Day 68 - The End

I am leaving India today. I hate goodbyes. They confuse me; I don't think my brain knows how to to fully compute the given situation; and that's probably true for most people. Just as it is unnatural for the mind to understand death - to fully comprehend the idea of permanently leaving this world - so it is unnatural to be leaving particular people or places temporarily, but on a smaller scale, of course. Saying goodbyes is like momentarily meeting death, or rather, momentarily acknowledging death and impermanence. It's defiant acceptance of the inevitable; and I don't particularly like that. We weren't meant to live this way.  

Farewell India. 

America is on the horizon.

Day 66 - Recollections

My time is almost done here. I have a little over two days left to absorb what I can; and then Delhi is a dream, a dream I hope to return to later in life. I thought for this post I would include portions of my journal entries from throughout the trip.

June 6, 2009

The disappointing thing about the trip thus far is that in my mind it is difficult to separate Delhi from India, along with the images I've seen, the little reading-material I've read, and the movies I've watched - all shaping a shape I haven't really seen until now - and I don't know how agreeable I find everything. However, each day the city and its people grow on me; and every day my mind, and my heart too, perceives and feels for this place with a little more clarity, and in that clarity, out of the fog of my preconceived notions of Eastern myth and abject poverty emerges a heartbeat not so unlike my own, a human heartbeat. 

June 8

What a terrible night. I think I got at most three hours of sleep...I had to get up. It was useless lying in bed, allowing the mosquitos to feast on me. I don't know how many bites I got last night; enough to make me restless and force me out of bed. 

June 13

As the conches resounded inside the immaculately decorated temple, the enthusiastic congregates raised their arms and hands above their heads. They were preparing for the revealing of the idols. And it was at this point that I truly sensed something rather alien to me, an electricity I wasn't sure how to calculate: I sensed the breath of the divine over the people, I sensed the waking of the gods from their deep, primordial slumber. And I sensed the gods sinister appetite to devour the minds and hearts of the people eagerly waiting their approval. Their capricious laughter filled the room, and I stood stunned, for what could I do? 

June 13

I had this thought that I would stop living by the days, that days are really an illusion, and rather moments are the true reality. Instead of thinking, today I will accomplish this, or today I should go here or go there, or today I need to read my Bible, I should think, now I will do this or do that, now I will go here or go there, now I will no longer be afraid, and now I will love. 

June 30

I had never felt so close to what it really feels like to be a father as I did when she spontaneously wrapped her little arms around my legs.

July 3

What are my experiences so far? If I were to write a book about my experiences in India, would it be worth reading? Would the characters be compelling? What did I come here for in the first place? I came here to feel the heartbeat of India; to see faces; to hear voices; to give and be given to. And why haven't I wept yet? I came here to be human. Where are all the tears inside?

July 15

After mazing our way into the slum, we parked the car and looked apprehensively out at the drenched surroundings, not fully ready to step into the sheets of rain coming down. Concerning the surroundings, almost all the houses were made entirely of red brick; and nearly half of those looked as though they were in construction or simply in ruins - I couldn't tell the difference. The structures that looked more or less completed on average reached the height of three to four stories, which was rather impressive given their precarious-looking designs. For even the sturdiest of the homes looked as if though the smallest of earthquakes would collapse them. But I should be careful to judge so quickly. Despite their crude and curious architecture, like massive chimneys inhabited by people, which were a wonder to look at, the houses, in their plentitude, looked well-worn in and rather warm and cosy. For all I knew, generations of families could have been living in these brick homes, persevering through Mother Nature and the demands of rapidly developing society that wants brush the existence of slums under the table. No doubt, however, that over the years these structures have had to be reinforced. Or perhaps many of these homes have fallen in the past. But, to borrow a summary of India civilization from another writer: what Indians do best as a people, better than perhaps all other nations, is begin again. Instead of abandoning land to its demise, Indians simply build their lives on the tops of ruins. They are the masters of the cycle. They just accept their fates with passive tenacity. 

Day 53 - Naipual

Here is an excerpt from a book I am reading called An Area of Darkeness by V.S. Naipaul. The book is an account of Naipaul's first travels throughout India. It was published in 1964.

