The Return

I'm as nervous as a school boy before recess the day after the school bully openly declared him the new "victim" now that the old one has transferred schools. C'est la vie.

I just returned from two years. It doesn't feel like it. I can still remember the goodbyes, the hugs, the promises. True to form, I seem to have failed most of those last ones. But, well...I have no room to apologize really.

It is good to be home. I have so much I want to write. So much to post. The people were extraordinary. Phon Yun (om srei) changed what love can do. A little old Cambodian woman, I couldn't even communicate with her, loved me without end and even remembered me two years later. She just did what she could and hoped that was enough. It always was.

The places were breath-taking. Sunsets (almost) as good as Arizona's. Bridal Veil Falls. Apple Hill. Loon Lake. Even the deep city showed me a new beauty. Oak Park. Downtown. Murals galore. The Crocker Art Museum. I can't say the art I saw changed my life, but each memory is pleasing. And there are lots of pictures.

Even the music. One day while riding down Broadway a young man stopped me. He asked, "If you are a man of God, what do you think Christ would do for a man who hasn't eaten in three days?" My mother had recently sent me a package of energy bars and granola (thank you for always being inspired dear mother). I offered all I had. He told us a bit of his story. He raps, for Christ. He recently came to Sacramento because he feels it is where he was being led. He is probably 18 now, but this was a year ago. He had arrived in town the day before but had been traveling for two days and he ate like he hadn't eaten the whole time. In return he sang for us. Well, he rapped for us. It is unexplainable how good it was. His voice was sweet, from youth and desire, but commanding because of his subject and its personal relation to his recent development. And all the reggae and rasta about Jah. It brought a lot of peace.

Some things changed, but many did not. I'm getting used to having the bracelets on again, wearing shorts and sandals, moccasins, staying up late, writing blogs, playing games, and the like, but it's all the same. It has the familiar feel of riding a bike again. I write poetry more often, especially limericks. They're fun. I study the gospel more. I want to be a good person. I want to impress someone's parents, especially in the first encounter. I want a large family. So there are a few changes, mostly in my desires. And I feel I'm beginning to understand how freeing but empowering it is to rely on someone else for your biggest worries.

I got accepted to BYU this last January. I did not sign up for classes or found housing until I got home last week. I now have a full schedule of the classes I need and the Moore's offered for me to stay with them. Still paying rent, still need a job, but I have been able to let all the stresses of those events and needs fall to the wayside because someone up in that big, blue sky loves me and was preparing a way. Life is good. It always had been. I don't know why I keep resisting. I don't know why I keep going back to the old self. But that is the point of this, Speaker for the Dead speaks for the dead me, the old thoughts and desires.

What I'd love to do right now is see a whole bunch of people face to face, hug them, and let them know that I love them. Many people over the last four years have made a big difference in who I am. I am thankful for that and I am thankful that I need other people to help me make the change. But the love will wait, probably strengthening in the process.

Never Count Our Friendship

This is aimed at all willing to read and those willing to learn; I feel it must be understood.

Never count the bills we pick up for the each other, because I'll get it sometimes.  Never count the times I fail you, because I will do it again someday.  Never count the days we talk on the phone, the letters that should have been sent weeks ago, or hours spent together, because there will always be more.  Never count the hours I am unable to speak with you or give you advice, because I'm always devoted to you.  Never count the times I give you advice, because I often need to hear it more than you do.  Never count our friendship, because those things of greatest value aren't defined by numbers.

Never count me for good or evil, because I'll always prove otherwise.  Never count on me making the right decision, because neither of us know what it is.  Never count on my waiting, because I serve those most immediate.  Never count on my resolve, because I have faith in no end except ending all.  Never count my love, because you can't define how much you mean to me.  Never count our friendship, because I stopped keeping score once you won my loyalty.

Buddha Blogs

Years ago, in a surprisingly quiet classroom I saw a poster on the wall of a dear teacher.  It was a beautiful picture of a man walking into a valley with high cliffs around him.  The quote on the poster was, "At first, I walked along the floor of the valley for many years.  I looked up, witnessed the power of the mountains around me, and began to climb them, with much difficulty for I was weak and inexperienced.  After many years, I became agile and as strong as the mountains I conquered and then I looked down and beheld the gentle beauty of the green and flowing valley beneath me.  I descended and have since relished in the life of the valley floor."  Or something like that.  It attributed the quote to Buddha.

