Weeping for Hecuba

A Poem to Share

2009-09-12T20:50:00.003-05:00

I was putting up posters in my new apartment this evening when I found an item I had packed about a month ago and then promptly forgotten. It is part of a poem a friend gave to me several years ago, a gift during the darkest and most painful time of my life. In those days of struggle, I asked myself often, "Why is this happening to me? What is God up to?" Once, out of sheer anger and frustration, I put on my running shoes and took off down the gravel roads of Iowa, swearing to him and myself that I would not stop until I got an answer.

I ran past cornfields, farm houses, a graveyard, and onto a State highway. I think I ran for over an hour without stopping, ran until my calves cramped so hard I was stumbling back onto my college campus. I ran for over an hour, and no answer came to me except, perhaps, "Wait and see."

This poem by Amy Carmichael does not explain that dark time to me, but it does explain why dark times exists and why they are something followers of Christ must go through.

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?

No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.
But thine are whole; can he have followed far
Who hast no wound or scar?

Going to Hiroshima

2009-08-03T10:43:00.002-05:00

I went to Hiroshima on a bullet train,
to see where our bomb fell.
I went with Nobu, my Japanese
friend, brother,
whose island Little Boy scourged.
We laid flowers before the Cenotaph;
Nobu said a prayer, but I surprised myself:
I cried
over 80,000 names I did not know.

They were babies, brothers, sisters, mothers,
paying for sins of fathers,
of generals and politicians, the ones
who always start
what is finished with their people.
Tell me Harry, is this the way it had to be?
Grandmothers, shopkeepers, schoolchildren,
burned like incense on the altar of Peace,
to atone,
to purify,
to cleanse
this island of her sins?

Nobu and I left Hiroshima on a bullet train.
We talked all the way to Tokyo.
We talked of soccer and movies,
of God and politics,
of sushi and cherry blossoms soon to bloom.
We talked for 80,000 who could not,
but we never talked of them.

Renaissance

2009-08-03T10:36:00.004-05:00

I know it has been a year since the last update on this blog. For those of you who don't know, I've started another one with my brother (small men on a Mission) to keep the world update about my adventures as both of us go through film school (I at Pepperdine and he at Huntington). However, Jesse is keeping another blog for personal sketches, and I've decided that to give this blog a re-birth as a place to record more intimate, personal work. I will not update it as frequently, but hopefully it will be a place to showcase a little of my work and thoughts.

2008-04-15T22:20:00.003-05:00

Last week was a hard week. My childhood hero died, and I was told I needed a colonoscopy.

The former is to find out if I have any worms or other microscopic foreign holdovers from my time in the Republic of Ecuador. We are actually about 4 weeks out from the the one year anniversary of my return home, so I would be surprised if there are any little guys who've managed to holdout in my intestinal track for that long. Then again, we are talking about the most plentiful life form in the universe. . .

The former happening is not so easy to glibly push away. The passing of an artistic and moral giant seldom is, and Charlton Heston was a behemoth even among the pantheon of Hollywood-elite. His greatness, I once told him in a fan letter I wrote, lay not in his accomplishments on screen or even as a iconic persona. Rather, they stemmed from his unique demeanor; in a world of psychotic, egotistical, emotionally unstable starlets, Heston stood tall and resolutely upright. He not only played Moses, he stayed married to the same woman for over fifty years, from before the dawn of his acting career to his death Sunday, April 6, 2008. He was a man who marched with Martin Luther King Jr. on the Lincoln memorial and proudly stood up for the Second Amendment during the anti-gun craze of the nineties. There can be no more fitting memorial for Heston than his funeral last Saturday, attended by luminaries from Nancy Reagan to Oliver Stone. There his son Fraser uttered these words:

"I never knew a finer man; I will never know a finer man."

God bless you Charlton Heston, and may He take you into his peace.

The Price of Freedom

2008-03-23T19:00:00.006-05:00

I'd like to now say a few words about Talk Radio. And Rudyard Kipling.

