Respect is not earned

Just an observation, and feel free to disagree:

Respect is not earned, contrary to popular belief. It is taken or given.

Either you are the kind of person who commands respect, or you are not. The difference is actualy nothing more than mentally saying: "I will have your respect."

Does it work? YES! In all cases? Enough to be "statistically significant."

Scenario B: Some folks give respect to others as a default. I try and do this, because it is how I like to be treated. There is no zero-sum game with respect, so why not?

Anyway, I am happy. Bless you, dear reader.

Keeping a Tiger on a leash

I am not upset. I sit here at my desk, I certainly am nervous. My motivation is low, my productivity is low. The flood of life is hard to contain. I am inclined to go with the flow.

It's all blessings. God is giving me so much, so fast.

Keeping a tiger on a leash is a bad idea. Eventually, the animal will get free.

I must learn patience. Right now, the leash chafes a bit. Freedom is a certainty. With time, all things are possible.

Uncomfortable observation

Mexico is a child of rape. Inexorably, the old times Gary Jennings wrote about in his masterpiece Aztec are gone. The cultures of Spain and Meso-America, the very blood of the conquered and the conquerors, are united in a guilty bond. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see the face of the rapists. Sometimes I imagine I see the visage of the raped.

I always wonder:

1) Would there be a place in this connected globe for the One World, the beauty and terrible violence of the old Mexica? If Cortez had left the peoples of Mexico alone, would there be the Ball Game, mass sacrifice, Flower Wars, etc. going on even now?

2) Is it right to extinguish a way of life, even a brutal one, with brutality? Can the forced mixing of Spanish and Native blood be justified by arguing that the Native culture was simply too savage to be allowed to survive?

3) Can the old wound ever be healed?

As I go to church, a Roman Catholic as a result of all of this history, I pray that the result for me is positive. The Spanish gave one gift to Mexico that I believe in my heart is beautiful and that gift is the faith of the Church. Mary is the special guardian of the Mexican people. I love Mary, and I thank God that she looks with favor on her people. Perhaps the modern Mexicans would have been her people anyway, without genocide. The world will never know.

100 Word Sentence V

The Bay laps against the windy shore, choppy waves against pale, uneven sand and gray rock, and I peer out across the water on an afternoon walk, the strong gale pushing against my eyelids, robbing my exposed skin of heat and biting down further, below the surface and touching the soft, buried tissue of my secret anatomy, still hungry and not satisfied with my shivering silence, a ravenous animal hitting the bone and pushing further still into the marrow, all while I am staring at the magnificent skyline of San Francisco, a willing prey to the icy cold disembodied predator.

A word on Animal Cruelty from King Solomon

A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.

Proverbs 12:10

Mark Your Calendars

APRIL 17th is VEST DAY WORLDWIDE!

Compassion and Vigilence

When one is trying to be a better person, I found that it is as pointless to tear yourself up as is it to lie to yourself, saying you're doing fine. Just as I attempt to be compassionate to others, I must remind myself that I am worthy of my own compassion. Without compassion, there is no room for growth.

Vigilence balances out compassion, keeps me from forgetting my goals. The task of juggling virtues, once a real challenge, becomes easier each day. May it continue that way.

100 Word Sentence IV

Stones on a riverbed, in virtue of the fact that water continually passes over them, become progressively worn and smooth, incrementally growing smaller and more sparkling, the natural processes of wear creating a wholly organic and pure art form worthy of the highest praise, and I, now a bit more honest with the world than in my youth, can appreciate the tiny miracle of each pebble without irony to mask the wonder, a fact so mundane that it would not be worth the trouble of articulating except that it has been so strangely difficult to talk about beauty for me.

Fast Fiction V (is that right)

A mated pair of falcons has taken up residence in the park. As I leave for work, they busy themselves with repairing their nest, gathering food for the little ones.

I wonder, do they look forward to our moments together? Am I just a big mammal walking below their home, or have they grown to expect our dawn meetings? As they call to each other, as they fly by, all grace and purpose, I do not answer my own question. I realize that the question dissolves itself.

The birds and I share something, even if it is different for them than me. The new sun shines on both of our endeavors each day.

Summing up what I'm up to.

Whoah!

It's probably pretty obvious that things are afoot with me. Although I am more productive than I have been in years as far as fiction goes, I am not agonizing over writing. In spite of my giving up beer, I am joyful and I have been tipsy a few times (fun!). I am doing more with church, praying more, but I seem to have exactly enough time to do all the things I need to do.