The man had three parts to his life.  He started in a life of ease, but he didn't understand it.  The path was flat and easy.  Water and food abounded around him.  He opened his eyes though and witnessed how much he was missing out on, so he chose to explore, climbing up the steep and dangerous slopes.  He was lucky to survive long enough to gain the strength needed to conquer his mountains.  He beheld his glory and reveled in it, because he was great.  But then he noticed the gentle stream below him, the calm valley, and remembered the ease and bliss of his previous life, so he chose to return.  That life, now understood by him, became beautiful in absence and learning.  Had he stayed there forever, he would have simply lived an ignorantly blissful life devoid of trial, strength, or need.  This is not a life I view as worth living.

Life is a progession of trials which test the ability to climb the next mountain.  Unless I become stronger, abandoning the weaknesses I had develop as a source of pleasure and thus addiction, a source of inaction and thus atrophy, and as a source of pride and thus blindness, I will not survive long enough to survey the obstacles of my past, the deeds of my present, and the choices of my future.  Not all pleasures become addictions, because many are needed to help us relax and renew, only those pleasures that distract us from that which must be done.  Not all inaction atrophies, because sometimes there is no action to take, only those actions avoided out of fear.  Not all pride blinds us, because we should all be proud of a bang-up job, only that which clouds our fear of the future.  (Pink Floyd just came on, I am pleased)

This is also true of every part of our life.  At first we are ignorant of everything.  Then we notice literature, art, martial arts, music, religion, sports, and many other beautiful dangers.  We attempt to conquer them or we don't.  Our success is defined according to the failures we survived and moved-on from.  Those who choose to come down early, just produce objects not worthy of masters' hands andminds, are little better off than those who never challenge themselves.

We can't be stagnant and great.  We must try ourselves upon the rocky slopes life placed around us or accept our place beneath those climbing.  If we choose comfort and safety we shall be content, but without pain we can never know true pleasure.  If we choose the trial of the mountain, we shall be miserable and tired and beaten, but our glory and happiness will be greater than that of kings, in the end.

Deal With It

I watched Stranger than Fiction for the first time tonight.  It was fantastic.  It just moved onto my list.  It was fairly predictible, but I was alright with that since the commentaries on life have become more and more predictible as I've learned about natural and literary symbols.  Nice, but boring.

As I watched Harold die, he is the protagonist of Stranger than Fiction, I came to two realization.  As the movie ended, I suddenly wanted to go outside and pound on the punching bag.  I had already done so early this day so I was tired, but it felt like the thing to do to make me feel better.  For me, fighting is one of the greatest ways to live.  The combative competition and my body reacting as quickly, powerfully, and accurately as I desire it to do so.  The control and sensations of muscles straining, tendons stretching, and pain awaken an often slumbering part of me.  And very little of fighting is physical.  I have never lost a fight I knew I would win.  That might sound silly, but every fight I have lost, I knew I was going to lose before it happened.  Watch Hero, I hope it makes more sense.  And the same benefits of fighting with my fists is achieved when I fight with other parts of my body, most commonly my lips, most commonly used in seduction or debate.  It's all a combat, just different rules.

I suppose it was not a realization, but another confirmation that I do not cry at death.  It bothers me in no way.  Honestly, it never has confused, scared, or disarmed me; I am not this way because of my faith, but because of my experience.  Death is not the worst part of this life.  I am incapable of mourning the eternal happiness of another.  And it is selfish of me to mourn for my own loss.  At a much too young age I was subject to pain indescribable; a pain that changes an individual.  No one dead is subject to that, so the only emotion I can feel for the dead is jealously.  And then (but only the first time freshman year) I realize that for every moment of physical or emotional pain I have endured, I have received happiness ten-fold from friends, family, and by existing.

One of my favorite scenes in Firefly is in one of the un-aired episodes where an old friend of the Captain and Zoe shows up dead.  Shepherd is walking past the casket and comes upon Jayne, who is working out.  Jayne asks the Shepherd if he'd like to do a couple reps and that he, Jayne, would spot him.  Shepherd declines and Jayne continues saying that if he killed a man in a fair fight or a man wanting to start one he had no problem with the man's death.  But this death made him feel...like he wanted to work out or be with a woman.  Shepherd responded that he understand, Jayne sought to feel alive when in the presence of death; he sought to simply acknowledge his five senses and prove he was alive.

