2013 - I Winged It

I know 2013 is gone but I thought it would be beneficial for me to sit down and briefly assess the year that I had.

As a college student, my year is divided into two phases: school and not-school. Quite a lot of the first and little slivers of the second. Two school semesters sandwiched around a long summer break. 

January 2013. Spring semester on the horizon. The parents tell me that this could very well be my last semester at the school because of monetary issues. I was advised to take eighteen units instead of the usual fifteen so I could finish with 60 credits and possibly transfer out to another school with two full years under my belt. Something like that. Three more units, one extra class. That can't be that much harder right? Wrong.

For some reason, I was not at all prepared for that semester. I went in knowing it would be difficult, knowing it would be a lot and knowing I would have to step it up to do well. For some reason, I just wasn't there. My grades weren't awful but they could've been better. On top of all the stresses of classes and work and grades, I got real sick in April and missed a week of class. Everything turned out okay in the end; I still managed to have a good time and pass all my classes, but it definitely could have been a better semester on my part.

In the middle of the summer I went on a 'missions trip' with my school to inner city Los Angeles where we lived and worked with a church in the projects for four weeks. Life-changing to say the least. One of the best things I've ever done. But that's another story for another day. In the weeks before the trip however, I was not prepared. I was frustrated over things at home and at the dojo, I was rather bored with no job and nothing to do. My head was not in the right place. I was caught up in myself, concerned about me and what I want to do and where I want to go, yet I was going on this trip to be selfless and serve and help others. I had a huge reality check the night before I left home; it was one of those "what in the world are you doing, get yourself together" kind of night. But I went on the trip. It worked out. I made it through with a good attitude and had the time of my life. Who knew.

Six weeks later I was back to school. I went two weeks early for work purposes so I had a lot of time to steel myself for another full semester. I was determined not to make Fall '13 a repeat of Spring '13. Wrong again.

I don't know how else to put it. I was not mentally there until three weeks into the semester. I really scrambled to get the first round of papers in, staying up late and waking up early to write six or seven papers of all sizes in four days. Reality check again. "Your parents are giving how much for you to be at this school? And you reward them by procrastinating and spacing out. Well done." Played catch-up the rest of the way, it sucked but I survived. What I deemed to be my worst semester thus far ended up being my best semester academically. Don't ask me how.

I don't know if you've noticed a theme here. I did Boy Scouts when I was wee lad. Apparently all the "Be Prepared" pledges I took didn't pan out because I was prepared for nothing all year long. I know I can't be completely prepared for anything and the year did have its surprises but I wasn't even prepared for the things that I knew were going to go down. I felt like the entire year was one big "I'm about to jump out of this plane but I guess I'll check the parachute on the way down" kind of deal. What the heck.

If there's anything to learn from last year's mistakes it would be... get your feet underneath you and get your head in the game? I feel like I got away with a lot and I know that I can't afford to do that again. Stuff is getting real and I need to hit the ground running this year.

Now's the time to make resolutions and start over yes? New year, new you right? Here's an "easy" one: look back on what you did and take the necessary step to not making those mistakes again. Yes you will find new mistakes to make this year but at least you won't be stumbling over the blunders of the past.

Don't just "wing it". That's what I did. Don't do what I did.

Welcome To Me

Welcome to 2014, page-brainers. First post of the year.

After contemplating the termination of this blog, I've decided to keep it for the time being. It's good therapy for my own insanity.

This here is dangerous business. This is risky. I have to count the cost every time I sit down at these keys. I have to steel myself and hold my breath. It's hard to open up, to talk about yourself, to admit your faults, share your fears, and reveal your dreams. It's hard, for me anyway. Like the ribs protecting vital organs, it's only natural to treasure and hide that which is precious. But I'm not here to hug precious organs, warm, closed and comfortable. I'm here prying open the rigid gates around my heart, pulling it out of my chest and holding it up, fleshy, bloody and bleeding for you to see.