"India is the poorest country in the world. Therefore, to see its poverty is to make an observation of no value; a thousand newcomers to the country before you have seen and said as you. And not only newcomers. Our own sons and daughters, when they return from Europe and America, have spoken in your very words. Do not think that your anger and contempt are marks of your sensitivity. You might have seen more: the smiles on the faces of the begging children, that domestic group among the pavement sleepers waking in the cool Bombay morning, father, mother and baby in a trinity of love, so self-contained that they are as private as if walls had separated them from you: it is your gaze that violates them, your sense of outrage that outrages them. You might have seen the boy sweeping his area of pavement, spreading his mat, lying down; exhaustion and undernourishment are in his tiny body and shrunken face, but lying flat on his back, oblivious of you and the thousands who walk past in the lane between sleepers' mats and house walls bright with advertisements and election slogans, oblivious of the warm, over-breathed air, he plays with fatigued concentration with a tiny pistol in blue plastic. It is your surprise, your anger that denies him humanity. But wait. Stay six months. The winter will bring fresh visitors. Their talk will also be of poverty; they too will show their anger. You will agree; but deep down there will be annoyance; it will seem to you then, too, that they are seeing only the obvious; and it will not please you to find your sensibility so accurately parodied...I had learned too that escape was always possible, that in every Indian town there was a corner of comparative order and cleanliness in which one could recover and cherish one's self-respect. In India the easiest and most necessary thing to ignore was the most obvious. Which no doubt was why, in spite of all that I had read about the country, nothing had prepared me for it."

Monsoon season is here!

After days of intense heat, the rains have finally arrived in Delhi to the relief of the city, including myself. The picture taken is complements of BBC News. Thanks BBC. 

Day 45 - The Donkey

*From a journal entry a few days ago ---

Today, as I was walking alongside a busy road in East Delhi, during the height of the sun's fury, a temperature well over one-hundred degrees, watching my surroundings closely as drops of sweat, growing ever more, hit the baked dirt below, I passed a donkey, forlorn and heartbreaking to see. He stood there against the brunt of the heat motionless and seemingly indifferent to anything and everything around him. And as much as I wanted to avert my eyes from him, I couldn't. 

The first thing I noticed about this sad creature was that his ears were completely missing. And I thought, either he was born this way or some cruel person must have had heartlessly cut them off and then abandoned him to his humiliation, for there seemed to be no indication of an owner around. Yet the more I took this donkey into account and his sad condition, the more I began to think the latter was a more plausible explanation, that in fact his ears had been cut off: because not only did he appear to be extremely malnourished and sickly, with most of his fur gone, exposing his decaying, leathery skin, but also his back and sides were striped with deep scars, due, most likely, to severe beatings. 

However, it wasn't really his physical condition that fully convinced me someone had cut off his ears. Instead, it was his lifeless expression and demeanor that told me this, an expression only acquired, I think, from years of heavy torture. His eyes cut me deep, eyes that had long ago stopped looking for a kind hand. He carried the face of a spirit completely crushed, as if he had been spurned and tortured into a lidless shame, for not once did I see him blink, even in the heat and with all the flies. His eyes were glued into a vacant and infinitely empty stare. And truthfully, I wouldn't be surprised if his eyelids too, along with his ears, had been cut off, forced to bear, in full, the humiliation of his condition: unwanted, cursed, a burden to society. 

His stillness invades me even now, an unnatural kind of stillness that presupposed that if he were even to shake the flies off his back some stick or whip might unflinchingly slash him again, or even worse, he might lose some other part of his body. And the idea of lying down and resting probably meant death, which if you were in that kind of condition you would most likely desire, for death and freedom would be synonymous.  But perhaps the idea of death was also beat out of him. Or I wonder to what extent animals carry the concept of death, that is, if he even knew he could die.

I walked passed this donkey full of sorrow and confusion. He was beyond any help to my estimation. Even if I were to offer him a bowl of water or a kind pat on the back, he would probably refuse and just stare at me as if I wasn't there. Or maybe rather he would interpret my kindness as more maliciousness, and in so doing be provoked into hysterics, kicking and biting and feverishly baying. 

It saddened me more than anything else to know he would die like this; he would die alone, without knowing the kindness some humans can have for animals, beaten into a submission that wouldn't allow him to accept kindness from someone else, beaten into a submission that wouldn't even allow him the dignity to use his animal instincts to fight back against cruelty. He had been degraded to less than animal. This was his place, his destiny of abject poverty, and there was nothing he could do to climb out of the filth; he had accepted and embraced his fate. He was an object of humiliation and, more than anything, he was ugly, and society hates the ugly; he was the green slime in the sewer water next to him. He was even unworthy of being killed. 

And sitting here, thinking now of this poor, pathetic donkey, I can only imagine him still standing there, from day to day and night to night. He will eventually die standing there. His flesh will rot and slip off his bones and fall to the ground. But his bones, stricken from the scorn of society, will, for awhile, remain the way he was before when he was alive, standing and intact, unwilling to budge, frozen in place by a curse long ago.    

Day 42 - Hanuman

A few days ago, during a scorchingly hot afternoon, I stood at the feet of a massive statue of Hinduism's monkey deity, Hanuman, friend and helper of Rama and god of strength. The statue, or idol rather, stood almost a hundred feet tall from head to toe and was painted a crimson red. He had the body of a man - chest bare and muscular -  but the head of an ape. The only clothing he was dressed in was the loin cloth that reached the middle of his stout thighs.  Also, on his head sat a large pyramid-shaped crown and in his left hand he held a magnificent mace. He held the weapon in a way that did not seem to impose threat, for Hanuman relaxed the crown of the mace on the ground near his giant, sandaled feet. His other hand was held out chest high, palm faced outward, expressing peace to his spectators. 

