Holiday Mist

There’s mist rolling in as the winter sun sets post-Christmas.

The whirl of the kitchen fan provides a hum that drowns out the cars that pass below. I look down the tableau of blue and gray that makes up the three block stretch of Glisan that I can see from the corner window of the condo.

I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table and writing what I know of God. The notebook is nearly empty.

I’ve been thinking about the cosmic creative spirit— and how humans are called to music, art, and movement.

I keep hearing horrors forecasted— but I can’t help think that it’s an inevitable balance of living. There is no permanent distance from pain or suffering while living. No adamantium shield to be hoisted in the face of nightmares.

The worst is to be robbed of prior assurances. The rewriting of past narratives that dictated your personal histories.

Who are we to be in a constantly shifting environment?

As the sailors had tattooed on their knuckles— what is it that we shall “hold fast”?

Vacillate

“Never so silent as stone.”

The phrase popped up from a piece titled “Porcelain.” I had written it during the first months of my stay in Tsushima. I had just talked with my friend about the vast differences between my written and spoken language. Over time, I’ve felt both accurately depict who I am (if not the full version).

“There is a dead spot in the night when light has faded from memory—- and the hope of it returning remains a forgotten ember sheathed in ash.

Those are the moments when the past arrives unbidden. Like a raptor high above a thermal— it glides silently until its shadow is over you. The time when the creaks and groans of old timbers in the house are drowned out by half-lit memories of versions of yourself you used to be.”

That’s not how I speak, but it is an authentic way I write. The juxtaposition between the two can make a head spin when the occasional written eloquence doesn’t match up with the energetic, golden retriever verbal spew I can deliver.

It delves into the matter of identity. In the East, it’s common for people to operate with different social masks. I think there’s an ideological difference between issues of authenticity and genuineness. I think you can be genuine while operating with different social masks. Who you are in one friend group can completely differ from who you are at work. Or the self that attends the gym, etc

I see arguments about the necessity of authenticity in everything someone does. But I’d argue that being genuine (while this feels like splitting hairs, I swear is different) is more honest. I don’t think you can offer a holistic, authentic version of yourself that remains the same no matter the environment. I think the people who do operate that way are quickly singled out for disrupting the social harmony of whatever group they enter if they can’t adjust to the energy, mood, setting, etc.

All of this is a long ramble that ties back to my own questions about how genuine I can be when I vacillate between writing and speaking. Is there a more “authentic” version of me? Or do both mediums of communication allow for genuineness?

Bench Seats

I used to sit in the driver side seat of the old Ford pick up my family bought when I was a young boy so that my mom would have a truck to cart compost around in.

The inside smelled like oil, metal, age, and worn fabric. The seats themselves were decorated in a rug-like material. It was coarse and hearty.

I’d sit on that bench seat kick my feet as I couldn’t touch the ground or the pedals. I’d switch the scant few buttons on and off eventually draining the battery. It didn’t matter much since the truck wasn’t driven anyway.

I still love old trucks. I used to read auto trader magazines my dad had in his shop. It made me imagine a type of life that was feasibly attainable.

I haven’t owned any cool cars in my life. Everything has been functional, more or less. But I certainly have a proclivity for station wagons and anything that can haul large amounts of soccer equipment.

It’s funny how these things work. What portions of our personality are dedicated to small moments that are easily forgotten.   

Evolution

This has been a week of cumulative changes.

Yesterday, I submitted the Anthology of Odd to be published on Amazon through the self-publishing side of Kindle. In the end, something that had so often felt out of reach was astonishingly simple.

We can have a habit of safeguarding success. In the fine print of our aspirations, we deny ourselves victories by insisting that they have to be achieved in hyper-specific ways. I had always wanted to publish my work, but it was easier to hide behind the unknown and extra effort it would take to learn about it that I procrastinated by writing other stories.

Funny how that model of procrastination led me to this. In the last couple of months, as I’ve reintegrated into life in Portland and the US, I’ve felt keenly aware of the lack of creative output. The last couple of years have seen me write and post stories on this website at what had previously been an unimaginable rate. Certainly, it was quantity over quality, but it’s through quantity that you give yourself the ability to write quality.

I’ve had serious ambitions tied to writing for over twelve years. And it’s been through the process of writing and relaxing into my own identity that I’ve begun to discover any sort of success from it.

