to me. Memories and faces, places and events all seemed more immanent to me than at any other time. I remember those stupid late nights poring over exams, recycling of pizza coupons, the copious amounts of alcohol. But what I really value most was the sense of community that was at school. Granted the formation wasn't automatic. But it was natural. Once we had some ideas about the body politic after sizing each other up we were inseparable. People had a place to belong, to grow, to be challenged, and to be loved. There was plenty of room enough for everyone. Nobody spent a lonely night unless they didn't reach out. Indeed, I treasured some of my undergraduate loneliness.

Every week at night I'd have the same ritual: Walk the four blocks to my parking garage, put the key into the ignition, and begin the drive down Kalakaua avenue. I'd drive through Kahala and get into the freeway and drive into Hawaii Kai. I'd come down through Waimanalo and stop at Kailua beach and sit there. Now, there's a Burger King on Kalaheo avenue in Aikahi park. For some reason, the coke there is delicious. I'd continue into Kaneohe then back through the h3 tunnel and into town. I'd be exhausted at the end of the drive, but the memories I have of the full moon over the Ko'olau mountains are irreplacable. Sometimes I'd continue all the way to the north shore and watch the sunrise. Such freedom, such beauty!

I also remember the uncertainty of those times. Where would I end up after graduation? Would I be at home working or would I go on to school? I didn't know what was going to happen to me. In any case I wasn't looking forward to breaking ways with my community. I knew they had to leave too. My closest friends were getting married or otherwise moving on. How I wish I could've just stopped everything at the time! Too much change too quickly. Sadly I haven't heard from a number of them since we've parted. I suppose that is to be expected.

One of the things I miss is having a car of my own. I could do anything, anything I wanted. I could drive down the street to Ward Center. I could go and get some Chinese good in Aiea. I could drive to the end of the road near Kaena point, sit on the beach, and just "be". Friends would often ask to come along, but I had to deny them: this was sacred time with me and God. On other nights, we would bring food down to the houseless persons in A'ala park or at Ala Moana. There we met the face of Jesus the Christ. It was there that I knew that this was the sort of thing that felt right to do with my time. As others partied, a handful of us chose to practice social justice, to empower the weaker, and to love the forgotten. I have kept in touch with a couple of my dear friends from the streets. If only they could see Berkeley and San Francisco... I think that some of them would be happy that I am here. My heart is with them.

There is a famous motto in the Catholic Church: Aedificabo in Caritate - I will build in love. Now, the word aedificabo here is a word with some play. Like in English, we can speak of physical building, like "I will build a house" - aedificabo domum. We can also speak of an edification of a person: to be built up in courage or temperance. Aedificabo in Caritate signifies these two things. I will build homes and people in the spirit of love. I think that's the problem with the current understanding of development theory. There is no place for love.

Perhaps that's why I want to study the theological implications for human development. This goes all the way back to how the person is to relate to her or his possessions and what impact they have on the quality of life. But there are deeper questions to be asked these days. How does poverty skew my strive towards excellence? Can I ever be so poor as to lose sight of the fact that I am called towards a greater goodness? Does my condition as a person on the streets preclude me from happiness? Our experiences with the poor show us that these are not rhetorical but conditional answers. The first rule of ministry: never go alone. As we are told by the Ancient philosophers, the human is a rational social animal. If I could change the motto it would be Aedificabimus in Caritate: - Let us build in love.

How do we empower those who do not see the value to their lives to begin with? Of course that is the million dollar question for those who care about such issues. At is nexus, the journey begins with love. To bring someone to their fullest being I must first love them. This love is to be freely given, never selfish nor contrived. That would be pride or bribery. Rather, one must learn to love for the good and the benefit of the other. We know that this sort of love is possible because we believe that the fullest expression of love is Jesus Christ crucified. This has profound implications on a cosmic level: Even though God spared the life Isaac for the sake of Abraham, God did not spare himself the grief of losing his only Son. That in itself is worth thinking about. What a merciful God.

