The Waygukin way

  Well,  I am in South Korea.  I moved here about six weeks ago.  I don't know what to say about it.  I suppose I am writing because I know I need to.  I know it is overdue,  and now I have the few moments required to sit at this screen and type a few words.  I can go in to all the reasons for coming here, for uprooting my life and moving to some country I know so little of, where no one speaks my language, and I do not speak theirs.  Perhaps there are too many reasons though, perhaps I do not understand these many reasons myself.  

  I moved here to teach English.  I moved here to in some attempt to seek out the adventure I know I have been missing throughout my life.  I moved here to experience some new place, some new culture, some distant land and people.  Maybe I moved here to escape the reality of losing my job, of a bad economy, of so little prospects.  Maybe I moved here just to escape, to run.  Maybe I moved here in some flight and plight for freedom inside me.  I moved here to learn, simply to learn.  I have many hopes for my new life here, for this next year before I return back home, not knowing what home to return back to.  I have not yet realized my dreams for coming.  I wanted to learn Korean, a new language.  I know only a few words, and am realizing I will not learn the language in a short year.  It is a difficult language to learn.  Being here makes me want to learn Spanish, become fluent in it.  The difficulty of Korean, knowing I will not adequately learn it gives me such a desire to know a language other than my own native one, and Spanish being a language I already have studied and can hold basic conversations in, I want to learn that language, and I think of going to some other country after this, to learn some new culture, to learn a language I know I could learn.  

  I wanted to travel while here, see as much of this large continent as I could.  I hope to make it to 8-10 countries while here, a difficult task, but one I know I can accomplish.  The time for traveling will not come till the end of this venture, and as things change, and have changed already, I know some of my traveling plans already have been altered.  I cannot state the reason just yet, but new plans will have to be made.  I am impatient to see other places, to watch the sunset over a new land, to bow to some passing stranger on a street I don't know the name of, to gag on the food or gulp it down, to smell every particle of dust and fragrance of flowers in the air.  I want to swim in every ocean, every sea and judge the sand between my toes.  I'll have it.  I need to have it, or else not just this experience, this one mere year, but all my life, every moment hereafter will be a void never filled, and I'll continue to look back not only upon the life I did live, but upon the life I never lived.  

  I want to read while here, to study, to write, to learn.  I have time to read.  I read most every week day, and am engrossed in a book right now.  I have time after classes at school, but before I am allowed to go home.  I sit in my classroom, silently, or out side on a bench with the noise of swarming and curious school children buzzing about me, and I read a book.  I love that time.  I look forward to that time, and as much as I love the weekend, I find myself waiting for the week, to wake up early, to go to work, knowing that only on workdays will I find the time to sit and read.  I am anxious in the book, to discover what I know I will not discover for 250 pages more, but I must get through those 250 pages as fast as can be done, and when there, 250 more pages will be ahead of me again.  I am anxious to finish the book, and yet I find myself already depressed at knowing I will finish it.  What then will I have to look forward to?  What then will make the week so enthralling, the otherwise moments of drudgery so exciting?  When I finish the book, I know I will not be able to read it any longer, that this great masterpiece is something I will no longer experience for the first time.  I must complete it, the addict inside me will not let me stop, and yet I want to stop, to pace myself, to calm myself and drag this moment out, so that always I can look forward to it.  I will not though, and I merely pray the next book I find keeps me so much with it.  It is hard to find books in English here, and the books I have I fear will not last me beyond 2-3 weeks.  I must find something new soon.  

  I don't study here.  Why don't I?  Why don't I find the time?  My free time has not really been my free time and I really have no time for myself, this now being among the rare moments of solitude, and I a craver of the silence, a seeker of the solitude.  I wanted to study Theology, like I once did, to know the things I knew, to feel the things I felt, the things I know if given oxygen I could feel again.  I wanted to study languages, business, vocabulary, anything, and yet I have not.  Why haven't I?  Are my excuses adequate?  Should I stand up and say I need the time?  Will the insanity from lacking it break me?  Can a shattered man be broken?  

  I don't write.  This is my first entry since being here.  I slack in all my duties, and I apologize.  I apologize to myself, to my many future selves and all who could learn from the stories I could tell if only I took the time to make the stories.  I will be better.  I know shortly I'll have the time, more time than wanted, more time than needed, and I'll be forced with it, shoved in to it, and we'll see how healthy and strong I can remain then, when it is I alone who will listen.  We'll see what stories come from that, from inside me, without me. 