I probably have something close to forty unfinished journals lying around. Not counting the fifty-something journals, endless word documents, notes on my phone, and any other place I could scribble stories and lines down.

In these past couple of months, I’ve felt like I’ve arrived “at the base of the Mesa,” as Judy Blunt said to me after I graduated from UM. At that point, I felt like I was at the start of learning. Now? I feel like I’m still at the beginning, but now the learning concerns concentrated output.

I hope to end November with two anthologies available on Amazon in eBook and paperback format. I’ve already reached the point with this website where I can’t find all the stories I’ve written as I sift through the 365, Gallimaufry, and Salmagundi. That’s not counting the 100-day challenge or any stories hiding in the draft sections throughout the website.

G.K. Chesterston once said, “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly first.”

I keep that in mind as I rework what a dream means. Was the goal just to become published? Because I could stop now if that were it. But it hasn’t been about the outcome. It’s been about the process this whole time.

With all the journals, notes, scribbles, and voice memos, it’s always been about the process, even when I didn’t share my stories with anyone else.

If you’ve been reading through my website for a while now or whether you’ve just started, I hope you allow yourself the same low entry into passion in your own life because life is dictated by the problems we face. So, we might as well make them good ones.

Time

It’s been a little over a month since I’ve written anything on this website.

In that time, I’ve finished up my soccer seasons for both high school and club. I have been working on editing my anthology of odd stories which I will be posting as an e-book and paperback on Amazon.

I have been navigating the ins and outs of education and careers within it.

More than anything else, I have been finding small moments in which I tried to appreciate where I am. The other night I was out at a practice and it was pouring rain. As I stepped out the field, I looked up into the night sky that was illuminated by the fields floodlights, and descending raindrops look like snowflakes. That we forget, the magic of something is simple and mysterious as water falling from the sky.

I understand, condensation models, and clouds and rain. But science doesn’t obscure the wonder. It shouldn’t. Just because you understand how something works doesn’t mean you understand why. And without that “why” you get to bask in a sublime unknowing.

I am 30 years old. In some days, I feel it and every second and others I couldn’t tell you what my age is. I don’t think I could accurately describe my expectation of however long my life will be. But I know that I’m grateful for everything that is coming my way. From nighttime backflip, raindrops to beautiful stories, to the vast unknown.

Nighttime Assembly line Ideas

Listening to an acoustic mix as I laid in bed with the lights off and my eyes closed. Ideas rushed through my mind as I pulled the most interesting and absurd from the never ending line that runs into infinity.

A white cockatoo as the incarnate of death— the wandering reaper.

A roving set of lambent eyes that travel across forests (as a wolf spirit). Moves in a pair.

A chalk crusher and his dentist friend.

A grumpier of runes left in a beat up airstream parked behind a hipster cafe.

A man with cotton candy wings who relies on licorice ropes to save himself from falling off a carnival ride.

A beer brewer contesting a high school hockey game and the price of kettle corn.

Clouds with faces and actual teeth.

Crunchy Leaf Peanut Butter Fall

The shake of over-caffeinated hands as the metallic shrill of street work hums in the background like a sugar-mad carnival kid.

All loose carbs and movements— the fall is sweeping in like a Wagner score, except the Valkyries are sweating homecoming and starting spots on the field.

I’m walking back into past worlds under old names and new ideas. Stutter step and off-beat glide as instinct takes over where thought wavers.

Slipping back into the Stream

Blood and guts of forgotten stories. I’ve spent a curiously long time stretching through truths I’ve already uncovered– as if the dust that rested on them would provide a new meaning once wiped clean. 

Last night was the first night in two months that I had a dream that harken back to old magic. I’d slipped realms as a new story burst into being. I’d forgotten what it was to breathe in the dreamscape again. The nights have been so quiet that I’d begin to fear I lost the ability to find them. 

In the first couple weeks of being back, I’d sat at the dinner table with my parents and asked them how many Odyssey-like dreams they’d had. Or if other compelling versions brought them nose to nose with the grander mysteries of life as they slept. My mother had a single dream that bordered on a nightmare that she shared. My father had a couple more of his own– including a prophetic dream that detailed the inside of an upstairs room at a family member's house that he’d never set foot in until years later. 