It was the largest statue I had ever found myself staring up at - a red giant frozen and captured from another world, foreboding yet borderline ridiculous to behold. For as intimidating as he appeared - given his size and the fact that if he were to come alive, the weapon he possessed could easily erase a house with one sheer blow - I could not help but think he would be kind and even gentle in his own way. His face carried the expression of cool friendship and timeless contentment, like the face that has experienced many years of peace after many years of war; a face that tells the heart,"The bad years are over. Let us forget them and now rest and be glad." Looking deeply into his face, I couldn't help but think Hanuman would let me climb his arm and find a seat on his broad shoulder. 

Sarah expressed vehemently to me, yet in a hushed tone, that she would like to topple this statue if she could, this statue that so many revered and prayed to in India and turned people away from the living God. I imagined the huge red thing coming crashing down, falling as if in slow-motion and hitting the ground with a resounding, earth-shaking, thud. The sound of splitting rocks would briefly fill the air and then silence would ensue as a god met its death and lay in pieces on the ground . I imagined this and tried to find sympathy in the sentiment, but in the deepest parts of my heart I could not. I did not wish to see the death of Hanuman. 

Hanuman is part of a story, a human story, or to be more precise, a human myth. Stories and myths are extensions of the human soul that when without God are searching for meaning in the dark; they are frantically reaching out to grab something to hold on to in a world veiled by the evil one. Hanuman is a crystallized expression of the power of the imagination and creativity of mankind, but a fallen imagination. What I mean is that Hanuman, in part, represents the depravity existing in the human heart; he is a leap across the chasm and in his fall and in his rebellion he became what he is. 

But I do not think this means Hanuman should be crushed.  I think he ought to be humbled and remade - that is, his story needs to be remade and then told as it should always have been, when mankind's imagination was not polluted and bent toward idolatry. Therefore, just as the hearts of men and women need a Savior, so do the stories of old and new, and their many characters - which are the children of men and women's imagination - need a Savior. In other words, the myth needs to be told the great Myth; if books are people then myths are people; and if the person can be saved so can the myth. The myth needs to repent and be changed according to the ultimate Myth of Christ - the myth humans have been waiting for since the fall but could not create on its own. 

Remake the myth of Hanuman. Remake the myth of Krishna. Remake the myth of Shiva. Over Hanuman's heart carve a cross and around his great mace engrave the words of the living Myth. Standing there in the orange heat of summer, I did not wish to see Hanuman fall, but I wished to see him bow underneath the cross of Christ where his story belongs. 

Day 38 - Halfway Point

I am over half way through my trip in India. Sometimes it's hard for me to admit that I am actually here, living in another country - and for over a month now. Some days I think this is all a trick, that I'm actually not in India but in some unknown part of America, as if this was all some kind of large simulation - or even worse, that I'm just dreaming, because I know when I get back to America, this will all feel like a dream, a really vivid dream. 

Everything always ends up feeling like a dream. And most everyone moves on without any problems, because you have to. 

I have four weeks left. I have met people. Good people. I must love them. Even though they are characters in this dream, I have to see them as real. I have to believe that I will see them again one day. I have to believe that God has invaded this dream and has given me these people for a reason. 

It's always been fascinating to me that during some dreams, if they are vivid enough, you are convinced you are awake, but then when  you actually do wake up, you then are most certain you are awake. I don't understand how we tell the difference sometimes. Maybe after I die and awake into the afterlife, it will feel like waking from a dream. And then at that time I will be certain more than ever that I am awake. 

This is silly. Sorry for the pointless post. I just don't know what to write. I'll try and make my next post more worth reading.

Day 23 - The Beard

Before I left for India, I made the resolution to not put a razor to my face; that I would set the beard loose, both literally and figuratively, (though I don't know what I mean by figuratively) to become the man I was naturally meant to be. Let me say, it's been a little over three weeks, and I have kept that promise thus far. Here is a picture of me the day before I left for India and another picture showing the progress I have made in three weeks and two days time. If I had to be honest, I'm ready to shave it all off. It's lookin' pretty thick down in the neck area. 

Day 21 - A Conversation

Here is a typical conversation about religion I have had with Hindu students this past week. I will name the student Pavon since that's a common Indian name I've come across so far. A portion of this typical conversation roughly goes as follows:

John: Would you consider yourself a religious person?

Pavon: I am Indian first, before anything else. But I think all religions say the same thing and are from the same God. The important thing is to be honest with your own personal convictions, follow them as best you can, and to not try to change what people think is right in their own hearts.

John: So you think all religions are from the same God? If all religions come from the same God, then there must be one God, correct?

Pavon: Yes. God is one.

John: But I thought Hinduism taught that there were millions of gods?