  I wanted to experience living in a different country.  I have always wanted this, never allowed it, never allowed myself it.  I knew that with losing my job I no longer could make the excuses.  I knew it was this time and only this time where I could make away from being responsible, safe, practical.  I wanted to go to Central or South America, again, knowing I could learn the language fluently, but of course, I can never fully kill the practical man inside me.  This is it, right here, why I chose Korea over any other place.  They pay more.  Most countries pay their English teachers only enough for basic survival, but here in Korea, they pay an actual wage, a higher wage than the beginning native Korean teachers make.  They pay all airfare expenses and a years worth of rent.  They cover half medical insurance, give a small settlement allowance, and pay a monthly salary far exceeding other expenses.  It is possible to work here, travel many countries, and still go home with money to wait out a bad economy, or to run off to some other place for some new adventure.  I am living in another country though, and I can feel how grateful I will be for it, in the near and distant future.  I am learning a new culture, bowing is becoming second nature, and I am starting to feel I disrespect myself when walking in my own apartment with my shoes on.  When I shake hands, I put my left hand across my stomach and at my side and when giving or receiving anything I place my left hand upon my right arm, grabbing with my right hand.  I am eating food I would have, could have never thought of eating, eating things I do not like, all in an attempt to know the culture.  I was a vegetarian for over 13 years.  For over 13 years I stayed away from meat religiously, and I gave it all up the night I flew here.  I realize one cannot truly experience a culture without experiencing the food, and that is certainly true of Korea.  The food is a big part of their culture, and while I do not like much of it, I eat everything I am given.  I try everything I can.  I gave up myself for it, a large part of myself.  If you are not a vegetarian, you will never understand.  Giving it up, is giving up one of the larger parts of your identity.  I find myself embarrassed at meeting vegetarians now, as though I am one of those who gave up.  I find myself ashamed at eating meat at times.  I am NOT a vegetarian, and yet deep within me, I feel I still should be.  Why am I embarrassed for this?  Why am I ashamed?  I know I was a vegetarian longer than most those I meet now.  I know I was stricter and more obedient to the task than most I meet, and yet, still this is how I feel.  I do not regret it though, for I know I am in fact experiencing more than others.  I know I am learning more about this place, about the people.  I try everything, not only the food, but every option, every activity, every gesture.  I have eaten food, and will eat food I know I shall never wish to eat again, and I am glad for it.  I'll do it intentionally, and some of it, well, some of it will surprise me, and I'll find myself liking it here and there, as I find myself learning to like things now the more I eat them.  I should send you pictures of the things they eat, videos, or write some blog dedicated only to that.  

  Well, my time to write is wrapping up, and so this writing must wrap up also.  Let me quickly tell you of where I live.  I live in a city called Yeosu.  It is on the south coast of Korea in Jeulonom-Do.  They call it a small city, though it has 350,000 - 400,000 people, though it has the amenities of a city much smaller.  There is no department store, no mall, and little in English.  Few people here speak English, and many consider themselves more country folk than city folk.  They are a proud people, proud of their culture, of their country, of their food, and I love this pride in them.  I know I have heard it said there is no such thing as righteous pride, though I have never fully agreed with that.  I am proud of things.  I am proud of my country, and I find myself saddened when I meet people who cannot say the same about their country, regardless of what that country might be.  I do not find myself saddened in this country.  They are friendly here, so much so it makes us feel guilty at times how they treat us so well, even those who do not speak our language, who cannot understand us.  My city is on they yellow sea and is made of over 300 islands, the vast majority of which are un-inhabited.  The city itself is a small peninsula.  My school sits atop a large hill, halfway up Gu Bong mountain.  We have a view of the bay below us, the water of the sea, and Shinae, the old downtown area.  A picture of my city is below, of the water and some of the small islands taken from a small Buddhist temple above my school.  It is a beautiful place there, small, undisturbed, quiet, almost secretive, with a large cherry tree which is now in full blossom.  Quiet music, prayers, or chants play silently and rhythmically over small speakers above the main temple.  The air now is calm, some wind nearly always blowing, the water below , the city far away, the sky and trees and mountain all that is near.  It is a temple indeed, if only for the soil and oxygen around it, and for the desire to sit and meditate, to stay and pray.  It is a temple indeed.  

  I live in a small studio apartment, a bed, a fridge, a two burner stove.  It is smaller than many of the bedrooms I have had in the past.  I live the minimalist life.  Oh, Thoreau be proud.  I have this laptop, a small TV left in the apartment with some channels occasionally playing shows in English.  I have a camera, scriptures, a few novels, a suitcase of clothes, and that is it.  The bed is unimaginably hard, like resting on a stone, so I bought a small pad to place on top of it.  Only now are people beginning to buy matresses and beds in Korea.  Many still sleep on the floor, resting on yo mats laid across the ground.  The floors are heated. I have a fan, a bar posted up against the wall to hang clothes on, and a small bookshelf acting as a dresser drawer, and as a bookshelf.  The bathroom is small, no drawers, cabinets, or shelves, and the shower is a hose hooked up to the sink, no stall, no tub, just the bathroom floor.  I have a large patio with a washing machine and a clothes line, and the washing machine leaks water all over the patio, creating a small wading pull.  