The whole purpose of this here establishment is to expose myself on these pages. It will be my heart, my blood, and my brains splattered across these pages. The good, the bad and the ugly. It's not easy. I tell myself that I'm writing for myself but that's not entirely true. 

Sometimes it's painful to let someone traverse the dark, tender parts of my being. With my chest open and my heart exposed, I run the risk of being pierced where it hurts the most. There are flesh-eating monsters out there who would love nothing more than to abuse the access I've offered to destroy me from the inside out. But sometimes it take an external force, someone with a steady hand to reach inside between the protective barriers of my soul to mend and extract the one thing that is killing me. It's a risk I have to take. One I'm willing to take.

Nothing here has changed. And nothing is going to change. For those of you who are new, welcome to the show. For those of you who have stuck it out with me, this is just a quick refresher on what to expect whenever the pink stuff starts hitting the white pages.

You are reading this. In order for you to read this, I have to open up. I have to let you in. Sometimes it's messy and dirty, sometimes it's crazy and unclear, sometimes it's unorthodox and unorganized. But this is where I live and this is how I do. 

Welcome to my humble abode. Welcome to me.

This Is Letting Go

Her body is nearly limp; her breathing is faint. My arms tremble as I struggle to hold her weight. When I first lifted her, I was confident that I could carry her all the way. I could save her. The walk was longer than anticipated. Turns out I wasn't as strong as I thought. I don't have strength for two. Not for much longer. My arms continue to weaken and the angry red stain on her shirt continues to grow. I'm running out of time.

"Help me!" I said, bursting through the door. 

He turned from his work and set his glasses on his nose. He lifted her shirt to reveal the deep gash across her stomach.

"I'm scared she's gonna die." I fought to keep my voice level. "I don't know what to do anymore; tell me what to do so I can save her."

"I'm going to have to work on her," He said after a moment's silence. He reached out to remove her from my arms.

I flinched.

"Just.. just tell me what I need to do." My voice wavered. My legs shook as I stood before him, the pain was becoming evident on my face.

He reached out again. 

"Give her to me," He said softly.

Time seemed to drain like the blood from her side. My pride or her life.

I passed her over to him and he carefully laid her unconscious body on the table. I slumped down the wall to the floor as exhaustion overcame me. I listened to the tools being prepared and organized. Suddenly I was lifted to my feet.

"I need you to step outside while I do this." His eyes peered into the storm of my soul as a wave of helplessness threatened to sweep me off my feet.

"How long will it take?" I managed. "Will she make it?"

The firmness of the grip on my shoulders settled my reeling emotions and put my deepening fear to rest.

"Trust me."

I could feel confidence returning to my feet as I made my way to the door. I gazed over my shoulder at her once more. He was already beginning to work; I could see color returning to her face.

I heard his voice once more as I hit the door.

"Remember the day I carried you in here?"

I lifted my shirt and traced the long scar across my stomach with my finger. I remembered now. My faith in His hands was strengthened once again.

Clarity

I never had career goals or ambitions or anything like that. I don't know what I want to pursue as a career. But I did aspire to be a world champion martial artist. Now maybe I'm not world champion material, but I can still be an artist. I can create art with my movements, I can create art with my camera, I can create art with my words. If being an artist means seeing the world the way other people don't or appreciating what other people miss and then expressing myself the way no one else can, then that's what I want to be.

Flatline

The doctors burst into the emergency room. This is critical. No vitals, no signs of life. Revive him. 

"Clear!"

Shock him, spark him, bring him back to life. We can't lose him. Flurry of motion and activity, hard work and undivided attention.

The monitor beeps slowly, rhythmically; the green lines on the screen spike upwards with methodic regularity. Eyes closed, breathing faintly. 

They used to visit him, huddled around the bed holding hands, wishing for his recovery, praying for his return. As the days grew in number so the hopefuls dwindled in their expectations; the visits became less frequent. The monitor is the only sound, the only sign of life. The blips on the monitor are just as reluctant to acknowledge his presence as the visitors.