In short, I am in the zone. And it feels as good as it sounds!

I need to work on patience. I need to be more generous. I need to be kind to those I don't like.

I am still a work in progress, but the big Foreman in the sky is overseeing the project now. We are on schedule!

100 Word Sentence III

I get truly bizarre notions sometimes, ideas that do not, in and of themselves, make any degree of sense, bits of whole stories plucked seemingly from nowhere, and I wonder (even though I only wonder in internal dialogue) if they could really originate with me, in my own consciousness where I locate my identity, or could these ideas perhaps come from a bigger reservoir of thought, the noise of a thousand minds, a Higher Power, my ancestors speaking to me via our blood conduit, or some prefigured me from the distant future, communicating in sound bytes through some telepathic machine.

Yummy sushi...

After an exceptionally bad day at work last week, Zack and I went to Hideki-san's for dinner. We love having sushi there. Hideki-san's is not the real name of the restaurant. I'm not going to reveal it here - it's a secret. If we decide that we really like you, we may take you there or even tell you its real name. Not that this is a high traffic blog or anything, but the place is *tiny*. Like, eight people at the bar, and two tables of four, literally. The entire readership of this blog would pack the place. You can't even see it from the street. There's no visible sign, merely a small wooden plaque visible only to pedestrians that indicates its presence - and you have to climb an extremely steep level of stairs to a second floor where it located. Hideki does not serve parties larger than four, he does not take reservations and he does not do take out. This may seem like Hideki is curmudgeonly and crotchety. Perhaps he is outside of his restaurant, but not behind his sushi bar. Hideki takes genuine pleasure in serving his customer. He confided to us last week that for him, being a sushi chef was like jazz... you need all this training, but you have to be adaptable and figure out what your audience likes, and what will please. He's taught us quite a bit about sushi... anago, ebi and kohada were the "original" sushi, and that tamago is traditionally ordered at the end of a meal (it's sweet). He told us that in his opinion, tamago can make or break a sushi chef. A chef that can make a good tamago can also cook, he explained, since a sushi chef usually limited to his board, the rice cooker and a toaster. Most tamagos nowadays are premade, but even though he doesn't serve many cooked things on his menu (no noodles or tempura and teriyaki bentos here), he makes his own, which is excellent. He always serves the freshest fish, and usually has some unique things that other bars don't serve. Last week, it was pen shell scallops. Watching him work with his blade is really entrancing - his expertise is that calming. He doesn't usually serve the wacked-out crazy rolls that have become so popular nowadays, but he does have the best spicy tuna roll ever (he chops jalapeno into his) and his california rolls has real crab legs, not the fake stuff and not the salad. He also told us (with a wink) that when he drinks sake, he doesn't eat sushi, only sashimi. "I'm getting my rice in the cup," he grinned mischieviously. We catch up on family, we talk about music (he loves Queen and Ella Fitzgerald), and he dispenses a little sage advice. He enjoys a slow pace so that he's able to devote himself totally to a few select customers. I've been there when it's busy, and he gets really stressed out. Once, a boy sitting next to me ate an entire combo plate of sushi, and followed it up with an entire combo plate of sashimi. These were the kinds of plates usually shared by four people. "I'm going to run out of fish," he said worriedly. Luckily, the boy was satiated and it was towards the end of the night anyway. He also keeps a little treats hidden for a select few that are not listed on the menu. For my birthday, he served me a special salad of halibut cured in kelp with shredded lemon peel, and once, he gave us some tuna caught by a customer that he smoked himself. Though toro is not usually listed on his board, I always make a point of asking for it, because I know he often keeps a personal stash for himself. I also know that he ferments his own plum and cherry wines, but he's not supposed to serve them. They won't be ready for a few months, but when they are, we'll be there.

Fast Fiction IV

"Did you see that?" When she asked the question, honestly, I had no idea how to answer.

Yes, something moved. I did not move it, and neither did she. There was no earthquake, wind, or other natural event that makes those books falling from the table make sense. No big truck rattled by, the table's legs did not give way.

"I saw something." My wife and I exchanged looks of awe.

Mysterious things sometimes happen even in suburbia.

My heart opens. My head is silent

What I write next I feel compelled to put down on paper. If you find it annoying, I am truly sorry. Perhaps it was not meant for you.

