Memorial Day Musing

"I thank God for my life, / for the stars and stripes. / May freedom forever fly; / let it ring. / Salute the ones who died, / those ones that gave their lives / so we don't have to sacrifice / all the things we love;"
~ "Chicken Fried" by Zac Brown Band

After years of going to the memorial service of my grandfather's Veterans of Foreign Wars post (VFW), a phrase has stuck with me: "we honour the victorious dead." I find myself thinking of this statement at various points throughout the year. The "victorious dead," an odd phrase referring to those who died in during their time of service. This is especially pertinent for this VFW post that honours a WWII Japanese American captain who jumped on a grenade to save the rest if his regiment. Kazuo Masuda never lived to see the victory he helped to win but he is honoured still for his sacrifice. And so are all who have fallen in the line of duty. Today*, we pay you do honour and respect. We who enjoy the benefits of your sacrifice declare you victorious, even in death, and thank you for the tomorrows we enjoy at the cost of yours.

For those who serve now and those who served and lived, we honour you as well for putting yourselves on the alter of freedom on our behalf. In defense of loved ones and strangers, you have risked all. For that, we are forever in your debt.

Finally, I'd like to personally thank Jichan, Uncle Chris, Jeremy, Mr. Cristetto, Scott, and Luke for fighting, in the past and the present, in my defense and all that I hold dear. I will never be able to fully express my gratitude or repay my debt. So I thank you from the bottom of my heart and promise to never forget what you have done for me.

*I meant to publish this on Memorial Day but didn't get around to posting it til a day later.

On the River and the Road

I really should get around to writing when I am not requested to if I really want to be a novelist but such is the way life is at the moment. This is a poem I wrote for an event at school that was held on the feast day of St. Christopher. Professor Gaelan Gilbert, who organized the event, asked me to write something with the theme of travel since it was the end of the semester and people would be travelling and since St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.

On the River and the Road

I read “The road goes ever on and on.”

Great wisdom did it sound, in truth, so I

Upon the threshold stood and looked anon

To see if some small path I could espy

Run forth from hearth to meet expansive sky.

But all was dark and overgrown, much more

Like some great wilderness from times gone by.

I dared not venture forth, alone and poor;

'Tis dangerous to step outside one's door.

On route far off, a man with burden great,

Two beams of wood upon his bended back,

I watched him stumble, fall beneath the weight

Behind a hill. I ran for fear his pack

Had overwhelmed its bearer and through lack

Of strength, the man now lay alone and hurt.

However, I was taken quite aback

To see not man nor beams upon the dirt,

Instead, to find a child very much alert.

The clouds drew cloaks of grey o'er Phoebus' face

And threatened storms with rumbling thunder drums.

I tried to lead the child to a safer place

But he continued on the road, past slums

And farms, past ruling king and man who plumbs,

With something like warm kindness in his eye.

But then he came to where the road becomes

A shore upon the riverbank. Nearby

The ferryman with ugly face rose high.

Upon his shoulders climbed and sat the child.

The man began to cross the river broad

As winds convulsed the waters as if wild.

With every step, the storm grew loud and cawed

While he seemed to lean longer on his rod

'Til midway through, it looked as if they'd sink.

Yet he still walked and reached the shore. I, awed

By strength of will and faith pushed to the brink,

Was left on further shore alone to think.

But lo, the child turned 'round with hand outstretched,

A hand, I saw, which had been scarred by nails.

His eyes drew mine with love and sorrow etched.

The ferryman returned amidst the gales,

Extending to me a hand that never fails.

I took that hand and found myself alone

Beyond the threshold, on the road, with dales

And mountains growing clear 'neath sun that shone

Anew betwixt the clouds that soon were flown.

So there I stood without my haven’s door,

Exposed to all unknowns that could befall,

Whate’er that man or Nature had in store.

Fear gripped my heart with thoughts of pain and gall.

But then a wind blew past my face, a call,

A whisper spoke my name within the breeze,

Which calmed and courage brought to my heart small.

I found I need not be at such unease
When unseen hands will hold in troubled seas.

Only the Good Die Young

I've been writing! Well, again this was an assignment but it is still an excuse for writing. I hope you enjoy them.

Only the Good Die Young
On March 14, Jeffery Langford of Ravensborough died at dawn.
He came to the hospital with a gunshot wound.
The doctors said that he should pull through.
Unfortunately, Jeffery reacted badly to some medication.
They never discovered what it was.
He got shot protecting someone.
A girl, I think.
She was alone.
He jumped.
Bang.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone - A Sonnet

For Renaissance British Lit, my professor had us try to write a traditional sonnet. This is my attempt. I don't think it turned out too horribly, though, the end needs some work I think. Otherwise, I'm pretty happy with it.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone
My lord, he wanders where he wills, alone,
With little thought to what his love may say.
By night, the stars call, “Come, we’ll show the way.”
He heeds their siren cries; his soul is flown
To heights that only gods can navigate
And runs as free as goats upon the mount.
Enraptured like Narcissus at the fount,
My lord longs to resume adventures late.
So I, his love, am left abandonéd
By his pursuit of planetary odes.
I have no skill that can compare, which bodes
Great ill, for as I lay upon my bed,
I languish like the nymph called Echo who
For love could nothing but repeat to woo.

55 Word Stories

These are some very short stories I found while looking through the plethora of unfinished works that lie waiting in my cache of documents. Each story is only 55 words long. The first sentence is 10 words, the second is 9, and so on until it ends with a single word. It was a really fun exercise and I'm rather impressed with how they came out. I especially like The Light Next Door because there seems to be more of a story there than in Fairy Dances, though that is much closer to the kinds of subjects that I normally focus on.