The lack of movement begins to eat away at his skin. The world has left him behind; the constant movement of everything outside overtakes the stillness in the room as he slowly fades away. The dust falls undisturbed on the bed. The monitor continues to beep faithfully, faintly.

The blinking cursor sneers at me. The empty page hits me in the face. Nothing. I've got nothing. They come and then they go, passing through my mind without leaving a trace of inspiration. Nothing sticks, nothing stays. The orphanage is empty. Left alone with my incoherent thoughts. The floor is a mess of misplaced creativity, lack of skill, oppressive emotions and withering motivation.

I can't keep my eyes on the page; movement outside the window, voices in the hall, all calling me, beckoning me, urging me to bury my dead on move on. The monitor seems smaller than it did before. The lifelessness of the room is stifling. I shake off the dust and abandon my post. 

The monitor sounds once more, this time a single, sustained note.

Torn

This is a sickness. This is an illness that weakens the body and churns the stomach; the cause of many a listless day and sleepless night.

This is a drug. This is an addiction, producing irrational habits, hallucinations, distorting sight and warping the mind.

This is the friend that takes me home when I'm wasted, nourishes me back to health when I'm hurting, talks me through my deepening darkness, removing the bullets from the gun.

This is light and dark, night and day. This is my passion and hope; this is my weakness and my downfall.

Watch and Learn

Imagine an artist. 

He sits on a bench in a courtyard. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak. He simply watches. The sky, the birds, the flowers, dogs barking, people walking, cars driving, trains moving. He just watches.

And then he goes home. He takes all that he's seen and heard and tasted and felt with him back to his workshop. He clears the table and prepares his tools, arming himself with a new canvas, a fresh brush and a clear mind. A clean slate. He constructs an image, a replication of these things that he observed from his day, from his point of view. This image, this representation of his experie
nce from that day or sometimes from previous days, this creation draws out the often overlooked beauty of the mundane, the routine, the ordinary. This image--part reality, part personality--exposes the viewer to wonders previously unseen and never before considered and invites the viewer to participate in the artist's experience.

Oftentimes the artist is credited with skill in painting or drawing or sculpting. While this is usually true, this is not his primary strength. His strength is in his eyes, his ears, his feelings. His thoughts. His perception. He sees what you don't. He sees what you won't.

This is what I try to do. I observe. I think. I write. This is my canvas.

This sitting back and watching thing.. It's a double-edged sword. It's good to be able to observe things and see the beauty in simplicity and discover things that other people miss. It's also terrible because this also tends to be my approach for the rest of my life: sit back, watch it happen and hope for the best. I like blame this on my reserved personality but in reality it's just a bad habit that I've accepted as part of who I am. 

Right now I'm taking a class on article writing, and this class is pushing me to step outside of that "observing from afar" deal that I'm comfortable with and take steps be proactive and actually "get a story." I can look at something and make observations about it; that's easy. For example, have you ever noticed the way a person walks? Even if it's not a pronounced gait or limp? I pride myself on being able to pick out a friend in a crowd simply by the way they walk. I've seen enough people walking in my life and paid attention enough to recognize a certain stride and pace when I see it, even from a distance. That's just me observing. However, going out and engaging with people and 'making' a story is a whole new ballgame for me. It's still observing and writing, it's just more involving and engaging. This casual observation versus active participation in observation is sort of a personality clash for me. "It's not who I am." And it doesn't have to be. I can live with that.

It's a skill worth learning. And I intend on learning this skill, expanding horizons and broadening my experiences. At the end of the day, it still comes down to seeing, hearing, thinking, and then writing. That's what I want to do, that's what I like to do. And the more mediums I get to do that in, the better.

The perceptive artist in his workshop, the seasoned journalist in the field, the ambitious college student writing and producing from his garage. It's all art. Expression. Observation.

Gotta start somewhere.