I've made repeated promises not to let this blog fall into the pit-trap of my erstwhile, part-time hobby of politicking, and but I couldn't help myself after some of the latest volleys fired by America's bastion of truth of freedom, aka Talk Radio. Now, I've got nothing against Rush Limbaugh, Hugh Hewitt, Sean Hannity, or any of the other broadcasting buddhas. In fact, I've appreciated the auspices of Rush & Co. many times in the past, the current ravings have been begun to take an almost demagogic tone. Between disparagement of Hilary, there are the frequent allusions to World War 2 and almost apocalyptic attitude towards Iraq, as if the armies of Armageddon have already been draw up outside the gates of Baghdad, with Islamists playing the role of Gog and Magog while against them stand the forces of truth, justice, and world democratization. Once can almost hear them say, if we fail here, the forces of darkness will sweep over and cover all the earth. . . .

Now, whatever I may think about Iraq or the War on Terror (which, in fact, is going to be closer to Rush than Hilary or Obama), the simple fact of the matter is that whichever party occupies Capitol Hill in 2009, the fighting will continue. So will the dying. Those are inevitable realities to war, and no amount of idealism can change the bitter reality. But before we continue to link Ahmadinejad with Hitler or characterize the very real, current conflict with as some holy crusade to spread democracy and enlightenment to a darkened world, we should remember a poem Rudyard Kipling once penned for Great Britain, our cultural ancestor, as they carried out their own world-wide struggle for "enlightenment".

Recessional
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

When was the last time a public figured prayed something like this? Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget - lest we forget? Is not the rightness of our cause assured? Is not, as many have intimated, history and even God himself on our side? Well, I for one certainly do not believe they are on the side of Osama bin Laden, but before we finish sharpening our bayonets and shining our boots, we could dwell to pray Kipling's prayer and reflect on something Abraham Lincoln once said when asked about the Godliness of the Union's cause during the Civil war. "My concern," he said, "is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God's side, for God is always right."

As we and our war go forward, I hope we can say the same.

Ignorance is bliss . . . . . until you overdose on it.

2008-02-29T19:46:00.003-06:00

Ok, I know it was only a few weeks ago that I swore a solemn oath before all mankind to faithfully discharge a weekly duty of diligently composing a thoughtful, relevant, addressing personal interests and the issues of the modern world. And yes, I have failed to honor my pledge (at least the weekly bit). It's come about through overcommitment, overextension, and and my current dalliance into Presidential history (fyi, for you Lincolnphiles, I strongly recommend Doris Kearns Goodwin's A Team of Rivals - an excellent book about the nation's most famous, if not most beloved, President). Alas, there are only 24 hours in a day and only 7 days in a weeks, the majority of which I spend "winning my bread" and "learning my letters" (Arabic letters, but letters all the same). There are also bi-weekly bouts with weightlifting and the occasionally succumbing the great modern temptation: TV.

But I did not begin this entry to bore you all with a meager offering of excuses; au contraire, I put finger to keyboard to relate singular encounter I had with extremely literate Indian software engineer.

We met during lunch at an IT training session earlier in the week. Probably more out of politeness than curiosity, the fellow asked me my college major, and after I replied "English" a mischievous twinkle appeared in his eye. He begin to ask me about books, first my tastes in general and then gradually my acquaintance with the classics At first I took him the casual evening reader, the kind who enjoy a bit of Sue Grafton before bed, but after a few minutes of discourse he began dropping names like Dostoevsky and Dickens. By the time he quoted the opening of The Catcher in the Rye, I realized I had chanced upon a real diamond in the rough.

The whole episode, though thoroughly enjoyable, led to pondering: what has become of literary mavens such his fine fellow? Where have all the true readers gone? I admit that I am as susceptible to Saturday morning cartoons as the next man, but who in all honesty believes the Powerpuff Girls have left an indelible mark on history? What has happened to our society, which scant generations back made use of words like "loquacious", or offered allusions to Pericles of Athens? I know the drums of social ignorance and decay have been beaten for many years, but have you ever stopped to wonder that the naysayers may in fact be whaling upon a hollow American head, its brain outsourced to India and its ears stopped up with an ipod?

Enlightenment was taking more seriously by the men of the past. Lincoln taught himself almost exclusively borrowing books from neighbors miles away, reading late at night by candle, forgoing hours of sleep in order to train the the mind which he knew alone could lift him from poverty. Years of hard work, fruitless work were the price of education, but Lincoln paid in full, and happily. Somehow, I have a hard time imagining the youth of my day making the same purchase, especially upon discovering it couldn't be charged with a Visa.