But none of the other realms or lost gods have populated my dreams. No grand swirl of destiny and black maw of cosmic secrets that keeps me from ever truly doubting there’s more to this primordial soup.

I’ve been terrible at sitting at my desk and typing anything out. Even my pocket notebooks have smatterings of dust as I’ve gone from daily entries to weekly. The notes app on my phone is little better– though it does show creative pile-up as a single day can offer three or four entries if I’ve been present. 

Otherwise, this stretch of living without deep reflection has characterized my return. The excess of reflection on Tsushima has made me gun-shy of digging too deep into my current thoughts. 

Or maybe that’s the type of excuse that keeps you from putting pen to page. 

I feel the excuse of thirty more odious than any other age I’ve been. Hitting my third decade has brought a catalog of weird rules and expectations that don’t align with where I’m at in my life. 

It’s like sketching out the details for a DnD campaign without realizing what you’re playing is closer to Yahtzee.

I walked through a familiar hiking trail on Mt. Hood a week ago by my family’s old cabin. I hardly saw anyone on the nearby roads or trails as I turned my phone off and snapped pictures with my camera. I’d ended up on the mountain on a whim. A free weekend day and nothing planned– I’d wanted to escape the city but felt guilty about doing something alone. Maybe less guilty, but a heavy dose of irony as returning to Portland centered around not being alone. Not living a life in which the majority of my time was solitary. 

But there I was– alone, save for the occasional chipmunk and tweeting bird. I walked through patches of sunlit pine and shivered from the cool mountain air. It may have been the last days of summer in the city, but up here? Fall had claimed its rightful place. 

All of this centers around identity and the mutable nature of it. 

I’ve returned from Japan able to speak conversationally fluent Japanese. I’ve solo-traveled across the world. Through rural areas and some of the biggest metropolises humanity has to offer. I would walk into restaurants and bars knowing that I’d get a story out if from simply by asking the right questions or providing an open face. 

I kept wondering in the past two years how I’d change from my experience. How it would be that I’d interact with my old world after spending all that time away from it. 

I see it in the intense sociality I’ve thrown myself into– the community service through coaching and the hesitancy when trying to jump over stone steps that I haven’t even had time to look down at. 

I find it in the cramped reflections as action takes precedence when you (mistakenly) feel you’ve languished. 

I know more and paradoxically, so much less. I read through my notebooks from the island and travels to see the pencil-shaded outlines of wishes that have come true. I read the center bent pages that had to curl around the pen I’d leave within– knowing that I’d panic if I was without it. Even if I didn’t have anything to write. 

It’s in all of this that I believe that I know more about not knowing. 

I think of this poem when I allow myself the time when not rushing between fields and friends– when the ache of readjusting doesn’t keep my eyes from turning inward. 


Caminante, no hay camino / Traveler, There Is No Road

by Antonio Machado

“Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.”

Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship’s wake on the sea.

The Scribe

His hand would come out of his heart to write. That’s how the Scribe was described by those who had met him.

Anyone who traveled in the company of dark hearts and eager blades but still kept ahold of their empathy was special. The details wouldn’t come until later about how the Scribe trekked across the Temari plains or his worn account of joining Arkus as he built a bloody legend.

But the Scribe was a man who wasn’t known by many beyond the ink he laid to the page. Carefully guarded scrolls of velum were kept in churches and treasuries. Nightly tales were recited by soot-covered hearths as lowly bards sought inspiration from the man without a name— only a title.

A later account of the rise of the Ashbourne legion held similarities with the style of Arkus’ account, but it couldn’t be verified if the Scribe had penned it. Those who knew of both the Scribe and Arlena, the queen who commanded the Ashbourne legion, were rare in quantity.

Rumination

The clock has ticked over to August 4th. I’m in bed listening to the full-speed hum of the box fan sitting in the middle of my room. There hasn’t been much time for reflection since returning to Portland.

The stand-out features of the city are the people— the weaving masses of varying shapes, sizes, colors, styles, and energies. It’s weird to be in a place again where modernity extends beyond a five block radius.

The scent of pine trees and sweet bloom of flowers saturates the air. It’s been stronger than any gas fumes or trash piles I’ve passed. My favorite are the orange roses— they make me think of tangerines, even if the scent harkens closer to a candy perfume.