Fairy Dances
The fairies danced upon the flower’s petals as I watched.
Twirling in the air, they looked like shooting stars.
I wanted so to join their lovely dance.
But I didn't know how to ask.
So I simply watched and longed.
Then, they saw me staring.
They stopped and whispered.
One flew close.
She laughed.
Twinkling.

The Light Next Door
Light shines from the lamp in my neighbor’s upper bedroom.
I've never seen anything in that room before tonight.
It intrigues me so I move in closer.
Perhaps he’s rented out the extra space.
Heaven knows he needs the money.
But why wait so long?
I don’t really know.
I should ask.
Shouldn't I?
Nevermind.

What Are Friends Made Of

As I was looking through some past writing, I found the following musing. I can actually remember writing this piece and how despondent I felt at the time. It never ceases to amaze me how easily my life goes in circles. Again I find myself in a similar place, wondering what it means to be a friend, what it means to be a "neighbor." Am I really a friend? Do I know what it means to be a friend? This is something that I have struggled with over and over. Now living in a small community that has drastically enlarged, I find myself trying to find how to connect with all these new people while still maintaining relationships I already have. Honestly, I often leave those relationships I've already cultivated to the wayside in pursuit of new ones. I always hate myself for this though. I know I will be forever learning how to find the balance between new and old relationships, but I still find it incredibly vexing not being able to do it now.

Friends are hard to come by nowadays. I mean, at any time, it can be hard to make a friend, but, with all the social networking, it can be harder to tell who is really a friend and who isn't. Because of this, you can get to know people on a surface level and think you know them well without ever getting to anything deeper than the current clothes trends or popular music. This is not to say that you can't make real friends over the internet or anything like that. I am merely pointing out a tendency in these types of relationships. And these tendencies can spill over into real human relationships. You can hang out, talk, go on trips, and still know nothing about the real person. It's a complicated maze of give-and-take, revealed and not revealed.

I have a habit of becoming consumed by stories at times, especially those of a chronic nature such as a book series or TV show. Partly, it is because of my natural, and sometimes irrational, love for stories. However, I have been thinking lately that there is more to it than that. I can sit in front of a computer for hours on end without ever thinking of talking to someone or trying to hang out with actual people. It's almost as if the real world doesn't matter anymore, that I am a part of the world of the story. I become so attached to the characters in the stories that I can feel with them. My heart breaks at their losses, soars with their triumphs. I know the inner workings of their minds and hearts, how they process and where they stand. They are my friends . . . as long as the pages or pixels last. When the stories end, there's a hole, an emptiness inside me where my heart for the characters has been. So I'll go and find another story that will take it's place with a new set of characters to befriend.

This becomes a problem when I leave the realm of story and enter that of reality. People won't just tell you all about themselves right off the bat like you can get from characters in a story. Real people expect you to give of yourself as well before they reveal things about themselves. You no longer have an easy access into people's minds and hearts. You have to work at it. You have to build trust. You have to build a relationship. And they don't magically appear. They take blood, sweat, and tears. They take effort and strain. It's a process . . . that never really ends. Like a house, it takes constant vigilance to see that nothing corrupts or begins to decay. You have to be careful about things like that with people.

There is also then the place where people trust you and open up to you and you do the same, just a bit. You have the ability to make people feel at ease with you and trust that you will hold their hearts tenderly, which you will. However, your heart is never really given away at all. You will show parts that look like more than what they are so that the other people think they're seeing the deeper parts of you while you still conceal from them the iceberg of your heart. People will say that you're one of their closest or best friends. On the outside, you smile and laugh and share but inside . . . inside, everything is in chaos. How do you say that you haven't shared anything? That you've been playing a part for possibly years? Do you ever actually tell them that? Do you simply go away and let yourself drift from their life, knowing that what they think is you is not you at all? These and so many more similar thoughts swirl around your head, even as you spend time with those who call you friend.

What are friends made of then? How do you know when someone is a friend and when they're not? When I am a friend? I don't know. Sorry for the ramble.

All's Fair in Love and War

All's fair in love and war, they say. No holds are barred in pursuit of their end. Normally, love and war, aside from this statement, are depicted as opposites. Who can forget the hippie signs of "Make love, Not war." However, could it not be argued that there would be no war without love? Could it not be said that war could be reduced to a love worth fighting for? This may be a stretch, but it seems to make sense, does it not? The wars over territory, depending on the territory, could be rooted in a deep love of money, should the land be financially profitable, or a deep love of family heritage, should the land have historical significance. Wars for independence could spring from a love of liberty while holy wars could come from a pious love of God. In a similar way, it could be said that love is a kind of war: two or more sides vying for the same object in hopes of increasing their own happiness. While shells may not fly and trenches are left undug, emotions of the individuals will often fly in varying directions and trenches will be dug in their hearts as a result. Perhaps, this is all nonsense and groundless conjecture. Perhaps, the extrapolations may be taken too far. Yet, love and war do not necessarily seem so very different as is often presented.

Disclaimer: This is not to say that I believe that all those who instigate or participate in wars are doing so out of love for something. I am not so naive as to not know that there are people who do such things for uglier reasons. I also do not believe, though one may be motivated to war by a deep, perhaps even justifiable, love, that that makes war condone-able. I am not pacifist and do believe that there are things worth fighting for but war should never be glorified as something that every human being should aim for; war comes at a cost, often one that is more than had been expected or desired. Lastly, I do believe that it is through love that war may, at one time, come to an end. I do not think it likely that humans will ever reach that time in this present world, but I do think that there is a Love that can surpass all other loves, and hates, that motivate people to war. I only thought the subject was something interesting to ponder.