Is the homeless issue in Hawaii a problem? You bet. We have been given a new command: love one another as I have loved you. Would this not imply that we sacrifice of ourselves what we spare to others? Is each person ready to examine her or his conscience and give for the good of his sister or brother? Do we realize that our own wellbeing is caught up in the wellbeing of the least fortunate? And most critically, can we ask these questions without turning them into empty phrases of false religious piety? That in itself is the question. Religion has been silent on many things it should not be. Religion must not be mute to the real issues and problems of the day. A religious life which is Sunday-based is at once an offense against God and an offense against the neighbor. How would we feel if people cared about us only on a predetermined day in the week? Ludicrous.

All this to say that although I was born on Kauai I really "grew up" on Oahu. I was confronted there with many issues Kauai has lived without. I have extended my sense of community to different relationships. I expect that the same will continue until I die.

Like the other post, I digress again. Come to think about it I don't think I had one single point for this entry. I guess none of them do. There's something I love about raw, unedited thought only filtered through memory and the physical act of typing. It is a stream of consciousness, but perhaps it would be even better so as a stream of conscienceness. This conscientization, this growing awareness of everything that is, seen and unseen, is the doorway to a love which is both honorable to our deepest selves and to the heart of God.

ku'u home o kahalu'u

The purpose of this blog was to dedicate a space to lighter, less dark thoughts. I use my xanga for those. Yet tonight of all nights my heart is especially heavy. The reasons behind that are too many to mention. Things are just coming together in ways that are challenging me.

The song I mention in the title is one of my favorites. It talks about what life was like back when things were simple. Growing up we enjoy the simpler, more natural things. As we change we deny ourselves the return because we are afraid that we have changed. I think that's really profound.

So I have to ask myself, what has changed about me? On the surface, nothing. I'm still me. I still maintain many of my bad habits, some of my worst qualities. I still feel insufficient and I know nothing will ever take that away. It's as if every plane of my existence is concentric to the single reality which binds it all together: life doesn't get any better by making things less hard.

I very rarely speak in detail about my family life. Things like that are private and better left unsaid. Yet tonight of all nights I did. I spoke honestly, openly, and with my heart. Suddenly I realized the power of my faith in hope. Things will get better - the storm will pass and the darkness will fade. But what about the landscape hidden by the clouds or revealed by the sun? Will that ever change? Is there something below it all which cannot change, yet whose appearance is forever tainting our perceptions? I don't know. I suppose it is like seeing places anew through the eyes of a child. Perhaps that original innocence, that fresh outlook, is what I am after. What does this mean? I need to come home to myself. I must accept that I am who I am, no more or no less. I think I have the "no more" part down, but the "no less" could use work.

Writing about those days with Hunter this morning brought me much joy. It is refreshing to reconnect with those parts of myself that get passed over in the ordinary day to day living. Life is just one continuity; the singular discontinuity of death is precisely the end of life. It is tempting to take this constant writ large and define it as "the way things are". I suppose the trick is to know the difference between syncopation and and irregular beat of the drum of life.

So what is it? Has life turned to syncopation or am I off the beat? I don't know.

When I was in JROTC and Marching Band, we were taught very simple things: always start with your right foot, change foot discreetly if one gets off. Most of all, be aware of the foot movements of those infront of you. If that breaks down, everyone in the column behind you will get off. Of course, the leaders will be the ones who look wrong.

And so, as I reflect on a certain aspect in my life, I guess the real question is as much of a question of being on the right footing in accordance with the cadence. After all, the beat is evident only in the structure of the group. What next? Look to the person in front of you, dummy. Don't guess, don't piss in the dark, don't take your damn intuition for granted. Rank and file is safe for a good reason. Don't screw that up.

As I make my way from where I am now towards where I should ultimately be, I have been paying attention to those two feet in front of me. I'm not exactly "off", but I am lagging behind. Do I know if those people are marching in step? Of course not. I trust without having seen the person in front of them. My job here is not to innovate or free think. I am a part of a cohesive unit with a singular aim held in common.

Perhaps that is how I should be viewing the course of my education right now. I can only follow those who come before me - my advisors, my professors, my supporters. It's either time to get in step or leave the group. That is the ultimate question.