  Yeosu is surrounded not only by water, but also by hills and mountains, which are slowly beginning to green, though the trees have been blossoming for near two weeks.  Koreans do love their blossoms and hold festivals for nearly every tree with blossoming flowers.  I have been to many already, and I too love the blossoms.  I can see a row of cherry tree blossoms from my window, and I am growing sad to see the blossoms slowly replaced by leaves.  I see pink and white in many shades on every hill side.  It is beautiful, and soon it will all cocoon in to dark and deep green.  I'm including a few pictures, and will post others later.  For now though, this post is long and tiresome to read.  It is night now, and sleep is calling.  I think of all of you, back in America.  You are now just waking up to a day I have already lived.  I am searching for a sleep you will not experience for many hours to come.  I am reaching back through the time, the hours and the miles, and I greet you with some kind word to say goodnight.  

  

Ozzy Rules

Oh, it has been busy and crazy, and life will soon become far crazier.  I look forward to it.  It is late now, and my mind and body are worn down, but I know I must write.  About a week ago I returned from a trip to Melbourne, Australia.  It is a goal of mine to take each member of my family on a vacation.  A few years back I was able to take my dad to London, as he spent a few years there in his youth it was a wondrous place to take him.  More recently I had the opportunity to take my oldest brother Dustin to Australia, one of his dream trips.  His best friend Lisi lives down there, so we flew down to visit him.  All I will say about the trip is an extended excerpt from my journal about our drive down The Great Ocean Road . Wednesday, February 11, the year of our Lord two thousand nine. ...The drive was beautiful, taking us down through beach towns of sea green and white foam waters, winding through  and over hills of vineyards sloping down to the sea among the rolling hills and steeps cascading down to the sea.  We passed through gorgeous farms manicured in the country side and landscaped gardens and endless fields of sheep and cattle.  We drove through dark forests stretching out to oceans and cliffs, walls of trees swallowing the road, the pavement, our car.  We drove down the road, hours of nature and scenery to The Twelve Apostles, rocks eroded out of the dropping cliffs from centuries of battle with the unforgiving sea and quarreling winds, three great elements, land, air, water, warring to destroy the creations they have fashioned, unyielding artists of stone and sand and sky.  It is a glorious place, miles of stretching ocean and near endless white wash against the brushed sand.  God is an Aborigine I think, in His art, His work and creations.    How I love the Ocean, an ocean as this, clear blue and green and white, the waves curled and crested and crashed, lulling and humming like a didgeridoo.  God is an aborigine I think, in His music and instruments, water, sand, and oxygen and wind, some symphony of pleasing songs, an echo.  The land, she speaks to me.  Everywhere I go she speaks and I listen.  There are stories she tells.  Some I cannot understand, but all I am grateful for and keep these stories, sacked inside me.  The Twelve Apostles, they are beautiful, crowns of Australian majesty and surely Apostles they are, guardians of this continent, watchtowers on the southern coast, beacons of the untamed, unknown divine.     We drove from The Twelve Apostles down to a place called Triplet Falls and took a hike, or bush walk through the forest, a jungle of ferns and Eucalyptus.  We bush walked deep down what must have been a ravine, dark in a forest, the canopy hundreds of feet above, bum trees near like the redwoods of California, giants among mere men.  They climbed to a sky they hoarded in, selfish with the sunlight they only allowed to trickle in.  If I could be some bird, or put claws on my hands and feet so I could climb and nest atop some ancient temple of timber and say to him, "brother, I know you."    We travelled down the path, oh glorious trees, gum trees climbing high and ferns down low of all sizes, some like trees, like the palmettos I saw in South Carolina.  The hike culminated at a river and falls pressing through the rock and trees.  We drove down to Otway National Park to spot koalas and saw them all around us, napping in the branches and walking the balance beams of tree limbs to snack on the green of Eucalyptus leaves.  I climbed up low in the trees to be closer, to look into the beads of their eyes and say to them also, "brother, I know you."  Oh, God of great things who made me, these too are yours, and in them I honor you.    We continued down The Great Ocean Road, all mesmerized at the furious calm of the waves and each of the colors.  These sights could never be painted, never captured...Oh ocean, I love you.  Am I leaving you?  Always I will keep you inside.  We watched the sun sink down through the clouds, kissing the water in the western horizon, and we upon those mighty cliffs, and we saw dozens of kangaroos out for food in a green field divided by a calm brook emptying in to the ocean.  They hopped and jumped along and ate, and I watched, enthused and happy...   

  This is what I will say of that trip.  Another great adventure now begins, and adventure I will need to write much of, if only for me.  

The Invisible Man

"I am an invisible man...I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids-and I might even be said to possess a mind.  I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me

 - Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison.

  It is a day for writing, though I do not know what words my mind can speak now, so I will let my fingers do the writing and perhaps my mind will tire of their incompetence and find some way to speak.  

  My mother in her blog some time ago wrote a line in reference to the picture shown above.  It is a line that still stays with me.  

"This is Cordell, standing at the shore, with his poets heart, soaking in the serenity that he finds in the myriad beauties of creation. He's not always content with his solitude, but he no longer seems afraid of it. "

  I am not always content with my solitude, but I no longer seem afraid of it.  Is it that my mother has such insight into me?  Mothers should know their children, and my mother more than most has an ability, an insight, a talent, and I know how she joys in my joy, and how my sorrows burden her perhaps more even than they do burden me.  Even now were I to write down some of myself, my secrets, my passions and longings, it would be harder for her to read than for me to write.  I make my mother cry.  I know I do, and I cry because of it.  No child wishes this, but I know she cries because she cares, she hopes, she pleads with God for me, and I know she will cry still, perhaps even at reading these words here.  I am sorry Mother.  Let us wipe our tears together, for I cry too.  I cry with you.

