From the Very Interesting Mind of Rene Descartes

"I would give everything I know for half of which I ignore." 

"We All Have the Same Holes in our Hearts. . ."

Listener
WOODEN HEART (sea of mist called skaidan)
We’re all born to broken people on their most honest day of living
and since that first breath... We’ll need grace that we’ve never given
I've been haunted by standard red devils and white ghosts
and it's not only when these eyes are closed
these lies are ropes that I tie down in my stomach,
but they hold this ship together tossed like leaves in this weather
and my dreams are sails that I point towards my true north,
stretched thin over my rib bones, and pray that it gets better
but it won’t won’t, at least I don’t believe it will...
so I've built a wooden heart inside this iron ship,
to sail these blood red seas and find your coasts.
don’t let these waves wash away your hopes
this war-ship is sinking, and I still believe in anchors
pulling fist fulls of rotten wood from my heart, I still believe in saviors
but I know that we are all made out of shipwrecks, every single board
washed and bound like crooked teeth on these rocky shores
so come on and let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember
I am the barely living son of a woman and man who barely made it
but we’re making it taped together on borrowed crutches and new starts
we all have the same holes in our hearts...
everything falls apart at the exact same time
that it all comes together perfectly for the next step
but my fear is this prison... that I keep locked below the main deck
I keep a key under my pillow, it’s quiet and it’s hidden
and my hopes are weapons that I’m still learning how to use right
but they’re heavy and I’m awkward...always running out of fight
so I’ve carved a wooden heart, put it in this sinking ship
hoping it would help me float for just a few more weeks
because I am made out of shipwrecks, every twisted beam
lost and found like you and me scattered out on the sea
so come on let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, just some tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember
My throat it still tastes like house fire and salt water
I wear this tide like loose skin, rock me to sea
if we hold on tight we’ll hold each other together
and not just be some fools rushing to die in our sleep
all these machines will rust I promise, but we'll still be electric
shocking each other back to life
Your hand in mine, my fingers in your veins connected
our bones grown together inside
our hands entwined, your fingers in my veins braided
our spines grown stronger in time
because are church is made out of shipwrecks
from every hull these rocks have claimed
but we pick ourselves up, and try and grow better through the change
so come on yall and let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, were just tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember

East of Eden (or, From the Pen of John Steinbeck, IV)

Friday, December 23, 2011. 12:57 AM

Again, John Steinbeck has shaken up everything in my small brain.

"Riches seem to come to the poor in spirit, the poor in interest and joy. To put it straight--the very rich are poor bunch of bastards. He wondered if that were true. They acted that way sometimes."
Chapter 53, part ii

Being rich can be not having anything, but having everything you ever need.

From the Pen of John Steinbeck, II

"And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost."

East of Eden, Chapter 13 part 1.

To be what I want to be. . .

There is so much between me, right here right now, and me, two and a half years from now on my graduation as a Journalist that anything can happen. I am currently procrastinating on two papers I have to write to write here, but I need this little break. With Jack Johnson on my earphones, I am writing really mellow papers anyway.

I love writing. In High School, I used to like writing essays--even though I said I didn't because no one else did. Now I look back and I know that I was lying. John Steinbeck puts it best in East of Eden when he notes that all writers are liars. We like to lie and hope we get something out of it. When I told this to my friend Brianna, she replied that (paraphrased) it wasn't true because things that we write have symbolism, which represent true things. I replied that we are master liars then, because the best type of lies are half-truths.

Apart from my ability to lie on paper, there is some truth to the lie that I disliked writing essays. Halfway through any essay and the play and two books I'm writing I get the feeling that I don't want to write anymore, that it's too much. Somehow I picture myself in fifty years or so filing for retirement with Huck Finn's closing words about writing books (applied to being a journalist): ". . . if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it and ain't agoing to no more."

From the Mouth of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"It is not enough to say, 'We must not wage war.' It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it."
December 1964.

Shellshocked (or, Random Rant II)

In the Hot Zone: One Man, One Year, Twenty Wars, by Kevin Sites. Finished, 11.23.11, 11:48 AM.

I really don't know what to feel. I don't know what to think, really. This book will haunt me for a long time, and will end up in my library once I get money to buy it since the copy I have is borrowed. Mr. Sites' experiences really did fuel my want to go out there into the real world (which is found right out my front door) and see it all, stop being so whiny about trifles. Here I am, Thanksgiving eve, with all the feast almost ready. Am I really going to enjoy this gluttonous holiday? I don't know. I'm not sure I want to eat until not one more bit fits when there are many out there who do not have anything. If anything I learned from In the Hot Zone is that really I live in a "wealth of information and a poverty of knowledge." After I see that in the Democratic Republic of the Congo one military life is lost to sixty-two civilian lives. Like Kevin says, "War poses as combat but is really collateral damage." Thanksgiving, that I don't have an idea of what problems are. Maybe this Thanksgiving I won't be so gluttonous; maybe I'll be more thankful.

From the Pen of John Steinbeck

"Results, not causes. The causes lie deep and simply--the causes are a hunger in a stomach, multiplied a million times; a hunger in the soul, hunger for joy and some security, multiplied a million times' muscles and mind aching to grow, to work, to create, multiplied a million times. The last clear definite function of man--muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need--this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and the wall and hose and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man--when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it. This you may know when he bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live--for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live--for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know--fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe."

--The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 14.
He's my favorite author, and this is my favorite chapter in my favorite book. Everyone should read the book, and if not, read the entire chapter 14.

Without Mouths

"I believe that anything, a story, a novel or a piece of art, has a place for you in it. A place that is yours to decide."