A few thoughts on...stuff I guess

I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad, the most romantic thing I can think of right now is something along the lines of, "For now darling we must stand strong in the angry flames and endure the choices which coerced us there, but someday we shall be free.  Whether our freedom is a heaven or a hell doesn't matter, because we'll be there together.  So, you and me babe, how about it?" (I have a lot of songs going through my head right now)

The summer Institute class is "Preparing for a Celestial Marriage."  This is often quite boring for me because...well I will gone in two weeks, I won't be married for quite some time once I return, and the boy to girl ratio is never quite right.  But this evening's lesson was about finding an eternal companion and it was kinda fun.  We talked about what we looked for in a companion and after a while of hearing the same old trusting and goal-oriented and spiritual and oh so many cliches I decided to suggest a heart-melter.  I said, "I want someone with a beautiful smile that I get to see all the time because I can make her laugh."  I received chorused "ahhhs" from the girls.  But thinking about it seriously, I really do mean that.  The only two physical traits that I have seen as beautiful in an 80 year-old as an 18 year-old are their smile and their eyes.  They just seem to never fade in a person who is truly beautiful.  And if I can make someone laugh honest, gut-wrenching, boistrous laughter, it means we share a sense of humor and can get along most of the time.  That means a lot to me.

Tonight, I also had the chance to play volleyball with a bunch of strangers.  Some of the girls we played with, particularly these two gals, were quite attractive.  Like really attractive.  It was surprisingly nice to see and play with and flirt with two complete strangers I'll never see again.

On an important note, at least to me, I kissed a girl yesterday.  It was quite nice.  I won't see her again for over two years.  I also just realized that she is the last person I'll kiss for the time period.

Relationships

Romance is fun.  The stress of it.  The little successes.  Butterflies.  Timid glances.  Lustful looks.  Discussing it.  Rationalizing it.  The first kiss.  Yeah, it's a good time.  I've been thinking about relationships a lot recently, mostly analyzing my own experience.  This seems silly to me because I'm leaving in just over three weeks; I have no time to have a real relationship; I have no desire to get strung up before I leave.  While opportunities to be amoral have abounded, the one person I would have gladly accepted a promiscuous proposition from has received me with innocence, virtue, and simplicity.  Which, while I doubt she knows it, is exactly what I need and probably what I want.

In my endeavors to expose the whimsical woes of my many mischevious deeds I came upon two conjectures.  That the first kiss bares an alarming amount of importance and that the break-up really only allows concise closure to one party.

The break-up always bites.  Royally.  Having someone break up with you, no matter the reason or excuses, feels like a punch to the stomach.  I have some personal rules about breaking-up with someone, that I won't go into right now, that I hope makes it easier for the other person, but it hurts no matter how it's done.  But what about breaking up with someone.  A relationship can end well; neither person was really dependent on the other, both parties understand why it happened, and friendship is still available afterwards.  A relationship can end poorly, for any number of reasons.  Either way, when it ends, both parties need to move on.

The person who got broke up with though, has a much easier time of this I feel.  They have no choice in the matter.  The other person doesn't want to be with them or can't be with them and is leaving.  When broken-up with, often one feels anger at the other person and this acts as a catalyst to speed up and improve the moving on process.  While it often happens, feelings of "what could I have done" or "I'll try and win them back" do little good because they rarely help much.  You've been broken up with, just move on and be happy.

But what about the breakee-uper?  That is the silliest looking word...  We'll just call it the scumbag.  :)  I mean no offense to anyone, I've broken up with several people (I'm actually almost at 50% even for being in both positions) and I think it applies to the way one feels afterwards.  So, what about the scumbag?  They had a choice.  With that choice comes  the resolves from fretting over whether to do it or not over several weeks, which also forces one to endure the perpetuating poison of a rotting relationship and does not, in any way, ensure the relief from remorse one would hope for.  Or the gutwrenching guilt from ripping out the tender heart of one you care(d) about (which doesn't always happen, but I still feel bad).  Neither is all that fun.  Also, once it happens, you have the opportunity to doubt your decision for no limited length of time.  THERE IS NO LIMIT TO YOUR GUILT AND REMORSE!!!  I feel that should be made clear.  Seriously though, you know it's your fault it ended; even if they were a horrible person, you ended it; even if you had no choice, you ended it.  That kind of sucks to think about.  Which is why I think if we do break-up with a person, we've really got to make a point to move on, because I don't think we scumbags have the social right to feel contrition about our actions, because that is a royal mental-disturbance to the person broken-up with.  We're all going to have to break up with someone at some point I'm sure, but we've got to make it easier on both parties.

The first kiss.  So much history and delight held within one brief congress.  Hopefully followed by several more.  I find it best when spontaneous and spun upon unsatiated tension tying two up in unusual defiance aimed at the remaining world.  But, who kisses whom first?  I had a very close friend tell me that the guy should make the first move.  I actually agree with her for many reasons.  But I don't believe the first kiss is the first move.  A guy can declare a great deal of interest and sexuality towards a girl without kissing her.  Also, what do you do in a lesbian or gay relationship?  (I guess both guys could just ravage each others face at the same time, but that leaves the gals high and dry...literally.  Well, at least the dry part.  They can get high without other people.  Guys too actually)  Well, in all my conquests and submissions I've noticed one commonality and I actually noticed it from one of my biggest failures this last year.  That first kiss really decides who gets to hold the safe word.