  It is true, I am not always content with my solitude.  People do not realize that my self-imposed sense of isolation is not always intentional.  I am a man of weakness, and this is my weakness.  Is it also true I no longer fear this solitude?  I once did, greatly so.  I beat at my chest to take it out of me, but the silence is deafening in what she says when we but listen, and I have learned to listen and find the calm in the noise of my solitude.  Yes, sometimes I love her.  She is my solace, and yet my torture.  I am glad I no longer seem afraid of her Mother.  I am glad, but do you know that yes, she scares me still?  Do you know I run from her and try and drown her out at times, but cannot?  Yes, I fear her.  Solitude is the heartbreak of those special women I have ever loved, those I tried to love, and lost, and more so, this silence, she is the pain and heartbreak for that one woman I have yet to love, yet to find.  Solitude is the joy of discovery.  While I am embattled with the confusion that I am, still I have a depth to me, an insight that perhaps no one but you, dear Mother, would ever see in me.  Solitude gives me this.  It is the joy of riding my motorcycle alone when I have nowhere to be but on the saddle of my bike, the time to think, to dream, to believe in the life I know I am meant for.  Solitude is the birth of knowledge, the hundreds of books and poems and words those far greater than I have left and written, and I understand them.  I know some author somewhere in time knew I would read his words, and wrote them for me, for my own joy in reading does not equal his joy in writing the words down knowing I would read them, and I would get it, and when I feel the breadth of poetry and passion, and it clicks in me and moves me to places beyond mere solitude, this author, he shouts out "Yes, that's it.  You got it, dear boy.  Thank you for understanding.  Thank you for this catharsis in me."  

  This solitude, she is pain of passed opportunities, of falling victim to the inability to meet my own mark of perfection.  Silence is the nagging reminder of unfinished goals, unrealistic expectations.  She is that moment in music, some song that each time you hear you must sing it, shout it, feel it.  I sing one thousand songs inside me each second that I breathe.  Silence is the hard reality that sometimes she is all you have, all who will listen, all who will ever understand.  Solitude is the terror in thinking no one will ever see past mere skin, and the glittering faith in hoping someday, someone will.  

  I will always take the bad with the good, for it is the sorrow which defines the joy.  I have much joy, and I would not chase out the solitude.  I enjoy my moments alone.  I have mentioned that in an earlier post.  I take myself out on dates, on motorcycle drives, walks on the beach, dinner and a movie, or simply set moments aside for good conversation.  I fight.  I apologize.  I struggle to get passed the barriers.  I try to let myself in.  I laugh.  I smile.  I cry.  I dream and make believe.  We are our own best friends, our own worst enemies, and solitude is the same, for silence is but the personification of those voices we do hide.  I cannot hate the silence, those solitary moments, for I would only be hating my own created self.  I am the master of my ship, the captain of my soul, and sometimes I do set the sails astray, and I fear the silence only because I fear those things that I might say.  Am I who I am meant to become?  Was today the day it was meant to be?  

  I am a private man.  It has been a frustration with some I have dated in the past.  One word often used to describe me is "mysterious."   I guard my solitude.  I guard my secrets, my mind, my heart, and the thousand truths in each of my eyes.  I am a private man.  Why then do I blog?  Why do I write in such a snitching tone, all my words a confessional narrative?  Why do I write?  Are not these posts journal entries of personal matters?  Things I never share, now parceled out to an unknown public?  Why do I do this?  I go against myself.  Is it catharsis only?  Or is it a buried need, a mousy hope and desire for someone to know me?  These words are safety, a voiceless telling of a secret self.  This is my anonymous message in a bottle, an expression without having to talk, to face, to answer questions.  If I never talk, then I do keep myself, my mystery intact, so I write the words, and place them in a kind of space where few will ever find them, but all are able to read.  I know few people read this.  We are a secret club.  Maybe I write for the sake of writing, to prove that I still can, to show myself though I may be unable to fashion poetry, still I can write some expression that means something, that I can show some sincere voice.  Perhaps I write only to read my own words and gain the satisfaction of knowing they are mine.  Perhaps I write to allow something in me to slip out, and prove to people I am discoverable; I am worth it.  Perhaps all of this.  Perhaps none of it.  Is it a game for me?  We all the mouse, and these words the cat.  I am a private man, a man of mystery.  

Pura Vida

I recently came back from a trip to Costa Rica with myself and four of my female friends. I feel I would be remiss in my duties as a blogger, if that is what I am attempting to be here, were I not to include some entry about the trip. I am not entirely sure what I am to say about the trip. I would find it boring were I to give a travel log, so instead I think I'll copy down a few excerpts from my journal.