Pavon: It does, and there are millions of gods, but they all come from one God. The many gods are different expressions of the one God; and in Hinduism, followers are encouraged to choose which expressions of God they want to worship based on preference. It's like music: Music is one, but there are many expressions and definitions of music; but it's still one. And people choose which genres of music they want to listen to and like. It's all preference. 

John: That's very interesting. So then who is this one God? Do you know Him? Why don't you just worship this one God instead of all the gods?

Pavon: I know God through the many gods. I worship Him by worshiping his expressions. It's all the same. You, being a Christian, worship God in your own way, in the expression you prefer, through Jesus. I worship Shiva and Vishnu and Lakshmi. It's all the same. 

John: So then Jesus is just another god in your opinion, another expression of the one God?

Pavon: Yes, Jesus is a god.

John: Can you tell me who you think this one God is?

Pavon: No. I don't know this. 

 

Day 14 - Delhi Belly (Body and Soul)

Things have slowed down significantly since coming back from Hisar.  I'm finally fully adjusted to the time change, and subsequently, I now have no problem sleeping in if I wanted to or if I could, which is both convenient and inconvenient at the same time; it feels nice to sleep in some but mornings are also the best time to pray, especially here. 

The heat has lessened in intensity, which is a plus; we've even had some rain in the past few days, and I was also able to witness a spectacular lightning storm from our rooftop in Delhi. Some of the bolts of lightning I saw were so brilliant and felt so close when they struck that I was instinctively forced to take a few steps back for fear of my life - seriously. It was beautiful and inspiring.  I realize now standing there on the rooftop in the middle of a lightning storm probably wasn't the wisest idea - oh well - but I don't get to see many lightning storms in California, so I thought I would take full advantage of the situation, whether that meant death or not. 

Two nights ago I started feeling a little ill, and by the morning after I had been properly introduced to Delhi Belly. And let me tell you, it's not very friendly. I'm sure you can deduce yourself what the symptoms of Delhi Belly entail. So I'll spare you the details. I am feeling better now, although I still feel the remnants of that terrible day, having had to only urgently frequent the bathroom a few times. Truthfully, I have my team to thank for nursing me back to health and for mothering me so well during that unpleasant time. Thanks team! 

For the past week my team and I have been scouting out places to see where Indians our age gather in large numbers. One place recommended for us to check out was the mall nearby, which, duh, makes perfect logical sense - just as much as some countries differ from one another, they can be just as much similar in other ways, and young people gravitating toward malls is no exception here. However, I'm not so much interested in sharing the interactions we had there with Indians - we met quite a few people, talked about religion and so forth, and even scored a a free CD from a local Indian alternative-rock band. But while we were indifferently perusing mall stores, about to leave, a question came to my mind:  What am I doing here? I'm not sure why I asked myself this, and, depending on the answer I gave myself, I wasn't sure at the time what would be required of me as a result of that answer. I knew the right answer, but I found no feeling behind it. And as much as I wanted to avoid the question, I couldn't. 

There are times when you can't but feel as though you are acting some part you've trained your whole life to be good at playing. You've become so good at all the nuances and details of that character that you even convince yourself of its truthfulness, that the mask you wear is really your own face. The frightening thing is, however, that when you suddenly come to your senses, things are brought into the light, and suddenly you're able to look at your true face for what seems like the first time.

So standing there in the mall, asking myself this question of what I was doing in India, I began to feel this very reality. And honestly part of me was ready to pack my bags and go home. Part of me wanted to admit that this was not the place I was meant to be, that some mistake had been made - because I was not feeling for these Indian people walking all around me in the mall like I should have been; I was not brokenhearted that so many of them were in bondage to the teachings and rituals of Hinduism. Actually, I wasn't sure what I felt for them at all. I think I might have been slightly annoyed by them.

So I searched deep inside of me for a glimpse of hope in my soul, for anything that would tell me there is some vestige of Christ left in me. It wasn't until later that I came to some kind of answer. After just leaving the mall, my team and I ran into a large group of Indian college students sitting on a flight of stairs just outside the mall. The students seemed to be entranced by our American presence, and so we took that as a good enough reason to say hello and ask a few questions. During our conversation with these people, something came over me; I felt as though someone had unlocked the key to my feelings, and as a result I was able to engage these people with my whole being, with my mind and my heart. I felt genuinely interested in their lives, not only cultural level, but more importantly, on a spiritual level. I wanted to share the gospel with them, and as a team, we did, though they didn't look remotely interested in believing what we had to say. 

I don't know if I can articulate the impression I felt, but through that transaction, I think I came to this answer: I am here to learn how to find joy in getting to know and conversing with people, and in so doing, learn to find joy in sharing the gospel with people. I just read recently from a Russian Orthodox monk that whatever the Holy Spirit touches, there is immense and incomprehensible joy and peace. In this strange land, even if I feel nothing that I ought to feel as a follower of Christ, I am here to experience the joy and peace of the Holy Spirit, so that hopefully I might be of some use for God's kingdom in this place. 