There is something to be said about being submissive.  You get to say stop.  This isn't culture breeding or some secret nurture device trained in us.  I've yet to find a culture where the person receiving doesn't have the right to say stop.  When one is the initiator, one has the responsibility to keep things moving and to not stop until asked to.  I hate this rule, because I can't blame it on anything but human nature.  It like the play Dolls says, "A guy is just supposed to take whatever comes along, right?"  I always wanted that part, because I've been stuck in that situation.  Guys are traditionally the aggressor, even sexually, which means they are expected to be...aggressive, make the first move, go in for the first kiss, and not stop until their partner says stop.  I'm here to say I have limits, especially sexually, and if you push me I will break because I hate feeling awkward and have little control once I shut emotionally down (which happens when pushed past my limits), but I will be broken for a long time and you won't like me in that state.  It's scary.  And I've known (and dated) girls who have made the first move and went in for the kiss first and their partner said stop and the girls got offended or confused.  That first kiss kind of defines who has the right to say stop, because the person who initiated it is supposed to keep going.  I find the longer and healthier (if only one adverb exists, I haven't really noticed it) a relationship is the more balanced and less aggressor/submissive it is and becomes.  It's really good to see when it works.

Dreams

I dreamed last night. This is a rather unusual occurrence, as some of you may know, but not unheard of at any given time. On one hand, my dreams are strange and difficult to define, but, on the other, they are rather exciting. Ultimately, I don't like dreaming. Oddly, last night was . . . intensely pleasant.

First, some background physics. There is something called the event horizon; it is the point past which light cannot escape a black hole. Now, for years, I had believed that light would just get stuck once it reached this point, in a perfect situation. It would constantly be trying to escape the pull of the black hole and the black hole would constantly try to suck it in. Last night I realized the folly of this thinking because the gravity of a black hole is constant (ha, I made a pun) but the velocity of a photon of light (which for no conceivable reason acts like it has mass) is not accelerating, so gravity, no matter how small, will overcome the speed of light after a given amount of time. WHICH IS AWESOME! So pretty much what would usually happens is something like a yo-yo, the light speeds past the black hole, through the event horizon, and is suddenly pulled back to never be seen. This is what I was thinking about as I drifted into slumber. Well, that and a couple specific different girls and some teachers and . . . stuff really.

Anyway, the dream (and I was promising myself this would be short). I'm in some sort of alley, there are brick buildings, lots of cement walls and such. A nuclear explosion goes off nearby. In the process of being disintegrated (I die a lot in dreams) my old concept of the event horizon comes up and just a couple of atoms manage to keep themselves from moving in any one direction, so I, rather my spirit, attached itself to those little specks and materialized itself (sorry if there is any confusion. I've never dreamed or remembered anything in first person, always third-person omniscient). In hindsight, upon waking up, I decided that it was kind of like a ghost; my identity had attached itself to a the physical plane and refused to leave, but I am also able to interact with the physical world, I find shortly. I'm dead and I realize this, so I wander.

In my wanderings I come upon an alley with more brick walls and there is a car and I see this girl. I recognize her from this life as someone who I really care about. There are other people there, but none of them of any consequence. I see that she is in a similar predicament to me. She exists, but is only the veneer of a body. I, almost instinctively (which is strange, because I haven't ever in real life), went up to her, grabbed her behind the nape of her neck, and, with my other hand, connected myself to her waist. I began to kiss her. I realize this is a dream, but I have never kissed anyone so deeply and richly as I kissed this girl right then. Her taste and touch were terrific and tempting. The embrace was returned just as readily and amorously. As we continued to embrace, it seemed that each moment caused us to connect even more deeply. As we kissed, she wrapped her hands around my neck and lifted her legs around my hips. We drifted from the hood of the car to the side of it to the wall and down the alley. The dream continued for quite some time, with variously levels of confusion and disturbance on my part, but the part with the girl stopped. It was sad.

As I said, I realize this was a dream. I can hope that this would happen. And to some degree it might someday. I doubt I'll ever experience a nuclear explosion while in a brick-laden alleyway lit only by the dream of industrialization and destroyed by the vision of expansionism, but who knows? I can say that I haven't had the benefit of such unsatiating pleasure.