But apathy is only a natural symptom, I suppose. After all, Plato is a bit of a bore, especially next to People magazine. No one reads Samuel Johnson anymore, at least not outside the Ivory tower, and I as a working man I haven't much time for that either. But maybe, at some future lunch, I can meet new friend again and we can talk about Ozymandias or Crime and Punishment. I think I would like that.

Guess who's back . . . back again (no, not Slim Shady)

2008-02-17T07:10:00.002-06:00

I haven't written a blog for a while. Sorry. My bad. I've been occupied with a few other little things, like getting a job. And learning Arabic.

There's a lot I could say about writing my new language from right to left, or the innumerable disadvantages of vowel points, or the enormous difficulty of trying to master a gutteral stop. But I won't; I won't even say a word.

I'd much rather write about writing itself, put my genius on the couch, as it were, and expound upon all the confusion inside my head. To put it simply, writing for me is somewhere between ecstasy and epiphany. It is a joy and a curse; it is like dragging yourself up at dawn to go on a morning run.

For most of the people I know, running is an abomination. Pain in the legs, shortness of breath, head spinning, body faltering. Writing is much the same: accursed punctuation, finger cramps. However, when you finish, there is a kind of joy similar only to completing a three-mile jog; there is a sense of conquest, like reaching the summit of a formidable peak. Writing is like Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire, running at dawn along an English beach as Vangelis's immortal score carries him along. If you've seen the movie, you remember his face: it's the look of doing what you were meant to do before your Creator.

As one now months out of shape, however, I think I will hereafter confine myself to sprints. The four paragraphs above have been a marathon.

Debt, Destiny, and Medical IT

2007-11-27T20:39:00.000-06:00

I started a new job this week, work as a technical writer for a large Healthcare IT company. The position is widely-coveted, or so I am told; good opportunities; good benefits; killer salary. The pay is more than enough to wipe out all those education debts and give me a nice little pile to use as I commence construction on my own personal corporate.

Make no mistake, I am glad for the chance. I to be off in the world, throwing off the yoke of Iowa Student Loan Liquidity and covering my shoes in the dust of the real, working world. But even as I train myself for technical expertise and excellence, I cannot focus on success. I keep glancing out the window and the churning winter waters the Missouri river. As the presenters cover health benefits and direct payroll deposit, I find myself drifting to thoughts of learning Arabic or writing a rock opera. Exactly the kind of foolishness college was supposed to crush stamp out with exams, essays, and student-initiated business projects.

Some part of me never seemed to get the memo, though. I still dream of adventure and excitement, just like when I as 8, even though my own experiences of abroad ranked somewhere between tourist and jungle castaway. I've never been happy where I've been. Whether it's wanderlust or the Peter Pan syndrome, I've never been totally able to focus on the here or now. My heart, it seems, ran away to sea long ago, and now it roams foreign lands and sails distant shores.

I hope before I day that we can meet once again.

To be right or to be President?

2007-11-08T19:34:00.000-06:00

It might not have been an earth-shattering moment in your life, but more than a few political circles were rocked by
Pat Robertson's endorsement of Rudolph Giuliani's Presidential campaign. Robertson, host of the 700 club and one of the founders of the Christian Coalition, said "I thought it was important for me to make it clear that Rudy Giuliani is more than acceptable to people of faith." While every American and their dog knows that Giuliani favored certain causes ardently opposed by Robertson and his associates (i.e., abortion and gay marriage), such concerns were apparently trumped by a common ground on National security. As Robertson put it forthrightly, "to me, the overriding issue before the American people is the defense of our population from the bloodlust of Islamic terrorists." Fighting al-Qaeda, it seems has moved ahead of everything else on Robertson's priority list.

I am not going to blog for the next 45 minutes about the political side of Robertson's endorsement. Quite honestly, I think little of it, accept that it means the death of everything the Christian Coalition had previously stood for (see Roland Martin's piece on CNN for more). However, I do have a few words I would like to share with you (or else I wouldn't be blogging).

