After the Storms then what?

     Standing under a store canopy in some unnamed street on some unrecalled time,heeding nothing but my quiet plea for the rain to stop. Deafening and unheeding, the splatter of a million raindrops drown all that I cared to wish for at that particular moment. Feeling wet and in need of a warm cup of anything really, I ventured on, hoping against all hope that in the next few blocks or so the rain will ebb down. And die down it did. The wind did nothing else but continually dampen a already soaked spirit with its frigid bite. And yet I continue on this time with a little sprite in my gait knowing that somewhere, a warm cup of coffee or a hot bowl of soup awaits. 

     Out here in the tropics monsoon rains with occasional storms are pretty much the norm, especially in this time of the year. Flash floods and landslides are hitting the news as much as anything else they care to post in and it gets worse and worse when typhoons hit. I often wonder even in the face of such calamities, why every year it gets worse and worse. Of course I know the answer to that, being fully aware of how the Earth's climates have changed drastically since the last Ice Age, and that we are fully to blame for our dependence on fossil fuels not even taking into consideration the long term effect of sustained release into the atmosphere. But setting all that aside, let's ponder if you will for a minute, what possibilities lay if continue on this savage cycle we are in. Can we assume that the colorful nature scene you may be using as your wallpaper in that computer you are reading this in may be just that- a scenic memento of our past? 

     What surprises me is that most people, if not all, that I talked to regarding this matter really are concerned about global warming and are open to suggestion on what changes need to be made and how to implement them on a day to day basis. What surprises me even further is that they would make their comment in passing and then jump into their big block v8 truck. What I am driving at here is that most people feel helpless and feeble when it comes to making a noticeable difference in the grander scheme of things. So they lie in wait of a bigger player to do a more drastic form of measurable difference and hope all works out for the better. In my opinion there are two biggest mistakes we tend to commit in our life one of which is we FAIL TO RECOGNIZE ( and nurture) OUR POTENTIAL; the other biggest mistake in my book is we simply STOP CARING. We need to change all that in order for us to feel important enough to make a difference. We CAN make a difference.

     Continuing on that barren stretch of street making short but sure progress to some unknown comfort, I saw my reflection on a small puddle of water. Tired and weary I stop to stare at the man staring back at me. Somehow he looks familiar but at the same time a stranger to me in these strange times. One thing I knew was sure as the wind tugged me out of my brief daze once again, the storm awaits and I am still a long long way to where I need to be, now and in my life.

Restless

I wrote this rather interesting piece sitting on a bench, watching the seals bask in the sun, at the Coves in La Jolla. If you've ever been there you know what I mean when I say it is indeed a magical place. Magical in that not only does it portray a perfect Southern California setting, but also in that nature does abound. If you write often like I do, you can really let your creative juices shift to overdrive since the place is conducive to writing just about anything. This piece is interesting to me in that I wrote it as a symbol of the discord which exists between Man and Nature. It is about how we became insensitive to the natural world's needs and how we exploit our natural resources to the point of depletion. I used to be a biology major before I went to Med school and if you are a product of the UC system, you are heavily influenced by research. I just got off from an afternoon of reading at the Salk Institute of Oceanography and drove down to La Jolla Coves to write.

The eternal blanket of azure in front of me beckons and I engage it with a lie. The ocean greets the shoreline in a cadence so protean and ethereal it seems almost lucid, like being trapped in somebody else's surreal dream. Time meant nothing for the gesture was and still is a sole reminder of eternity. The waters would greet the jagged rocks only to seep through and reach the sands in foaming whispers. It was as if they were disclosing secrets but in their hurried state to return to the sea, the words despairingly lose meaning. I sit humbly before this procession for hours on end. In the sea I am humbled. In the sea I find my soul, the core of who I really am, who I really was meant to be. Yet as I peer to the horizon I can't help but feel sad for the lost humanity in all of us. The sadness looms over me like an unbreakable silence. In the waves I hear a distant longing, older, perhaps, than any primal human emotion; the need to belong and respond harmoniously to the universe around us. I search for the meaning in their message but lose myself in the translation.

Why are we really here? What sort of means and, more importantly, to what ends do we serve? It is not everyday that I find myself unhinged from the ideals and virtues I hold to heart dearly. Swimming in an ocean of desperate questions I find, oddly and true enough, nothing but dissonant answers.

Wayward Ends

I wrote this piece 15 years ago and if I remember correctly the reason for this piece is about the relevance of dreams in our lives. Do we actually live out our dreams or do we go through a lifetime in constant dreaming? The piece is rather short, I might add, but if you read carefully it is rather deep in meaning. The character portrays all of us. His resilience to catch fish aided only by moonlight reflects how we pursue our aspirations. Written from the perspective of a casual observer, the "observer" reflects how we fail to chase our dreams, leaving everything and anything to chance.

He was like a phantom. Casting his nets from his crude boat he makes every effort to maintain a delicate balance. His nets dropped to the sea with the slightest murmur. With the moon out the waves seem to taunt him. Slow ripples carried the moon's reflection over a surreal landscape of ebony tides. Still, he stood unwavering and undaunted by the night. The stars shone with their brightest garb above him yet he hears not their offer of wayward dreams...

And so I watched this old man fish from the sea. His old and gnarled hands still delicately pulls the net from the water and deftly tucking it under his arm. It wasn't long before images of silver undulate from the waters to his boat. The sea is as stark as ever yet she rewards those who grants her patience. Silently and slowly he pulled his catch from the nets, placing them onto his reed basket.

It wasn't long before he drifted away from my vision. The moon no longer willing, the night swallowed him into her dark embrace. Under these stars he appeared like a dream. A fluid yet simple view of life. A life I once lived. Gone are my boats, my oars, and my nets. Still with me are my dreams.