Last time we left our hero, Kevin Sites, he was in Africa. Well, not anymore. He's in the middle east, and he has come across a Syrian artist who likes drawing heads. Heads, in may different poses, styles, and manners. There are some carved out, watercolored, and all in different stages of emotion.

However, they are all missing one major anatomical feature: a mouth. Kevin tries to gather the reason, but to no avail. Desperately, he asks if it is the pain of not being able to express something, but the artist only smiles and says "It's whatever you see, whatever it tells you, that's what it is."

Mr. Sites reflects,
"It's a thought that, like the stone walls outside, transcends this moment and makes me wonder if that is too generous a concept for most people. many choose their place as quickly as they can without trying to understand, seeing only the garbage on the streets rather than the art inside."

Maybe we should do that more often. See past the superficial, and, as cliche as it may sound, stop judging books by their cover. The world would have more peace if we would learn to understand what the other is fighting for.

Tales from a Regular Person

Any indication to his most repeated phrase was not apparent on his home facade. No, this was a big house, with a big yard, beautiful, almost dream-like. On the outside it had some well trimmed bushes and walks leading up to the front step. I rung the doorbell and waited exactly two seconds and the door opened.

"Pablo!" he exclaimed, being followed out by one of his friends. "Follow me to the garage, this is Charles, I'm almost done with him."

"Do you play tennis?" Charles asked me, holding a tennis ball holder.

"Well, I, uh, I, I've attempted to but no not really, I--" I was not expecting this question...

 "Oh that's okay. I just wanted to give this away," he said, putting the holder down.

Charles soon left, and the Job shadow began. I think.

"What do you want to learn?" Joel began.

"The ins and outs of photojournalism," I replied, mentally proud of my answer.

"Well, I can tell you this. You don't want to do this, this is a dying field. In ten years I won't have work because anyone can take good pictures now--and for free. I take good pictures of the earth, but they're not free, so the industry is heading towards phasing out paid photographers. Web design and Video journalism--now that's another story."

The rest of the afternoon was spent watching him rearranging photos on his website, ranting some more about how photojournalism is fading into video, and doing a radio interview over the phone on which he spoke about a website from National Geographic and how photojournalism.....

However, I confronted him about what he does as a normal human being. That afternoon I also helped him move things around his backyard, clean the garage, and watched him do dishes and kiss his children and wife when they got in the door. "How hard is it to have a family when you're gone half the year?" He thought long and hard about his response. I added, "Everyone sees journalists as crazy people going into stories  people are fleeing, but the truth is we are regular people."

"Yes, true, you have seen me do dishes. But it is hard to have a family. Frankly, it sucks. The job is fun and all, but I am away so much that it does me good to be home a day a month and hear my children fight. Most photojournalists are divorced. Now, this is just a guess, but I'd say at least 90% are divorced. I got lucky. My wife is perfect, she has been willing to cope with this all these years. But it's hard."

The rest of the job shadow became more like a chat. We talked about jobs, and how photojournalism....But we also talked about my career, and how I should focus on videojournalism/essays, as opposed to their photo counterparts, because photojournalism...

In the end, I told him about my video production class and my knowledge of Final Cut Pro 7, and immediately that struck with him. "There is video I don't know how to edit. Would you be interested in an internship with us if you make this videos?"

I didn't have to think twice about the answer.

A Veggie Pizza and a Side Order of Perspective

It’s the second time my dad has tried. Last time, the only thing that grew was a strange, tall plant which he claims he never planted. It took a while for him to realize that the plant was not giving any fruit that resembled any of the pictures in front of the many seed packets he had used. In his (paraphrased) words, he was taking care of a child which was not his. While that in itself can be a story, I am not writing about a strange plant today. No, I am writing because this time around, there were no strange plants growing. This time, the picture on the packet of seeds suddenly had replicas of itself growing on the many shrubs and vines that had sprouted. My dad’s first harvest was that of a miniature tomato, a miniature bell pepper, and a miniature zucchini, enough for a miniature veggie pizza. But what enthralled me the most was not the harvest, but the harvester.

                What is harvested in the family orchard is invariably eaten. The plants have started producing larger fruits, and just the other day we had the first cucumber, although it went sour in a few minutes. But it all goes back to the harvester. He did not start off as a harvester; rather he started off as a dreamer. What others saw as a patch of earth, he saw as a dinner-growing vegetable patch. But it started off as a dream. Had he not seen the fruits in his head he would not have bought the seeds. He also had to have a purpose for these veggies because taking care of plants requires money and time—especially money and time. Money to pay the water and fertilizer. Time to water the plants—done in the mornings when the average person is still hitting the snooze button for the third time. Watching the plants grow, guiding the vines, trimming this wayward branch, killing bugs--it’s not an easy task. It occurred to me that if I ever wanted my dreams to come true I would not only have to work on them when I like the results, but especially when things go bad. I’m very sure that my dad sometimes questioned his drive, the reason for these veggies. But it was all worth it in the end.

“A miracle happened!”

Pizza toppings? It’s more than that in my father’s eyes, because he was able to reap the benefits of what he sowed all those weeks ago. To me, he was the agent in another work of creation from God, and why can’t all our dreams be just that? Be the agents of the hand of God, even—especially—when things don’t go our way.

The melon never satisfied, and the pineapple never grew. But my dad still went out there every morning. Even if the melons and pineapples didn't come out, his time was not wasted; those miracles just might end up making him happy in more ways than one.

HAHA

"If there were a million springer spaniels in Africa dying of AIDS and starvation, we would probably have it taken care of in four days." -Sarah Silverman

Totally Just Plagiarized from Another Blog

I saw this and thought it fit in well with some past posts. No infringement intended, Suzie. =)