 

Day 7 - Romanticism and Post-Hasar

"This is indeed India! The land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth and fabulous poverty - of genii and giants and Alladin lamps, of tigers and elephants - the country of a hundred nations and a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two million gods, cradle of the human race, birthplace of human speech, mother of history, grandmother of legend, great grandmother of tradition..." - Mark Twain. 

Before I came to India I carried with me my own idea of the place. I must admit, it was a romanticized version of India shaped from movies, books and the myths of Hinduism. Having this imaginary country with me, I was very curious how my romanticized version would compare with the 'real' India I would eventually come to know. And now that I have officially lived here a week, it's hard to say how that bridge is being made, if there even is a bridge. One thing, however, is certain: I am utterly fascinated by this place. The 'real' India has in no way weakened my romanticized notions of the country. In fact, somehow the contradictions I have come to know have only reinforced them. 

One way to explain this fascination is that so far in my time spent here I have acquired contradictory impressions of the country. One part of me is is drawn towards the Indian way of life, and another part of me is repulsed. Likewise, one part of me is so impressed with the Indian people, and another part of me is very much unimpressed. These contradictions create a mystery about the country I did not expect to feel, or at least not so strongly. But I think in order for me to better explain what I mean by all this, I think I need more time.  

Now, here is a little about what has taken place recently. I am back in New Delhi again, home of over 14 million people. For the past five days or so my team and I were living in a hostel in Hasar, a neighboring state northwest of Delhi. It was a very enjoyable time. I especially enjoyed the time spent inside the hostel. Picture a humble Spanish manor, but in India - a three story house with concrete floors, open, airy rooms, high ceilings and walls painted a mild-blue pastel color, a veranda to introduce the front of the home, impressive and spacious balconies accompanying the second and third floors, swinging double doors, and a quiet and dutiful group of servant girls from the school next door to attend to our needs. It had the romantic feeling of some novel or movie I had read or seen before. And on top of that, settled right across the street from the hostel, picture a structure that resembles a slightly smaller Space Needle, yet more modern and even more space-like looking, looking over us at all times like our own glass and metal guardian angel - quite the contrast. And there is a vague glimpse into the place my team and I spent in Hasar.

Some of my favorite moments during that time took place during the mornings and mid-afternoons. In the mornings I would wake up rather early (around 7 or so), sit out on the third-floor balcony, which overlooks the front of the property, and simply listen and watch the Indian morning go by. Squirrels would scurry along the ground darting from tree to tree. There would be the occasional peacock roaming about, that is until the stray dogs in the area would chase it away. And so many parrots! Green parrots with bright yellow-feathered tails were all over, chirping and jovially rustling the tree branches. The mornings there were very much filled with exotic tranquility. 

During the mid-afternoons, after we completed the activities for the day, I enjoyed sitting at the dining room table with a book or two in hand. And I would watch rather carefully as the Indian servant girls made all the preparations for the upcoming dinner. I did this almost everyday. While at work, the Indian girls would talk with one another in their native tongue, Hindi, laugh and joke with each another liberally, and occasionally give me an inquisitive look that I could not fully comprehend. We were strangers in the strictest sense. And though I could understand nothing of their speech, and perhaps they were even laughing at me at times, I found great pleasure watching them go about their work so dutifully and gracefully, all the while knowing that the girls practically ignored the fact that I was there. It was the closest I had ever felt to being invisible, but an invisibility desired, as if I was given the gift of witnessing authentic and unadulterated human behavior.

The train rides there and back were memorable. They were nothing like Darjeeling Limited, but they were nonetheless trains in India, and that was good enough for me. The most memorable moment occurred on my way to Hasar. For about a half-hour or more I watched the moving countryside of India through an open doorway in-between two train carts. I watched it with an Indian man, who was around my age, I met at that very spot. He didn't speak English very well, but he understood what I was saying to him for the most part. At least it appeared he did. He kept wanting to show me Hindi hip-hop on his cell-phone, and even though I wasn't too interested, I entertained the guy. 

I believe our souls were connected through traveling; we were friends on a different plane, and that friendship will only ever exist on the plane where you can feel the rush of hot wind on your face, see the moving of countryside and hear the sound of steel tracks below. When we parted I yelled to him, "See you on the next train, my friend." He laughed and then walked away. 

This has been India so far. I still have so much more to see, and I'm sure it will only further pique my growing interest. 

Until next time,

john sachs

   

Day 1 - Jet Lag

The main reason I am updating so soon after updating since yesterday is because I need there to be a blog entry dedicated to the first full day spent in India. I need to see "Day 1" on here - I don't know why.  Even if there is nothing significant said, putting this day in the books eases my mind, and perhaps I will sleep longer and more soundly than the night before. And while I'm on the subject of sleep, let me just say that today was a day of warring with jet lag. 