I do not let anyone read those things I write in my journal, so this is new for me.

11/27/08

... Last night we did a night hike up through the mountains just across from the volcano... It was complete darkness and raining, so we walked through the mud of the jungle able to only see a few feet in front of us and walked across a suspension bridge, we balancing in the dark of the jungle, swaying slowly and silently above a rapid river below us. Afterward we went to a spot in the river fed by natural spring hot pots. The water was fantastically warm and fast moving, creating a wonderful and long water slide carrying you down the river and off a small waterfall to still warmer water and you could swim under the waterfall to a cave, dark and empty but for the water and our bodies ...

We came to a waterfall and were able to walk right to the base. It was wonderful to see the water clear and white rushing through the forest juxtaposed against the swarm of green and trees. I found a long vine hanging down from the canopy of trees above, and like Tarzan I climbed up the vine and swung through the jungle and fashioned a loin skirt out of giant leaves from the plants growing and made my Tarzan noise and beat my chest in ape fashion with my Tarzan hair and leaves covering my near nakedness. It was a great time.

...Several of the bridges were suspension bridges that rocked and swayed with each movement we made forcing a drunk walk across. Some of the bridges were through the jungle and through the trees, both dark and green, and mud soil, and other bridges were above the jungle, atop the canopy, the jungle floor far far below us and we ended with the perfect vista of Arenal Volcano and the gray lava of day visible flowing down the side slowly smoke rising.

...Today, we walked across the street to the beach, the ocean dark and lonely and we all stripped down and ran in. Skinny dipping is always a must, and the sand sparkled as we walked on it, and the water glowed and glittered from movement like fire flies in the ocean. We were alone there in the water and could not see each other even, but only the sparkling of the water, my own naked self against the air around me and the millions of stars in constellations. The sky is so clear tonight, and these stars stand out in a way you could never hope to see in California. It was amazing, and I could have stayed long there alone with but my thoughts and God, and were I with my wife, we would have made love there on that beach among the sparkling sand and stars and naked together we would have loved everything around us and each other and shared that moment, beach, ocean, sand, sky stars.

11/30/08

... Saturday we came down to Manuel Antonio. This is the prettiest place we have been to. It is the beach I hoped to see by coming to Costa Rica, and we hiked through Manuel Antonio National Park where jungle meets sand and ocean and the beaches are white and soft, surrounded by rain forest and the green of the hills. We saw sloths, iguanas, many birds, raccoons, weird rodent creatures, lots of monkeys, and an electric blue butterfly. The park was great. i would have liked more time there, and you exit at a small lagoon and some locals boat you across to the beach near where we began.

...A huge rainstorm moved in with lightning about in the jungle. It rained hard for hours, and the rain water piled high and flooded, and Suzette and I ran out in our swim suits dashing and splashing in the puddles all through town and a local said we looked like kids how we played. The rain fell warm down on us, soaking the skin of our bodies and we ran down the beach and jumped in the ocean with only dark and water around us. We played in the waves that crept up on us, the rain still coming down and it was glorious and warm, and I could go back. Take me back some time to that night with a woman I love and who loves me and we will kiss there in the ocean, the music of the waves and the touch of rain falling hard on us in a dark ocean and a black sky. Take me back sometime, and I will kiss her, there in the water. I will kiss her. We continued to play in the rain and walked down the street and found an art gallery dimly lit on the patio, closed, but still playing soft music and we waltzed there in the rain on that patio, dancing not just in the rain, but with it also . Why do I love the rain so much? I always have. I was alive last night, and shouted and sang and the elements knew my joy. We shared it all and drenched and soaked, I was in love with the moment.

Much else I could include, and much more I could write new, but it is late, and I have done my duty. It was a great trip, with great friends. Costa Rica is a beautiful country, the type of land I dream of someday owning, and life there, it really is simple, and laid back, and beautiful. It is the Pura Vida.

Know Thyself.