What does all of this mean? Nothing of course. I'm just as confused as ever. You'd be surprised by all of the things pointed out to you by the most unlikely of people. Often it hurts. Get over it and love them anyway. You're in this thing together.

blue's clues

A few minutes ago I thought of a person from the past. His name is Paul Kosberg. He was a strange chap, creative as heck and perhaps a bit shady. To be honest I had wondered if he was still alive or blew himself up firing glass so I googled him. After some reading I stumbled upon a sentence in the search result summaries: I'm pretty sure the teacher was a dude named Paul Kosberg. Paul was really really weird. He was genuinely a good guy, and genuinely a fucking hippie. As I clicked on the link I immediately noticed the name of a good friend - Hunter. It was evident to me that from that moment I would be rejoining Hunter in our experiences of the Kaua'i Academy of Creative Arts (KACA). Here is his post, after which I will be following: http://www.huntermorrison.com/2009/01/with-memories.html

Hunter and I had become friends though elementary school. We more or less belonged to the same circle of friends - the dweebs, the nerds, the misunderstood. As children some of us were quite nihilistic towards our view of the world. In fact, Hunter and I had been disciplined by our computer lab teacher for wishing nuclear winter upon the world. I think Hunter whispered it first, then I said it much, much louder. Being the little bastard that I am/was, I ratted Hunter our when I was asked to leave the class. And so, we sat outside on this long bench with a built-in planter at one end. It was raining that day. I remember sitting there, staring at the fourth and fifth grade buildings, the green grass, and the sole piece of playground equipment in that area - a curious tornado-shaped basket with three separate chutes. None of us knew what the hell that thing was for, and as such, we used it for a variety of experiments. Invariably one of the chutes was clogged with a stray slipper. In fact, one could often seen the gray soles of slippers on most of the corrugated steel roofs. Mind you, we were all in fifth or sixth grade. We had come up with new ways to play with our footwear, which we later regretted walking to the gravel and dirt bus stop. Those who hung on to their slippers had the privilege of putting them on their hands to run faster in relays. I think we were all convinced that those slippers made a difference. Looking back at it I realize that it is no mistake that those who ran quickly were those prudent enough to not throw their slippers all over creation in the first place. I think many of them are successful today.

But I slightly digress. All that I am establishing is that Kalaheo School was naturally a creative place to begin with. We had pretty excellent teachers, although we certainly didn't recognize them in that regard at the time. We always had some sort of art class going on, either in music with Mr. Griffith, clay with Deb Rosenbaum, woodworking and instrument making with Ken Nitta, and the like. I remember constantly playing with clay, painting with tempra. With the patience of what must've been saintly people, our class - Hunter and my class - left that place in 1996 or 1997, I believe. At that time the school split in two. Some went east to Kauai Intermediate and High School, while the rest of us went to Waimea Canyon School. There was little interface between the two; we were lucky if we saw each other at the newest and most grand of all Kauai attractions: Borders at Kukui Grove.

But before Hunter and I went our separate ways, we were united for one last time at the Academy. Now, Hunter describes it aptly. It wasn't the grandest of prospects. Still, there was something exclusive about it - one applied, paid fees, found transportation, and operated in a very small circle of highly gifted individuals. I also remember being one of the "minorities" there. My impression is that children that were there had some connections to one another through their parents. KACA wasn't geared towards the deadhead, and if you were there you thought out of the box, to be sure. So there you were, sequestered in this quad for half the day. Nobody came in, nobody went out. You were simply together in your respective classrooms according to the period. Socialization was therefore very local, very fragmented. I don't think I knew many names of persons outside of my classes.

There were two classes which comes immediately to mind: Painting with Penny and Mixed Media.

First, Painting with Penny was amazing. I remember when I first signed up I had no idea what was going on. As the weeks went by, the "-ting" wore off and the sign came to read "Pain with Penny." I don't think that would be a fair assessment of the period, but I remember it being quite apt for those awful live-portrait sessions, with the familiar Deb Rosenbaum standing in the middle of a semicircle as we children desperately tried to master watercolor portraiture with little advance instruction. "Look for the negative space", we were told. Of course, that meant to look for the triangle of open space between the body and her angled elbow, but I don't think many of us paid any attention to that. The real stars of the show were two women. First was this middle aged woman with a bassoon for a voice, named Penny Nichols. She would constantly be wearing some hastily dyed dress which swayed back and forth as she waddled to opposite sides of the classroom. She was the main instructor, after whom the class was named and was an excellent artist in her own right. The other woman, an aide, was named Suzie Urminksa. Her mother was a Ukrainian who lived alone. I had brought a tablet with the Russian alphabet with me to study each day. Eventually she spotted it and told me that her mother would come one day and speak to me in Russian. I was so nervous. Suzie had a sister named Natalie and together they were chess champions of some caliber. Hunter once asked Suzie if she had played chess by mail, and to our surprise, she had. "It look a long time", she said. Suzie was a petite girl, plain in the face but beautiful nonetheless, who wore her already short hair up for most of the time. Some days it would be wrapped in a bandana - I would say, "Privyet Babushka Suzanna!" She would smile and remind me to turn off my voice recorder, which was always on in my breast pocket of my jacket. Of course, I never listened.