One interesting thing about being in India is that, coming from California, I am on the exact opposite side of the world; India is exactly 12 1/2 hours ahead of the Pacific Time Zone. Neither West nor East will take me any farther away from the Golden State. In other words, speaking horizontally, I am the farthest I can be away from my home right now. And based upon that fact, for some reason or another it makes everything here seem a little more alien, a little more off-set, as if I truly were on another planet and have the daunting task of observing it's peculiar inhabitants and their peculiar ways - even though so far everything I've seen and heard reminds me of other places I've been to in the world. 

Anyway, since today was our first day, and since we were all suffering heavily from jet lag, the day was rather relaxed and instructional. We took a couple of walks and familiarized ourselves with local area: checked out the park close by, as well as a small temple and the nearest market just down the road, which looks vaguely like something from Tim Burton's interpretation of Gotham City, with all of its suspended and tangled power lines, its narrow and dank streets and its high half-decrepit buildings. And while it is this way, it is still yet very much alive and congested with people and their need for consumption, including myself (I got some coffee), as well as with cars that barely fit in this bustling place; and you can feel it all pulsating. And all that to say: I liked it, and I want to go back. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow if I can. 

On a spiritual note, I have yet to feel the powerful presence of the spiritual mindedness I had anticipated to be unique to this country. And more than anything else, I am looking forward to feeling it and sensing it and knowing it on a personal level, because than I think I will begin feel deeply for Indians. But tomorrow is promising. We will be visiting some prominent temples in the city, and this excites me greatly. 

And on that note, my Day 1 entry comes to a close; jet lag is still pulling at my eyelids and my pillow calls. Question: what kind of voice do you think your pillow has? 

   

  

Greetings From Afar

I am in India. Not much to tell so far. Spent some sleepless hours on a plane flying over strange waters and lands. Arrived in country. Collected myself and my belongings. Rendezvoused with others. Rode in a vintage-looking Indian taxi that made its way through night-cloaked New Delhi. Couldn't make out much from my window. From what I could tell, the city felt like a mixture between Tijuana and Chaing Mai. Can't wait to see it in the day though. Hot. About to go to bed. More later. 

Striking Images From North Korea (A Silent Land)

For more pictures go here.

It was a bright morning in the early part of the summer...

How to sneak up on a photographer.

Tweenbots!

Kacie Kinzer, a student from NYU, decided to conduct a social experiment of sorts, and a very adorable one at that. The experiment involves the use of small, cute, human-like, robots (as depicted in the picture above) called Tweenbots. Each Tweenbot displays a destination of its own on a flag attached to the robot's antenna. Tweenbots, ever positive with those enduring smiles of theirs, are constantly propelled forward in a straight line, determined to traverse to the sidewalks of New York City successfully. The idea: as the robots inevitably face various obstacles, the success of each robot will depend on the kindness of unsuspecting pedestrians to help navigate them through the complexity of New York. Kacie Kinzer writes:

"In New York, we are very occupied with getting to one place to another. I wondered: could a human-like object traverse sidewalks and streets along with us, and in so doing, create a narrative about our relationship to space and our willingness to interact with what we find in it? More importantly, how could our actions be seen within a larger context of human connection that emerges from the complexity of the city itself? To answer these questions, I built robots."

Will humans aid the Tweenbots in their missions?

Here's a video:

Go Tweenbots!

Happy Easter!

I am a resident of this strange place we call Earth.

Thus, existentialism's first move is to make every man aware of what he is and to make the full responsibility of his existence rest on him. And when we say that a man is responsible for himself, we do not only mean that he is responsible for his own individuality, but that he is responsible for all men.

-  Jean-Paul Sartre

I don't agree with everything this man has to say - namely that God does not exist. But I do think he has some important insights regarding what it ultimately means to be a human being, and this brief life we have on Earth. Another quote I have come to appreciate by him reads: "The only way to determine the value of this affection is, precisely, to perform an act which confirms and defines it." How do I know there is any value in the affection I have for God? - simple, I act upon that affection, and by acting I am confirming and defining that affection. 

Have a blessed Good Friday! May His face shine upon you!

love john

 

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The Tornado and Clara: two poems

The Tornado

You are a raging column 

of grey firmament,

a single serpentine finger

spiraling down to sweep the earth,

a razored mouth devouring,

chewing, spitting,

stripping

mothers of daughters,

fathers of sons,

leaving chains of crumbling homes

in broad, dead daylight.

Not one soul stands a chance

against the deafening rumble

of your twisting walls of wrath,

so clamorous 

that all sound 

cracks

like ancient, stone cities

being razed to the ground,

or like

the birth of a new world. 

Clara

She was the lover of a tyrant,

perhaps a beast herself,

but lying there, dead, in the open cold,

on her back, the concrete her last bed,

flesh riddled with gunfire, with swollen face

and a chest shredded, partially 

exposed for all kinds of mockery,

the soul of the world wept interminably:

that such crafted beauty was now lost

to the hands of foaming men,

a body never to be loved again. 