My grandfather died this week. Now, before you offer condolences and quietly wonder at this unexpected tangent, know that my grandfather's life bears relevance on what I to say. You see, Earl Farewell Dodge was a prominent third-party politician. For the past 20 years, he had been the chairman and presidential nominee of the National Prohibition party (yes, that's the party that wants to bring back Prohibition). My grandfather devoted life to that cause, starting in the fifties and continuing until his death this Wednesday, November 7. Unlike Giuliani, my grandfather never really stood a chance of being elected. His best presidential showing was in 1988, when he received 8,000 votes, but this last election in 2004, he only got 208 (enough to top the American Socialist party, but finishing far behind the Green and Reform tickets). A few reporters inquired after his passing, but there was no great fanfare. Just as in his life, the interest was only cursory, as if his views were a novelty or kind of gimmick. There were never any press conferences, no victory celebrations or special appearances on the 700 Club.

You see, what was really important to my grandfather was not the winning (something he never did). What mattered was taking a stand. He truly believed alcohol was a drain on the American nation (an opinion< I might add, shared by a majority of the country in 20s and 30s). And as the idea of prohibition fell from favor and crashed nose-first into the desert of third party politics, he stuck with his guns, his integrity borne out in a favorite tune, one he'd often song in his baritone voice at our family gatherings.

I'd rather be right than President.

Well, I have no intention of voting for Mr. Giuliani. Every charter member of the Moral Majority could stand behind him with a fine photogenic smile and calculated pat on the back, and I wouldn't be swayed in the slightest. National security, the most important issue facing us today? Not the slaughter of countless unborn children, nor sky-rocketing divorce rates, nor abuse of power nor the torture of prisoners of war or even the sick attacks on family and church by radical homosexual groups? No, no, no. All of these, according to Mr. Robertson, fall behind fighting Muslims halfway around the world.

I lost my grandfather this week. It hurts. But what America lost should hurt even more: the only candidate who cared for something more than simply winning.

Politika

2007-10-28T17:47:00.000-05:00

My mind has been on politics a lot of late. I don't know how it could be differently, with all the poisoning and pandering that fills news headlines and blog posts. The anti-Bush, anti-war, anti-gay, the anti-America, the anti-whathaveyou versus the pro-strength, pro-family, pro-choice, pro-immigrant heretheybes. More than a year still to to that decisive Tuesday in November, and we are already are ankle-deep in the bloodletting.

Like everyone else, I am sick of the hate, sick of the partisanship, sick of the bickering and smear campaigns and character assassinations. Sometimes it seems like the Southside has been transplanted to the District of Columbia, bullets replaced by news bulletins and drive bys substituted for news conferences. I swear, some days I scan the top stories on CNN and I half expect to see some Senator stabbed to death on the steps of Congress. Power is arousing; naked power intoxicating.

Now I am not going to make some pompous pretense at being devoid of political prejudices, nor some asinine appeal to a sense of civility we all know could never even root, let alone flourish, in political grounds sown with decades of salt. The animal politika is what is, a vicious beast stalking those berber carpets and campaign fundraisers, and no amount of whining will change that. Negative advertisements and personal attacks work; with respect to celebrity Senator Barack Obama, the politics which divide us are the only ones that have ever mattered. Greek and Barbarian; Roman and Carthaginian; Republican and Democrat.

Yes, we disdain the cloaks and the daggers, yet when that Tuesday comes around, they achieve the result desired. The smear campaigns appall us, but changes our vote. The fear-mongering may disgust, but it finds buyers.

So I wonder, can we really blame the politicians for what they are? After all, what is a demagogue but a man with poison and a crowd? And what really gives him the power? The poison?

Or the crowd?

בראשית

2007-10-17T21:30:00.000-05:00

Bereshit.

It is Hebrew, meaning "In the beginning". With those words begins the first book of the Bible (or Torah or Tanakh or the Pentateuch, depending upon religion your follow), written down by the first Hebrews as an account of the Creation and the Origins of all things. Bereshit.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. And God separated the light from the darkness.

This blog of mine, conceived in this transitory age of ever-moving, ever-changing words and pictures, is a small attempt at creation. There is no particular reason why you should read what I have to say; nothing compels you (except perhaps the bond of being a blood-relation). However, I feel the need to create, to write in the empty, dark, and chaotic void that is cyberspace and to form something of meaning and beauty.

"Out of darkness comes light," sings the Jewish artist Matisyahu. We see that is it has been this way from the beginning. Therefore, anything I create, any light I shed, only comes a reflection of what He has already made.