Within a week I’ve gone from unemployed to three jobs and from twenty-nine to thirty years old. I got a new (old) car, a new (new) phone, and have been on a reunion tour seeing friends and family. The first three days were a productive, adrenaline fueled, sleep deprived, jet lagged mess. Even now, I wouldn’t count myself fully back to normal. But it’s closer than the stumbling sentences and wide-eyed stares I’d give as the jump-start realization that I’ve crossed half the world wasn’t a dream.

There’s a host of feelings within me about this transition, but I think they’ll marinate for a while yet.

Grateful for the adventure(s) and grateful for the new start at home.

The creative stories will trickle back in time— no doubt fueled by the last gasps of summer as I turn my attention towards my new soccer teams.

At thirty years old, I feel like I’m at a start again, but this time around I’m armed with tools, experience, and confidence. The combined return from Japan and start of a new decade has a touch of unmei to it. I look forward to seeing how it plays out.

Ueno

It’s ninety-seven degrees in Ueno park right now. The cicadas are whining in their slow pull action figure tinny cries.

Last night I sat at the Auditorium bar and smoked a Cuban cigar with a wrestling fan named Shogo. He’s a regular at the bar. They didn’t bat an eye when he pulled out a giant ziploc bag full of cigars. The bartender closest to us, a young man who has yet to have a proper shave (lack of need) placed his order before him before Shogo even sat down.

This isn’t about the fun miscommunications after that saw my compliment of “you’re bright like a star” turn into “you’re like a polestar/ pornstar” by Shogo.

Nor is it about the final seafood feast I had at midnight as this chapter of living in Japan came to a close.

This is about the slow moments before the oncoming rush. “No man steps into the same river twice,” Hemingway?

Soon these cicada whines will be a thing of deep dreams and soft lined recollections. The oatmeal thick air will stay behind. I will not walk in between alleyways and dart around stopped cars. No, it will be a different life that I’m walking back into. One that I don’t know the shape of yet— but welcome it all the same.

Final Nights

The clouds in Tsushima are so close tonight that they look like animals migrating across the sky. The night behind them is an indigo pasture on which eternity lies.

The moon shines brighter than a summer camp torch.

I think yes, it’s all been worth it to get to this moment.

All the moments more will be gifts.

Some of the clouds look like stickers plastered on the ceiling instead of the sky.

Others look like fossils swept over by desert sands.

How could I have forsaken hope and magic?

Thinking you know is not appreciating.

And what are we here for if not to appreciate?

Juno

The devil’s never come to me in a dream, but he has for Johnny Baker.

Caught north of Juno, nothing was the same after a job at a gold rush brothel nicknamed the Red Onion saloon went wrong. There isn’t much to security job, but when working girls go missing on your watch, somebody asked to answer.

Black kohl under his eyes. There wasn’t much for looking besides the circles upon his face. The gods had seen fit to bless others while he struggled against the binds of inadequacy.

None of the road traveling make up lent Johnny any of the compassion or intrigue he hoped for. Besides the pines and snow drifts, nobody lent Johnny anything at all. Nobody lends the dead or dying a hand when another is clasped round their own leg.

Lean Back

He laid against the back row of desks like some provincial king. All long-limbed and smug, I didn’t hate anyone as much as I hated Connor Salzborn. He had a gift for pissing me off, but today he’s gone above and beyond. That rotten little bastard dropped a purple newt in my gym locker and then reminded the coach of the uniform policy when I didn’t show up wearing my slime covered ensemble. He aired a helpful innocence that a merciless wink in my direction broke.

I’d destroy him. I swore on it.

But, short of blood pacts and ritual summoning, my oath of vengeance wasn’t going to complete itself.

I had to get creative *cue eighties pop music and energetic build up to a spectacular bitching fest at a friends house.*

“I will have my revenge, Claire!”

“I think maybe you let this one go I don’t think a guy who believes the Da Vinci Code was nonfiction should be dominating your life.” I growled, but allowed the point. It was going to take some finesse to work this.

Time Piece

Crosshatched power lines swaying in the wind. The rust-stained stanchions under the bridge over the bay.

God, where do all these feelings go?

I will not be back here for a long time.

Never again will I see it as I do now.

These summer days have started to sweat time. A countdown clock turns over at midnight and every moment that brings me closer to departure heightens the senses.