Joy

Psalm 16:11

You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore. 

John 15:10-11

If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have my Father's commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. 

Two Poems by C.S. Lewis

1.

Master they say that when I seem

To be in speech with you,

Since you make no replies, it's all a dream

- One talker aping two. 

They are half right, but not as they

imagine; rather, I

Seek in myself the things I meant to say,

And lo! The wells are dry.

Then, seeing me empty, you forsake

The listener's role, and through

My dead lips breathe and into utterance wake

The thoughts I never knew.

And thus you neither need reply

Nor can; thus while we seem

Two talking, thou art One forever, and I

No dreamer, but thy dream

2. After Prayers, Lie Cold

Arise my body, my small body, we have striven

Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven.

Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go,

White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow,

Undress with small, cold fingers, and put out the light,

And be alone, hush'd mortal, in the sacred night,

- A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup

Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up,

Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness

By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness.

Be not too quickly warm again. Lie cold; consent

To weariness' and pardon's watery element.

Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death;

Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath. 

Give me! Give me! Give me!

Aren't we all starved for human love, for warmth felt from the fires of our human brothers and sisters? We are drowning in its bottomless depths. Is this folly? And how easily the strings of our hearts are plucked, and ring loud in our hollow chests! We feel so much. 

In The Dry Riverbed

I wrote a new poem today. It's rather simple:

In the Dry Riverbed

I wish someone was here with me,

seeing and hearing and feeling

as I see and hear and feel with the waters of my soul

now in this dry riverbed not far from my home,

where the swaying reeds,

the praying bushes,

and the clumpy, loose sand below

live on after the river's death. 

I wish I could have heard

someone else's gravel-steps crunching with mine 

along the levee trail,

our eyes squinting because of the ever-bursting sun,

which still hangs low now in the California sky,

looking like a Mexican gold poppy

or an exploding orange.

Up ahead, across the dry river's waist,

and beyond its embankment,

I see steep, green hills lying in delighted rest,

still tickled by light and wind.

Newborn grass, sprouting

from the rains a week ago,

cloak its round shoulders and hips.

And at one end,

a herd of solid brown cows dot the hill-side,

their heads all bowed low to the ground.

I can hardly tell if they are moving at all

in their slow-going graze.

I look down,

a black beetle slowly passes me by,

an oval-shaped stranger unconcerned 

with my bulky presence

and unannounced visit to his home.

He startles me with his alien approach.

Its tiny, insect feet sink into the sand

as it awkwardly makes its way out to find

firmer ground.

Finally, somewhere in the bushes

I hear crickets chirping in a charismatic chant,

and hidden birds are ending their wispy songs of the day

before the sun completely fades from their marble eyes 

and their tucked-in wings,

and 

I

am 

here alone,

sitting very still on a river-ridden log,

wishing someone was here with me. 

I Can Feel It Comin' Down

I wrote a song yesterday. Kind of out of the ordinary. It's pretty average, but I kind of like it noetheless. There are bunch of little kids in the library right now. And my day just got a little brighter.
Here are the lyrics. And as a side note: writing lyrics is so different from writing poetry.


I Can Feel It Comin' Down


I can feel it comin' down
But my eyes are locked tight to the floor
My soul thirsts for a morsel of your love


The clouds are openin' up their doors
To shed some light down on my face
It's hard to look up when I know there's only grace


Please Lord, don't let me throw this life away
Like scraps thrown to crows in the cold.
I hear your voice callin' me back home


I'm scared how many wars I'll have to face
Before I get to be with you
Sin hits hard, and the blood runs so much too


The road is getting far too steep
My bones crack loud with every step
But I know it's all right to be the one in my own shoes


Well, I've grown tired of myself
This world, these tired dreams, and everything
Restore my life, and the joy of your salvation

The time: 1:20 a.m. I exist. Barely.

I think being self-aware is a puzzling notion to ponder. There is a quote from the movie, Wings of Desire, that I find quite soul-enriching for some reason. Perhaps it will better describe the state of puzzlement I feel now at 1:20 a.m., on a Tuesday morning, a time when I feel least eloquent. Well, now it's 1:27 a.m. Not much has changed though. My desk is still here, thankfully, just as cluttered as ever, and my stuffed penguin is still staring at me with his lidless eyes. You know what else I find puzzling? That I possess a reservoir or words that together comprise a unique language. I was thinking about that today. For example, whenever I desire to communicate an idea or thought or image in my mind, the words are there for my use. But sometimes the words are not there, and I get very angry.

I have digressed. 

Here is the quote:

"When the child was a child it was the time of these questions: 'Why am I me and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? Where did time begin, and where does space end? Isn't life under the sun just a dream? Isn't what I see, hear, and smell, just the mirage of a world before the world? Does evil actually exist, and are there people who are really evil? How can it be that I, who am I, wasn't before I was? And that sometime I, the one I am, no longer will be the one I am?'"