"Know thyself and thou shall know all the mysteries of the Gods and the Universe." Is it time to write again? Were I to have an active fan base, I would be a great disappointment, but here I am now, so let me speak a word or two. I am going to tell you a little about me, to bare what I can permit myself to bare. Each word, each secret, is a loss to me, for I have always been not just a secret man, but a secret itself, and I am guarded well, so I will not, cannot just now say too much, bet let us see what words will come. Many years ago, over a decade, I put a list together of all I hoped to find in a woman. The list was ridiculously long and painfully picky, but through that list, I created, or rather realized, the three most important things to me in a relationship. Now, while this was so long ago, and my dating life and habits and experiences have much changed since then, the importance of these three still remains, for in these things, I find myself also. 1. Someone who is very physical. Of the three main modes, or love languages (auditory, visual, kinisthetic) I am predominantly kinisthetic. Of course, like everyone I am a bit of all three, but kinisthetic remains the most important to me. I am a very physical person, and I experience love in these terms. It is important for me for a person to touch me, often and all over. It is important for me to touch someone in turn. I am very much a giver, and I relish in the knowledge of knowing I am pleasing someone I care for. With those I have truly loved, I do not shy away from any touch, in any place we may be. I need somoene who shares this, who is very touchy feely, and sensitive, and passionate, because without it I bore quickly, I frustrate, and I give up. I will never believe someone loves me if they do not touch me. 2. The ability to communicate. That is very generic I know, and I want it to remain somewhat generic because it is so inclusive. I want someone who is open and honest with me, someone who is able to talk about our problems and work them out, who is not afraid, who can show their vulnerability, their strength. I need to work on this myself. I will!! I want someone who can carry on an intelligent conversation, who I am in awe of, learn from, aspire to be. It is as important for me to be intellectually stimulated as it is for me to be physically stimulated. I want to discuss politics and religion, philosophy and literature. I want to be able to disagree and know I am respected. When I was younger I had these conversations, and I loved them, thrived on them, and over these many last years, they have been so few I feel unable to engage any longer. I feel less intelligent now than I was as a high school senior because my brain is a muscle I have not excercised. I want that back in my life. I want someone who intimidates me with her knowledge and the things she can teach me. I also want someone with whom I can engage in witty banter and comic railery. While I realize I am a shy person, I also love to flirt in the right circumstances. One of the most enjoyable parts of dating is the early flirting. I am quick and witty, and want someone who can not only keep up with me, but win and keep me on my toes. I want those zingers that push me back a step and all I can say is "good girl." Have you ever been with someone who you loved so much because you loved who you are when you are with them? That is what I want, someone who brings out that side of me, the side I love, that everyone loves, but few people know about. 3. Someone who can sit for long periods of time in total silence and not feel uncomfortable. Silence, my friends, is greatly under-rated. Sometimes don't words just ruin the moment, the simplicity, the perfection? I believe that if you are uncomfortable with silence it is only because you are uncomfortable with who you are with, and that is true wether you are with a friend, a lover, or only yourself alone. Perhaps I feel so strongly on this because I have spent so much of my time, my youth, my years alone, and I am now accustomed to the silence of my solitude, but it goes beyond this. I want to know when I am with someone that it is enough for that person to just be with me. I want to sit on a blanket staring up at the stars and say no single word, but think the thought that today God has blessed me for this beautiful person beside me. I want to hold her hand, kiss her softly, and be completely and comfortably content in the moment. It is interesting with how much I love the silence, that I also love music as much as I do. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will say my ipod is among my more valued possessions. Sometimes if I am in a conversation and a great song is on, I want to pause all talk and focus only on the song, on some beat, a string of chords, an echo, or the trembling in some singers voice. I thought of this, why I love music so much, and it is for much the same reason as I do enjoy the quiet. It helps me to focus on the moment, the now, on nothing but what is before me this instant, not a second before or after. What worries can I have when I am engrossed in the emotions that someone else wrote down for me? And if I have worries, they are only the worries I need out of me, and magically someone else found a way to express it. I am jealous of their words and wish that I had written them, for I felt them. It was me who starved for the words, and they who filled me. Music is important in my life Also, years ago, I compiled a list of what matters to me, the most important things in my life, that which I cannot do without. They are as follows: God, Christ, family, relationships, love, beauty, freedom. God and Christ I consider much the same. As I am a Christian, I know it is through Christ I get to God, and so I love Christ as my Savior, and it is God who I seek to return to. He is my father. I guess I put them seperately because I thought if Christ were not in my life, than the knowledge of God would still get me through. Family I consider both the family I have now and that I wish to have in the future. I am blessed with my family. I will talk more of my family at a later date. I am also anxious to have my own family. I taught a class the other day, and before classes begin I always talk with people and get to know them a little, and one gentleman was talking about his new family, and he wasn't much older than me, and was asking if I had a family. I told him I didn't, and wasn't married, but definitely wanted a wife and kids in the future. He told me he wished he would not have waited so long to have kids, and I told him I too sometimes wish to have kids early on because I want to be able to keep up with my kids as they are older. I want to play basketball with my sons when they are in high school and have it be competetive. I want to hike with them without them waiting an hour at the top. He said that is not at all the reason he wished he had kids sooner, but he said, "You should see the way my son dotes on me, and the way he dotes on his grandparents." I want that. I want the white picket fence dream, the house, the mortgage, the wife, the kids, the saturday trips to the park for soccer games and ballet recitals, watching a home movie and for once in my life enjoying it, having pride in it. Relationships and love can also be combined. Relationships being both the one and ultimate relationship I hope to have with a woman some day, and the relationships I have with everyone I encounter on any path I take. I seek meaningfull relationships. I do not have enough of them, and it is much to my doing. Love, oh, I will have to speak someday of the love I have inside of me, tearing at my skin. It is deep, and it cuts, and weeps. I am too able to love I think. This too, someday I may tell you of. Beauty and Freedom. I live for beauty. This is one of the big reasons I love my motorcycle as much as I do. Her name is Jana Amata, and yes, their is great meaning to her name. When I am on my motorcycle, I feel and sense everything. When you are in a car, you are seperated from what is around you, but when on a motorcycle, you are part of it, and each canyon I drive through, I am the very soil of the hills, I am the wind himself, and each ocean drive, I am that salty sea breaze, and I take notice down to the frothy foam of every wave. I live for beauty, for nature. In nature, I see God. I see my aspirations. I love photography for this reason. This world is full of beauty, and everything has it, wether mountain or desert, and sometimes the most beautiful scene is in the blankness of a dull and grey sky that shifts in subtle hues. I live for beauty, in art, literature, music, and people. Sometimes I love to just stare at a beautiful woman, not to lust after her, but to admire the beauty and symmetry. This too inspires me, and I want to grab a pen and draw picture, but cannot draw, and no words I find would ever do justice to a beautiful woman. Freedom, for this reason too I am in love with Jana. She is my freedom, my freedom from thought and worry. She is my ability to escape places, and people, and even my own mind. I can only be happy when I am with her, and I am free. I feel the freedom in the wind blowing past me. "Who else has seen such sunsets, or felt the thrill of wind in hair that only motorcycles know?" This my friends, is a little about me, and if I wrote only for myself, then to me I say, "Know Thyself." Discover me. Discover me, and the things you will learn, will take you far.