Prep

I only had six entries for the month of June. The passage of time lately has been swift, but somehow languid.

It’s less than a month until I return back to America. I’ve got two jobs lined up and another one. That’ll hopefully pan out as well. But this return is different than I would expect. I can feel the changes that have occurred during my two years over here. I know that I won’t see the full extent of that until I’m back stateside, but I’m grateful.

Today was the last day at my elementary school down in the south. It was weird to leave the place one last time knowing I’ll probably never walk back into that building again.

I’m trying to get everyone in. My weekends are filled up. And the weekdays are stuffed with the final necessities required for a clean departure.

In the midst of all of this, I’m still trying to take the time to appreciate being there. It’s impossible to know how an experience is gonna change you. Even when you’re aware of the capacity for change. Even when you’ve intentionally set yourself in the path for it. You can’t know until you do it.

Today I colored posters for Tanabata. I watched my five students practice their school dance for sports day. And I looked out at the ocean from the classrooms for a final time. In the distance, the mist hung over the southern cape like a soggy blanket. I answered questions about returning to America and why I wasn’t already married. I ate lunch with the accompaniment of Jo’s inevitable hiccups.

And as the day wound down and I walked out of the door— I gave thanks for the memories.

Not All Withers

“With violent men, it’s best to let them burn themselves out. Before long they’ll be reduced to a shadow of themselves, leaving their victims nothing to fear but the memories of yesteryear.

It’s a shame the same can’t be said about the cruel.

The cruel ones don’t burn out. Their rage doesn’t eat them from the inside. Nor does it explode. The cruel are preserved. They’re pickled by their evils.

The angry ones diminish with time. The cruel are emboldened by it.”

- Selected excerpts from The Fall of Alesia by The Wandering Scribe.

Southern End

Cobwebbed seeds clinging to the tops of my shoes.

A marten loping through the long grass.

Distant kites soaring over fish scale thermals. Below them diesel engines putter and whine as the daily catch is brought in.

The creep of summer heat. Moisture fills the air— walking feels closer to swimming on the muggiest of days.

Less then forty days until departure from the island. Emerald waters and roves of time.

First Cast

I woke up at four in the morning, harkening back to steam filled days behind an espresso machine.

I gathered my little used fishing gear and put on a pair of black, beat up Nikes. I stepped out until warm night. Although it’s a glow of the rising sun over the mountains behind me, it was clear that it would soon be morning.

I rode down to Tsu Tsu with Hayashida, Kozone, and Tate sensei. Tate sensei said a prayer in the car before we left his house that doubled as a church. I’m not religious, but I can take faith in someone wanting to ask for protection before we do something.

When you reach the southern tip of the island, it was immediately clear that the path down to the ocean was not going to be easy to traverse. It was hard to find as all the spring foliage covered up any discernible path. The inlaid steps were covered by 3 to 4 feet of new growth. We bushwhacked our way through a mini jungle down to the Cliffside, where the cement staircase that would lead us for 30 to 40 feet to the beach had been washed away. Instead, a rope had been tied around the base of a fairly small tree to service means for repelling down the Cliffside. It had all the makings of a great story.

The sunrise came with a majesty as we walked along the beach. A reddish hue to the sun made me think of other calm mornings. The rumble of diesel engines from fishing boats out in the bay added to the back trap of our rural existence.

Amalgamation

Dancing in my kitchen, eating frozen pineapple and waiting for my kettle to finish boiling water for tea. I’ve been reading Contini and Croce as I scribble down thoughts on media focus strategies.

An amalgamated vortex is how I imagine myself. A layperson in many fields, but doubtful in terms of mastery anywhere outside of curiosity.

Little by little, progress is made across a litany of fields. I’ve got a deep rooted tendency to wander in pursuit of my interests. To see what spirals outwards like haphazard walking paths.

If we’re close, I’d imagine there’s been a moment where I’ve supplied a fact whatever topic at hand that seemingly flew out of left field. The archaeological history of glass bottles holds the same initial curious draw as a deep dive into jazz or Dutch soccer.

I have moments where I wonder if the cost of a prolific curiosity, but fleeting devotion is something to change or if I’m meant to embrace it in a way that allows me to bring all my esoteric knowledge to bear on a singular project.