You know what else puzzles me? This picture:

Well every highway that I go down seems to be longer than the last one I knew about oh well. Thank you, Jack White.

My ears are ringing. I am am in in the library. Staring.

I've had somewhat of a creative writing spurt lately. Actually, my prolificacy has not been entierly due to my own free ambition. I wish it has been, that would seem more noteworthy and artistic to say - and it's quite in vogue to appear artistic these days. But maybe it's always been in vogue. Interesting. At any rate, all artists need deadlines, and for what it's worth, I've been writing for a creative writing class of my own this semester. This Spring semester. Spring. It's not Spring yet. Plenty of deadlines going around in there, in that class, which is helpful. Whatever it takes to get the pen to the paper, or the fingers to the keys, I suppose. Poetry had been sparse, and still is. I lacked inspiration as usual. There had been no new thoughts or feelings. It was time I enrolled in a creative writing class. And so I did.

Short stories were first on the agenda. Two and a half short stories later and I have fallen in love with writing again. My vision has been somewhat restored, at least I like to believe it has been. And I can imagine myself with ambition and purpose once again. But enough. This is all so superfluous, and I only wrote about this because I couldn't think of anything else to write about.

I am including some excerpts of my short story. The story is tentatively named, When the Seagulls Left. Here are a couple of separate paragraphs I have worked hard on. The story isn't complete yet.

***Will buried his bare, white feet into the warm, Californian sand. He felt its pulsing, primordial heat, and imagined himself feetless, which brought a smile to his freckled face. He stood there like that, by himself, in the white sand, feetless, for several minutes, wiggling his toes to feel the coarse grains pass between them, and moving his feet ever so slightly, one at a time, to watch the sand above them shift and change, creating tiny, new landscapes from tiny earthquakes. Will delighted in this simple act. He delighted in it to such a degree that it soon became a bore to him, like swimming alone in a pool quickly becomes a bore, even though the idea sounded grand to begin with. The sand had changed. It was no longer a comfort to him, a way to secure him precariously to the earth, proof of his residency. Instead, it had become a burden, a burden to his freedom, weak clamps around his bony ankles trying to render him inert, trying to keep him from the rushing tide that reached for him with every new surge. And he wanted out.***

***But despite the severity of her beauty, she carried herself with such charm and ease that any angle of severity was softened to a cat's purr. But was it the purr of some sleeping jungle cat perched high above in a broad, overhanging branch of a forest tree, Will asked himself. Did she have dramatic stripes to caution you of her claws, like a tiger does? She was enigmatic, a paradox embodied. A smiling moon. A symphony of sleep. The grace of a tornado. The sweet scent of the afterlife. Claws hidden inside a velvet paw.***

Small Thoughts On History

As I was reading a chapter called The War of Gods and Demons in the book, The Everlasting Man, a curious thought came to my mind; perhaps it is not a profound thought, but at least I find it interesting enough to my own standards, to the point that it has roused my curiosity enough that I feel like I need to write about it. In this chapter, much of it explores the overall symbolism of the Punic Wars, which is a very fascinating subject; and indeed, the chapter is rather riveting in its depiction of two great civilizations at war. However, what came to mind as I finished the chapter had nothing to do with Rome or Carthage especially, but with history in a very general and broad sense. I asked myself: What would it be like to live one's life with no real sense of a world history? Of fully living in the progress and advancements of your time, but completely ignorant of how the world got there in the first place; and of having no real knowledge of the milestones and monuments that in our informed minds of today help us shape and comprehend the path this world has been on for so long. Perhaps the only history you would possess would be the limited knowledge you had of your own family or town, but beyond that, any knowledge of the course of the world would be amiss; even one's own understanding of the age of the world, or perhaps more importantly, of the current duration of humanity would be a fact that completely eludes you. What would that be like? Would the world seem more mysterious? I don't know. It would definitely seem to be more veiled. But in that sense, does the world seem to lose mystery when one has a general sense of the events of history? Perhaps not. The world still seems very mysterious to me, but in a different way than simply being uneducated in history. The events themselves possess a certain amount of mystery to them. So I suppose I am talking about two kinds of mystery. But to be completely ignorant of those events, to have no idea of wars already fought or of the formations of countries or of the rising and falling of great civilizations old and new would be a state of mind I would like to delve in to for a short time, at least to satisfy my curiosity, because perhaps maybe when I return from my state of ignorance with the knowledge I have gained from being in ignorance, I would then be able to better understand the mystery of history itself and why it is valuable for my existence, which I undoubtedly feel it is valuable, I'm just not exactly sure why.

Anyway, now that I have said that, I feel that what I have written is merely cluttered, underdeveloped thoughts that I am sure as you have finished reading have thought to yourself how that was such a waste of time to read.