Remember

Most relationships seem to have a beginning, middle, and an end. They are born, grow, and sometimes die, based on how much attention we are willing to give them. For a long time I've been a staunch supporter of this theory. That is until recently. I was recollecting memories of a time long past…These memories were shared with a few friends. These friends are long gone; some have married and started a family, others are gone geographically. For the most part–because of time, and distance–I assumed these relationships were growing dim. Then I took the time to remember. And I found myself carried away in recollection. Now I find myself feeling overly sentimental. But the truth of the matter is that my relationship with these people isn't dying. It isn't dying, because we'll always have our memories. And as long as we remember, I'm willing to believe our relationships just keep growing.

Fishing Tree

In Tonga, long ago, on the Island of Nomuka there was a very special ‘ifi tree. It had two branches that jutted into the sky like arms of praise. In between these two branches there was a small hollow. One day a man and his wife noticed that every day birds would fly around the top of the tree. Eventually their curiosity got the better of them and they climbed the tree to see what the birds could see. In the hollow, between the branches, there was a small pool of water; in the water were two fish. Immediately the man and his wife realized these to be very special fish. They sent a letter explaining to the king, George Tupou I, the story of how they found these fish. The king concurred that these were indeed very special. He asked the man to keep the fish in the tree; because he believed it was there they would be safe. So the man and his wife kept the fish in the tree. The two became four, and the four six, and so on, until there was a little pool of fish high up in an ‘ifi tree. Whenever the king visited Nomuka he would eat some fish from the tree; but if anyone else ever ate those fish they became very sick. For many years the fish thrived. Then one day the man went to the tree and found that the fish were all gone. Ever since then there have been no fish in any sort of tree, only in the sea. 

How Far West?

How far west can you go before you end up in the East? A silly question, maybe. Yet I find myself thinking that I am from the west and so it is important. I have an identity that corresponds with the idea of being a Westerner. The other day I read something written about the Southwest. This excerpt said something along the lines of coming to an untainted land. A land free from cultivated life. This in turn made me think about how we define cultivated life. Public schooling has taught me that culture originates in Europe. The Renaissance, after all, changed the history of the world. This thought got me thinking about the Chinese. In so many ways the Chinese are, and have been, ahead of the times. There are records of the Chinese trading with native people all along the western coastline; long before Louis and Clark tasted Pacific air. To take it a step farther, according to some people Columbus had studied Chinese maps and he knew exactly where he was going. These same people believe that Davinci’s work was derived from manuscripts that originated in Asia. And wasn’t Davinci the epitome of the renaissance. So really the renaissance originated in Asia; but none of that really matters because I am a western boy. The only question that seems important, and relevant to me today, is whether or not the Chinese, throughout time, have been encouraging their young men to travel west. I’ve always assumed that to travel west is natural. It is following the sun from beginning to end. East to West is like birth and death. Even shadows follow the passage of the sun. So you see, as a person that has grown up believing in the idioms of western culture, I need to know if the Chinese are heading West; or if they are coming East. 

Starry NIght

You are my starry night. What I mean is that sometimes, when I need to think, when something inside of me cries out for time; or maybe time cries out to me; I find myself wandering darkened streets. Just so I can look up and see the stars. Something about their unending constancy–even though I know they are always changing–lends itself to my inner peace. For some reason I find that when I look into the night sky, time stops, and for a moment nothing else matters. Nothing else is as important as those bright spots sparkling and speaking of far off things. This might seem strange; that a wandering man such as I needs to stop. Yet it is. It may also seem strange that the thing I rely upon to stop me is something in the sky; because the sky itself is constantly changing. But maybe that is why I stop, because the sky, and me, we are alike. Always moving but also always staying the same. So you see, you are my starry night.

Preface to the Preface

Samuel Johnson was pretty witty.

Hodge was the name of his kitty.

Words were his game,

A dictionary was his fame.

This he said of Shakespeare:

Success, he has, does, and can

For he writes in species not man.

Dictionary Johnson needed not fame,

He had his own to claim.

Yet his compass was wrought,

Moral purpose and plot he sought

He found neither.

Sometimes out of place;

Time and face or force of lace

Determine truth in the fabric of the weaver.

Therefore his heart was a believer

But his mind couldn’t conceive this ridiculous,

Seemingly neurotic, and raucous disgrace.

Shakespeare was not misplaced

There was good even among his disgrace.

And Johnson, although not a firm believer,

Decided he must write a preface.

My Hero Samuel Johnson: Dedicated to James Boswell

Whan upon an aprile day,

I sat and stood, and sat some more

Pondering words, and words, and words galore.

When upon my mind those words did rise

To say to me: you have no right

you have no time.

For we have risen

beyond thee and thy comprehension

In this dire moment, when hope was forlorn, a figure rose

From pages past.

This figure had no armor, shield or sword,

but a pen he did raise.

And with that pen he defined a way.

And hope did find, with its evervescent rays,

My pondering upon that fateful day.

Good sir said I.

Dost thou have a name.

“Aye” he replied.

Samuel Johnson is mine name.

I took a breadth,
making sure I could.
I thought it was supposed to be my breath.
Instead, when I saw you, you stole my heart beat.
Without a beat my heart became a contradiction.
It once gave life, now it took it away.

When the beat escaped through my pumping veins,
I lost the ability to dream. I lost the ability to believe.

“He who giveth can also taketh away”
I gave my heart. It had only been a look.
A look was all it took.  
I had to take a breadth
just to make sure I could.
When I broke our gaze, I realized you’d gotten away.