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.