"Heart" thinking, as opposed to "Head" thinking, is a concept I have struggled with until recently. I was a nerdy kid and even my faith was "Head" faith. This is probably why my early religious education didn't stick.

Now, my heart opens, and my head is silent (at least, when I pray sincerely, it is like this). Instead of little moments of experience (the best I could ever achieve trying to get to spirituality on my own) I live mostly in the feeling of being close to God. It's nice. It's simple.

100 Word sentence II

Perhaps it was the time of year, that point in spring where the rain has not subsided yet and it’s still cold once the sun goes down, or maybe it had to do with all the recent sad events going on around us, but last night’s sushi dinner, consisting of mainly what the chef recommended, was a very special time for my wife and I, a pause from the activity and a shared experience, the little treat that keeps the rest of the difficulty from seeming too overwhelming, a beautiful way to renew ourselves and prepare for the next day.

100 Word Sentence (pretty tough!)

Wandering home, feeling not precisely bad, but certainly not good either, all strung out on my own down tempo mood, oblivious to all the change of the surroundings that movements bring, cold, hungry, and scared that I was losing something vital inside me, I took the moment as a sign that life had finally and clearly come full circle and what I now was experiencing was, in fact, a shadow of the demon of my young adulthood, the depression or the ghost thereof (it is still so hard to distinguish the one from the other) that remains forever if unaddressed.

100 Word Exercise One (thanks Mark)

Pomona was once a lush country town. Now, in one lifetime, the blight of Los Angeles extends to the place of my birth and beyond.

When I think of the heat-mirage concrete and smog, I remember the sensation of fear.

What wasn’t I afraid of then? The rough staccato of gunshots punctuated summer nights. All around us were the hungry poor and the predators who feed on them.

My brother and I went to Catholic school. It felt like an oasis in the desert of the urban reality. My mother worked and went to school. We saw her only rarely.

Fast Fiction III

Clara watched with a mix of envy and pride as her little brother took his first steps. A moment in which she understood the fragility of childhood, Clara would often think back on the wobbly footing of Sam, his tentative bid to enter the world.

It took years to document all of her feelings about observing that piece of family history. By the time Clara got it all to make sense, she was a mother herself.

New feet, new steps, but the same grasping for identity.

Fast Fiction II

This weekend, I dreamt of drinking orange juice from a thermal cup. I ambled through a private wood with my drink, taking in the twilight quiet treescape. Without warning, I came upon a small denizen of the wood.

The bat and I shared a moment of confusion. I offered the creature a taste of my orange juice. It drank deep, wanting more. Perhaps it was a fruit bat, or perhaps it merely took what I offered as good. The bat drank as much as I gave.

I woke up puzzled.

A new experience and a blessing

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. I came in to work with ashes on my forehead and proceeded to get asked all sorts of questions. Here's a sample:

- There are the innocent ones: "What is that on your forehead?" These folks don't have Catholic friends.

-There are the more rude versions: "You got s--t on your forehead" Yeah, I know.

- And then the general Anti-Catholic tone: "You're Catholic?" As if being Catholic were a disease you'd not want to admit to in public.

When I went to Mass, I did not expect the reactions I'd get. I did not expect the feel of being excluded, marked, somehow different. Growing up Mexican in Los Angeles, going to twelve years of Catholic school, I guess I was sheltered from the disdain folks harbor for my faith.

I never set out to be a messenger for my beliefs. It's not that I am holier because I go to church. I am a profound sinner, and I just recently began to repair my relationship with the Catholic Church. It seems strange to me that I would be the voice for Catholicism in the office.

Still, I am so glad for the experience. I got to explain my faith to the curious and endure the taunts of the less-than-nice. It is a blessing to be ridiculed for your beliefs:

"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you." Matthew Ch. 5:11-12

Very Fast Fiction

When the killing was over, Don Alberto looked me over for long seconds. "You know why I spared you, don't you?" I did, but I couldn't speak. It's hard to talk when you are covered in blood that is not your own and there is a killer in front of you. You want to run, but your legs won't cooperate. You want to avoid the red eyes staring at you, but Don Alberto wants to keep your attention. If the father of all vampires wants to keep your attention, you pay attention.

Someone had to explain how fifty people came to this gymnasium, how they began to lay out plans for a vampire hunt, and how the vampire decided not to wait on them to come to him.

Someone has to take the rap. Someone with a criminal record and ties to the occult would be the ideal fall guy. Someone like me.