"The God of Small Things."

A few people have asked when I would post another blog. I didn't think anyone read, or knew about this blog, so it's been a bit of a surprise. I don't intend to write often, as I find other things more important to me, but I'll make an attempt from time to time. What will I write about? Each time it will be a discovery, a conversation between my own selves. Perhaps, I should tell myself then my state of being. Earlier today I had an interview with my Bishop (ecclisiastical leader) in order to renew my temple recommend. Anyone not a Mormon who may read this likely won't know what that all means, and I won't get in to it now. If you have questions, please do ask. It has been a long time since I have been to the temple. I have been stubborn about it for some time. I believe in my faith. I have discovered it is not something I can back away from. I have made my attempts at it, and at times, my faith has stood in my way for the things I felt I wanted, but I cannot escape it, do not wish to escape it. I have a knowledge and faith too deep within me. I have not been to the temple for this long time because I wanted it to be for the right reason. The right reason seemed to further distance itself from me. My move to California, I have been here three years now, has in ways not been good for me. Some of the biggest mistakes of my life I have made here, and spiritually, I had rowed myself down a path I was not meant to travel. The climax of it all came a few months back, and the short of it all is that I decided, the right reason will only come when I make it the right reason, so I am going back to the temple. I have a deep faith for my beliefs. I am not afraid to question those beliefs, to question my own faith, to question the things my church teaches me. I have my issues and my qualms, and I am comfortable in having them. This perhaps I learn from my mother. I learn much from her, as from my father also. My parents have always taught me to come to my own conclusions about things. They are there for advice, support, guidance, but they are intelligent enough to know I am a man who cannot be told, but must learn of my own. I am awed at the wisdom of my parents. You should know them. This climax of a few months back, was a low point in my life, and I wondered how many low points could one life have, and so many in the period of only a few months. A man cannot rise though until he falls. He cannot stand up, until he is pushed down, and I have been pushed by many people, and found the ways in which I tripped myself. The clarity of these last few months has been incredible, and I am constantly set upon some new discovery. Once you commit yourself to an idea, when you let God know, throw it out to the Universe, miracles happen in the smallest ways. Prayer can be a difficult thing for me, yet essential of late. I have complete reverence for God, and still I do not think that when we pray we need to talk too formally to Him. God is my Father, and as such, I will speak to him as my Father. When I am upset with him, mad and frustrated, I will let him know. I am not afraid to express what He already knows. God is God. If I am mad at him, He knows it already, so why try and hide it when expressing the feeling is the best way to work through it? What I want most in my life are the things I know God wants for me. God being the God I know He is, wants me to have it, so when I pray to him I tell him very straightforward that these are the things I want, and they are things I am taught to want, and I am now willing to do my part, He now needs to do His. He has. He is. I pray for miracles in my life, for miracles are what I did need. God is the God of miracles. God is the God of small things. "By small and simple things are great things brought to pass." I think of those things in my life of the last few months, the people I have met, the people helping to change me. I am a man of constant change, for when I remain the same, it is a death inside me. I pray to this God to thank Him, this God of mighty miracles, this God of Small things.

Welcome to the Machine.