The material for that course is equally as memorable. We had to paint from magazines, stills, and portraits as I have mentioned. We were taught the value of blues and purples in representing shadow. We were shown how to extract a pool of watercolor off of our Windsor and Newton cold pressed watercolor paper, masking taped to a small brown fiber board. I think out of all of the things we did there the watercolors were my favorite. I remember her showing us how to stretch the paper and dry it properly, how to perform a gradiated wash, and how to maintain areas of white to highlight things without the aid of masking tape of "frisket". I don't know what "frisket" is, nor am I sure if that is the correct spelling, but she made it clear to us that we wouldn't need it if we respected our white areas. Come to think about it, we learned a lot of technique in that course.

There were few rules there. One of them was simple: never use black to outline. We took our boards out one day and did pastel drawings of the trees. I remember that Penny had an uncanny way to represent everything in an impressionistic style. Even the lone red and white transmitter tower in the distance was accurately, although stylistically, included in the lush landscape drawing. She wanted us to do the same. Near the end of the course she wanted us to enter this contest called "Mango Madness", hosted by the Borders. She selected only one of our works of art, a lovely painting by a girl named Windsor Flynn, to enter. I don't think the rest of us cared. Hunter and I had a tablemate named Kela. He was more interested in drawing a spider or mosquito on a piece of coconut flesh than anything else.

Now, were we behaved in this course? More or less. As I had mentioned, we carried around a small tape recorder. We had this absurd fascination with Blues Clues at the time, so we'd listen to my rudimentary recordings of the show. Of course, we'd sing along, just Hunter and I. Sometimes Suzie or Penny had to restrain us, but that wasn't often. We were never placed in detention or sent to the office. Penny was a sweetheart and took even the most serious of matters lightly. Best of all, Penny treated us kids as if we knew what we were doing. She was critical but equally as affirming. She was also very diplomatic: I remember asking Penny what she thought of Suzie's artistic skills. She replied, "Well, Suzie...Suzie is an excellent chess champion, did you know that?" I answered, "Yes, I know that but I was asking about her painting", after which Penny laughed and walked away, the train of her dress swaying with her butt. She liked to use blue dresses, by the way.

Mixed Media was a whole different story. I mentioned before the name Paul Kosberg. The man was the first true hippie I had ever met. This guy always wore a backwards baseball cap, a housepaint stained shirt, khaki shorts, white socks which had turned brown, and light brown leather hiking shoes. His arms were hairy and he had a long pony tail he'd stick through the back of his cap. His aid was a beautiful young woman named Andrea Alfiler, which I could've sworn sounded like she was saying "Andrea Adolfhitler". She was a soccer chick and always wore these red shorts. She was amazing.

The class itself was a two period one. The room was on the east side of the quad, on the end. From my chair I could see Penny's door, and from the other, I could see the flagpole. Through the windows ahead of me I saw more buildings where the grown up kids were doing their thing in music and the like. But for the time, I was under Paul's not-so-threatening control. I could tell when Paul was coming around because I smelled him first. Then I saw his blank gaze. He almost looked like one of those sharks preparing to bite his prey. It was a cold look on his face. He would show a small group of kids to do a certain thing, then have those kids teach the others. He'd be quite graphic about what would happen to us if we didn't obey safety rules. He'd talk about the shards of glass kicked up by a diamond-tipped dremel tool which would fly into your respitory system and cut your insides up if you didn't grind the mirrors under a thin layer of water. Paul told us stories about a Parisian man he met that ate glass. Somehow I associate Paul with glass and silicone. Always, the glass and silicone.