Recluse

This piece is especially important to me. I wrote it on November 14, 1995. As with my other old written works, this still haunts me in the power of it's message. It's rather short, mind you, but it will take you to another time, another place, and challenge you to lay bare your understanding of the strength of the human spirit and hope.

"In darkness and silence they eagerly listen to her singing. What little light that may fall on the withered and broken slats showing still figures hunched in corners revealed a human tragedy. The horror of it all cannot hide the beauty of her voice, transcending to the heavens. So they listen to her sing. From afar they couldn't quite make out the words to her song but her nightingale voice they welcomed greatfully.

The women and children on the far side of the barracks wept whenever her singing was heard. They were reminded perhaps of bitter memories of happier times unlike the cruel realization which they must continually face and live with. Times, perhaps, when life was simple and the war so distant. Of course, to the prisoners of Auschwitz, any sign of hope is wasted effort. Hope was a dangerous thing to hold on to because it waylays what little strength they may have. Still they listen to her song. Her voice makes them forget. To forget is better they say. Pay no heed to your hunger, to your pains, to the bitter cold, to the stern possibility that the very next moment may be your last, they say.

The men shuffle their way to the tiny cracks on the wall or between haphazardly nailed wooden slats to hear, even only for a brief moment, to hear the beauty of her singing. Their worn and torn bodies offer little protection to the knife-edge cold. So she sang. She took them to prairies filled with summer flowers and butterflies. She showed them the many beauties of her little french cottage in the south of France. So together they journeyed and together they forgot where they were. For a brief moment with parched lips they smiled. She has awakened in their hearts the undying power of the gleeful spirit. In that short instance, in that flicker of eternity, she gave them what they have longed for-RECLUSE."

Broken Flight

I wrote this piece back in November 14, 1995, what seemed like ages ago, and yet, still tugs at me like I wrote it just yesterday. The piece is about breaking the bonds which hold us and imprison us.

"The world looked trapped in a melancholy dream. The landscape suddenly became somber as the grey sentinels made their way to the horizon. Sometimes they will lash out to the earth like a serpent flicking its amber tongue.Looking out my streaked window I see the storm clouds continuing to blanket the world outside. My heart felt suddenly burdened as the torrents of rain hammered the land. It was a dreary time. A time for new beginnings.

I sit and wait in my humble abode for HIS coming. Behind me the attributes of my life lay still. Gone are the dreams. Gone are regrets and sorrows. Only loneliness greets me now. And yet I anxiously wait for my friend with whom I share this miserable refuge. Each day he warms my spirit with his song. He is quite intelligent, this feathered friend of mine. He comes and sings to me at my window, just singing, never with a look of pity towards my fumbling misery. I miss him dearly. I no longer seek the company of people for I have learned to love other creatures of the world.

The storm continues on and the wind wails like a thousand widows. Still I wait. Still I hope. Somehow though, in my heart of hearts, I knew he won't come. In a purge like this many things die. They die so that others may yet live. My friend is gone. He is finally free. I envy him so."

Life Unhindered

"I remember that when I was young I loved to see the small wonders I now take for granted. Those long summer days when I would wake up to mornings eager and with fervent anticipation. I would sit on the porch quietly waiting for the morning mist to rise and the dew to dry. The world looked really big sitting in grandpa's old rocking chair. It was as if time dragged its legs rather slowly in our neck of the woods. The old cabin that I used to call home is now gone and the quiet country life that I sorely missed now gave way to suburban housing and shopping malls. Gone are the slow rushing of creek water I remember so vividly. Gone are the day-long chirping of birds and the pine-scented breeze.

Sitting there in that lonely stretch of road facing a road side cafe whose neon sign flickers on and off, I think of where my life had been. In that cold bench waiting for the bus I think to myself what now? The world has little use of a greying old man's company. Suddenly I felt burdened by the years and my heart grew weary. Yet I have so much to tell. I have so much to share. Grandfather was fond of saying to me that to remember days gone by you have to keep something special to remind yourself of those days. I have nothing. Looking back behind the bench I stare for perhaps the hundred thousandth time the only memory I have left of home. It sat there gathering years of dust and neglect in an antique shop a young Jewish couple was running. Propped against a wall was grandpas old rocking chair. I didn't think the antique shop owners would mind an old man dropping by so I grabbed my cane and made my way across. Before I got to the door they closed shop. The "WE ARE OPEN" sign no longer flickered and what little light availed me was from a streetlamp. I peered through the glass to see grandfather's rocking chair one more time, perhaps, for the last time. I had to squint for my sight no longer serves me well. Condensation on the glass from my heavy breathing couldn't keep me from seeing what I came to see. On the chair's hind legs was an inscription I didn't think the shop owners ever saw or cared to see. I know because I remember placing it there one cold winter morning a lifetime ago. My heart throbbed with joy because despite the many layers of varnish it's still there;"GRANDPAPPY AND ME". I'm hoe. I'm finally really home.".

I wrote this piece on the 11th of November, 1995, and on the left hand corner near the bottom of the page was my reason for writing this piece;" I dedicate this story to the many many special souls who toiled and labored all their lives and have nothing to show for it but bitter memories, graying years, worried brows, and calloused hands. I commend them for they are the epitome of hope. They are the forebearers of dreams. Theirs is a powerful narration of the human spirit."

Uncovering Lost Treasures

I had always been an avid writer. Writing for me is a way of putting emotions into words. It's more than trying to convey something across. It's a part of you and that can become dangerous.You write and yet, unknowingly, you lay bare all there is about you. I have found some of my old written pieces during my younger days and I will post them individually in my next posts. So, do come back. Thank you.