"Welcome my son. Welcome to the machine. Where have you been? It's alright. We know where you've been." - Welcome to the Machine by Pink Floyd My first blog entry. Several members of my family are bloggers, and while I have not yet seen the appeal to it, they all seem to enjoy it a great deal. For me, I fear that writing in a blog would only distract me from writing in my journal or attempting to once again find some poetry inside me to ink out on paper. Nevertheless, I am up late at night. I have already written in my journal today, though did not say things needed saying, and so I will give this an attempt, and do not know how often I will write, or for whom I write. I want to speak of one thing. Last month I was messaged on my facebook profile by an old friend of mine, and let me clarify. I was messaged by the first woman I ever loved, the first woman I ever kissed, the first woman to break my heart, all of this 12 years ago, and I have not seen her in over 7 years. Now for you romantics out there you may be thinking that destiny has brought us back, and this woman whom for years I thought the love of my life had somehow found her way back to me. The story does not end so. It was a mere "what's up" type of email, though in a later message she briefly filled me in with the last several years of her life. Why I write all of this is only because it got me thinking of all my former girlfriends, she being the first, and in ways the greatest. I am going to get it out of me, and talk of them. If I could take the best qualities of each of them, no power nor force could bind me nor divert my eyes. My first girlfriend, and I will not use names out of respect, was in ways the greatest of all loves for me. For years, she was the mark by which all women were measured, and still now, I seek for the connection I had with her, but have found nothing close these many years. From her, I would take that connection. I would take her poetic soul, how she moved me to write, to dig deep, to think, to dream, to weep, to smile, to love. She taught me love. I would take from her the power of her words, her ability to express herself, to channel deep and with a pen or some soft whisper she would say it all. I remember dancing in the rain, picnics on the golf course, the night we watched the sun set, the moon rise, the moon set, and the sun rise all while cuddling on my back lawn. I remember dancing on top of empty box cars, balancing on the beams of the tracks. I remember the closeness with her family, being welcomed in, feeling I was an older brother. I remember her long thick hair hanging across her back, her olive skin, the black velvet dress she wore the first time I saw her, her favorite combat boots, walking barefoot, hemp jewelry. I remember the letters she wrote to me, sheltered safely in some beautiful hand made envelope that were themselves extensions of who she was. She was poetry. Her letters, our letters, should be published in some small book. I have waited years to find another woman to speak to me as deeply as did she. It may not exist. I remember the total heartbreak of losing her, the years it took, but the lessons learned, the strength found. Her, I will always think a queen. Girfriend #2. In ways, that was my most genuine and authentic relationship. She, I truly loved. From her, I would take the comfort of being around her, the knowledge of our relationship. I would take the laughter, the caring. I would take her body. I think of it still, sleek and slender, perfectly toned. I would take her playful attitude. How she would tell me she liked certain things, pinch my bum, beg me to snuggle her. Some of the greatest moments of my life were in laying on her floor studying while she worked on her own projects, it was enough just to be close to her, around her, so that I could look up and in seeing her the world was fine. I remember making breakfast crepes together, talking of flowers, and how she discovered my body, and I hers. I remember the heartbreak, the betrayal, the horrid feeling and discovery. She too lasted with me for years, and despite any ending, we remained friendly, and she too will always be a queen to me. Girlfriend #3. She was beautiful, and talented, with a sexy accent that caught the ear of every man, and a smile that caught every eye. She was classy, and stood out, and had a passion inside of her. She threw out every emotion in full force. I knew how other men wanted her, craved for her, the attention she received. When we were together, every person who did ever dream of love envied us, how our eyes locked and did never leave each other. She did not fear it, embraced it, everyone saw it. Her emotions so strong that she had an amazing power to love, but also an amazing power to hate. I will remember how she is the only woman who could hold my gaze and stare me back. Truly she is a beautiful woman, and while she is a queen, I did not hold on to any heart break. Girlfriend #4. Oh, she too was beautiful, and she knew it. She had options, and she knew it. She was passionate and playful and could never seem to get enough of me, my body, my lips, my hands. It was a hunger, a thirst we both did need to drink from. She was strong, independent, strong willed, compromising, and she remains the most mature woman I have ever dated. She surprised me with it, and her flirtacious personality brought out the best of my personality. I knew I was funny and charming and smooth, and I myself desirable, and she knew it too. I would take from her that playful interaction, the witty banter, the comic railery, the laughing and playing. She is a queen, and while I did and do miss her, I did not have the heartbreak, for her rushed attitude never gave me time to truly love her. I wish I could have, would have had time to. Girlfirend #5, and last girlfriend to this point. From her, I would take her thoughtful and personal abilty to give, though it was not for giving sake, but for campaigning. Her small gestures, willingness to show she cared and wished to do what small things she could. It drew me to her, and I found it strange not being the only one to do such small and big things. She lived close to me, and worked a compatable schedule, so we could see each other often. She had friends, and was social, and that was good and healthy for me, though in the end proved a much greater detriment than it was a blessing. She is a queen. I know that, and yet it is difficult for me to think of her as so. It is unfortunate to say that she does hold the honor of being my greatest mistake of these last few years, and I would take it back. I would take it back not for who she was with me or for what we had, but for who she showed herself to be afterward, and for what she has tried to take from me. I thought with her more than any other that I would marry, and yes there was heartbreak, amazing and powerful, hanging in my belly at all hours, keeping me week and tired. I know a talk could have solved it all, had she ever been willing to listen, and yet, I know I must be grateful she never was. I would take much of her, what we each wanted of life. I wish there was more I would have taken. I know there could have been. That is it. I could write novels of each of them, and speak of what wonders they brought me, what heartache or drama they gave. I will try to write more of them later, even if only briefly, and share what remains as reminders. For now, I hope to sleep, but insomnia, she may not let me.