If Penny had emphasized technique, Paul emphasized licence and freedom. One day I wanted to dissect something badly. I made some crude "organs" and enclosed them into a clay body. With Hunter, we began to cut open the clay body, exposing the sinews and organs. We thought it was a great idea to fire it in the kiln, which we did. If I remember correctly, that piece went to Hunter's grandmother, who lived in Kalaheo near another friend named Malachi. Paul wanted the two of us to use this big box somehow. Eventually, Hunter and I made this dragon named Al. We painted it with this awful green tempra mixed with too much water. Its wings and jaw could flap. We wanted to cover the entire thing in multicolored felt, but Paul was apprehensive. He told us that the class was costing the Academy too much money, and that if he was able to pull things together he promised "You'll get your stinking felt!!!" Did I mention that he sometimes got angry?

Hunter was right. He ate and drank out of preserve jars. He ate vegetables. He also did make us exercise. Now, Hunter and I were perhaps the most freethinking of the kids there. We weren't afraid to question, to challenge the system. This gained us some notoriety with Deb, the administrator of the program. Before every class, Paul would have Andrea take us for a short run, some stretches, and some chinups from a bar suspended in the left doorway. One day, Hunter and I had enough and refused. Paul did send us to Deb that day, who couldn't quite figure out what she should do with us. We were placed in silent detention as she typed on her computer. Awkward.

The entire thing ended with a big open house for all of the students. A tent was pitched in the quad, and every classroom was open for parents to browse. At the end, I left the Academy and didn't see Hunter for quite some time after that. He went on to Kauai High and eventually to college on Oahu, where I met him a couple of times after that.

What did I take away from KACA? First, I learned that mischief is always better when done amongst the average hippie. I think Hunter kept up with the art, but I didn't. I did retain a respect for the fine arts but I don't have much of a desire to do them again. I briefly experimented with watercolor on my own but it wasn't the same. I had lost my artistic community upon whom I had come to rely for much of my motivation without having realized it when I was there.

It was here that I began to hone my skills of dissent - what could be said, what could be said, which buttons to push and which ones would only end up hurting myself and others. We were not unruly children, but we challenged the structure in ways the other kids weren't. I began to speak to adults as a young adult, not so simply as a child. Things seemed to make them tick, and there were somewhat clear lines of taboo. We could politic and lobby - it came natural to Hunter and I. What we couldn't anticipate, though, is having to let go of our prima facie prejudices against these artists. From the wacky gymnastics instructor who made gobbling sounds, to a coconut tree freak, to the overacheiving asians we had there - those people were unshakable. I could see the roots of a love of the craft there, and caring and wonderful people who guided us in the very best ways they knew how. I think that's what Hunter and I were reacting against, in a certain way. The status quo needed dissent which was relevant to blips within the situations. In fact, that is the thing I carry with me to this day from the Kauai Academy of Creative Arts.

Indeed, dissent is an art unto itself.

volare

There is something so beautiful about rain falling. It is after 4 in the morning and the only reason I am up is to listen to the rain. It's too precious to miss. Poina'ole makamae.

There were a few things that happened today - well, rather, yesterday to be correct - that put me into a Shostakovich mood. Now when I say that, "Shostakovich" mood, many things could come to mind for many different people. I admit that the content of the mood isn't so easily discernable by its label. At any rate, I felt like jazz today. His jazz suites are amazing. It is too bad that a certain dutch violinist has turned the waltz from one of his jazz suites into a faux-classical pop nightmare. I have no problem with the average musical ignoramus enjoying Shostakovich. Rather, I have a problem with dumbing down the utter emotional impact of such a composer.

A recurring theme has been my relationships with people, especially over these past two weeks. Here I am speaking about nobody in particular, much less those that I have recently seen in Berkeley. I am talking about friends who have decided to keep up with me through some auxilary means. Some of them see me as a close friend, others are comfortable with me occupying a specific niche in their own scheme of things. Not that they're mutually exclusive or anything. It is always interesting to see how people delinate their relationships. It is often telling of their own maturity as a person and how they see the world. There is no value judgment going on here. One's own experience has led them to recognize patterns and recurring structures of sociality because something strikes a deep resonance in them. For some, this is the desire for order out of chaos manifested in clearly defined social roles. Others who bask in the elan of the moment dispense with those lines entirely. Relationships may be understood as esteem indicators that are colored by both the disposition of the subject and the content of the "other". Whether or not that content is known through perception or through empirical fact...I don't know.

What is fascinating about this process is not so much the fact that people do it. We all do. The interesting question is rather the why, as I have alluded to above. Where does "worldview" end and "world-viewed" begin? Can we distinguish between the world as it is, or are things forever mediated through prejudice and bias? And if the latter, is there ever such a thing as the just and righteous ordering of these prejudices and biases? If such is the case I will argue yes, there is such a thing as an ordering of prejudice and bias. Society at the moment seems to ascribe to these ordering of prejudices the word "experience". I wonder if that is necessarily so. Gosh, I wish Gershwin were around at times like this. Get it? badumpchhhhh

It seems at once our relations to the other are caught in this tension. Perception and observation, prejudice and evidence. But the problem still remains: are our friendships to remain ancillary to our own agenda, subject to be stretched, manipulated, or otherwise distorted so that they become unrecognizable in themselves, just to fit a hole in our lives without an apparent corresponding piece? Are we to assume that friendships and relationships are naturally plastic to such an extent as to render them so subjectively changable? In other words and in short, is it ever possible to love people as they are versus what they do for our concept of self-relating-to-other? I for one believe that it is possible to love another as they are in themselves. No doubt about it. But what would that look like?

First, I would dispell any notions that such an enterprise would require a brute empiricism, as it were. Often things appear very different than they are. The same goes for people. I am not talking about a superficial analysis of another's mood or facial expression. I am talking about confusing what is really essential to any given person and what is secondary. Put Thomistically: the categories of first and second principles no longer distinguished. For to see and sense is another thing than to understand. I may sense and see many things yet fail to come to a basic apprehension of that which I have experienced.

What would we rely upon? Intuition? It appears that this is a first recourse against empiricism. But consider the fact that pure intuition does not exist. We, as subsistent creatures suspended in a centerless web of impersonal contingency, do not come to pure intuition on account of the simple fact that it is beyond human capacity to disconnect oneself from discreet sensations. Intuition, therefore, is but a repackaging of deep seated psychological inclinations or dispositions to which we have not given a label. Intuition therefore is a phenomenon which is to be described, not defined. Hence, our experiences which proceed forth from intuition should also be described and not defined. In essense intuition seems to elude definition in the first place. And thus, intuition offers little in terms of concrete actions and emotions as guides.

But what is the moral value of the senses? Thomas Aquinas tells us that "Nothing has come to the intellect that was not in the senses first." Beautiful. In that statement Thomas hints at the human condition: a center of consciousness operating in one undergirding reality of the world. This is not a turn to the subject. Rather, this is a subjectivism of a different sort. By taking the person as a locus of reflection, we affirm that the world is indeed intelligible, but only to those specific beings with the potencies to reflect as such. In a word, humanity. It is our capacities as person that allows us to carefully discern what is, what is not, what should be, what ought to be, and what cannot be so. This process of discernment is obviously not an absolute. If it were, my own desires would be satisfied at the moment of conception. As a finite being, I am not entitled to that immediacy. As a Christian, I reserve that for the one single Being whose thought and act are convergent. And, owing to belief in that being, I know that I have been given a rationality which mirrors, although highly imperfectly and only in analogy, that source of all life and reality. In such this way, we maintain the courage to discern ever more fully in light of our own weakness and intrinsic giftedness.

But what does this imply for our relationships? Everything. Consider the soverignty of God. God, the first principle, the beginning and the end, the only pure being in existence. Such a God has given a bit of itself out of an act of love. Yes, love. This love which has been extended to us has empowered us with the ability to see others not only as a co-participator in the act of knowing creation, but to do so in its own integrity without assimilation. The result? Intedepdence which is always preceeded by interdependence.

I will write on this later. It's late and I should get to bed. The ultimate answer is, of course, a disinterested love. A love which loves for love's sake, over and against assumptions and desires. In taming our own desires to beloved, we no longer constrain the intrinsic freedom of others as a soverign in themselves. We do not thrust upon them our own conceptions of who they are to be and what we need them to be for us. Conversely, it is possible to be loved without having to "do" things for others. What, and more importantly how, we "be" is what is value. At times like these, it is not remiss to emphasize the fact that merely being fully present, open to the moment, is one of the greatest acts of love we can bestow upon each other.

...to be continued.