November 11, 2002
It has been quite some time since I have made an entry into this journal. Not for lack of material, though. Simply because I have been doing those things which I do, and which, additionally, contribute to my desire for anonymity.

Now that I finally have a moment, I have a cup of yesterday's coffee, and I am contemplating the near future, in which I will be hosting a small gathering of my family. Ramadan is upon us, Chanukah approaches, Thanksgiving draws near, Christmas is around the corner, and Kwanzaa is also in the pack. At no other time of year are we so frantic to show our abilities as gracious hosts, our lofty generosity, and the good will with which we hold all mankind (provided they look similar tu us, practice roughly the same religion, and don't commit the unpardonable sin of supporting a rival football team). This is just about the most sacred 60-day period in our calendar.

Why?

There are those who would say this time of year inspires more holidays because the nights are longer, and ancient people needed the comfort of celebrations to help them endure the dreary and sometimes dangerous winters. Such people have never spent December in Australia. Others believe that the celebrations are a natural function of the end of the calendar year. We forget, though, that the cultures that brought us these celebrations have a variety of different calendars. And so, they finally throw their hands in the air, out of sheer frustration, and say, "Fine, E. Why don't you tell us, since you're so gosh-darned smart."

Well, here's something you won't hear from me very often. I don't know.

Before you get fed up and close your browser, thinking that this rambling is of no use other than filling space, let me get to the point. The fact of the matter is, this time of year is special, for whatever reason, and regardless of the culture from which you approach it. That is, unless you are an Atheist from the Western hemisphere, in which case you are riding the peace and goodwill coattails of the Judeo-Christian tradition and contributing nothing to the reality of peace on Earth and are, instead, taking this opportunity to enrich the pockets of the local Toys R Us and Harry & David.

But I digress.

I don't know why this particular time of year is so sacred to so many cultures (I know Kwanzaa isn't strictly a religious observance, but there is still something of the sacred about the season, don't you think?), but it seems clear that it is, and I don't put a lot of trust in coincidence.

Whatever your value on this time, and whatever you may hold sacred, keep them both close to you during this time. Embrace your beliefs, whatever they may be, knowing that the morals and values that come from our own minds are transient and flexible, and the only constants in out lives must come from without.

July 7, 2002
Tonight, I am alone.

I am away from my home on business, and there are no friends or relations near from whom to gain support. I?m in a place in which I ordinarily do not find myself. Let's call it Mars.

When you have time alone, it gives you time to be introspective. I haven't indulged in that particular pleasure in some time (as you can probably tell from the quality of my writing). Since it's late, and I'm expected in early tomorrow, I won't bore you with all the tedious details of this journey of self-discovery. But since this is a journal, I would like to share a few things I discovered while waiting for a pizza.

When I was a child, I had heroes. In my dreams, I wanted to be a crime-fighter. Publicly, I wanted to be a nuclear physicist from the time I was old enough to spell the phrase (about five and a half, if I remember correctly). There was a part of me that thought I could do both.

Later in life, I had more trouble finding heroes. The living people I had once admired had, one by one, proved themselves all-too human. The imaginary heroes took too much time and money to keep up with.

Are heroes important? Do we really need them? I think so. Heroes give us goals. They feed our imagination and inspire us to reach beyond ourselves. They cause us to ask ourselves questions from the perspective of someone else, someone we would be like if we only dared. And whenever we can find a way to become less egocentric, we have open a door to a larger world.

I said all that in order to say this; once upon a time, I had a desire to become the man my parents wanted me to be. Once I reached adulthood, I found out I had become someone I was not proud of, and would not have liked if I didn't have to share his limbs and organs. But, over time, things have changed. By the grace of God, I have become the man I had dreamed of as a child. I am a hero. And I am saving the world. Okay, so maybe I can't fly unaided, and I don't have anything out of the ordinary on my utility belt, and there isn't a cape on my uniform. Those aren't the things that make a hero.

"So," you say to the monitor, "tell us, Mr. Schmarty-Pants, what makes a hero?"

If you don't know, then you must not have one.

June 11, 2002
By now anyone that has access to this site has already seen Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones, so it should be safe to talk about. Of course, what I am thinking about doesn't have much to do with the plot, so I won't be spoiling anything.

People have been asking me, "So when does this Anikin guy turn evil, anyway?" Look closely. He's already there. He just doesn't know it yet. Evil people seldom realise they are.

I can recall the day I understood that I was evil.

By that time, I had gone through some major changes. It was only with hindsight that I realised the truth about myself. I hid it pretty well. You see, I wanted to be a healer, which is certainly not evil in and of itself. Healing is a noble profession, and I have immense gratitude for the doctors, nurses, PAs, paramedics and others that give of themselves to relieve the suffering of others. And I was eager to count myself among those who pursue such a noble calling.

But when I looked within my heart, I realised that my motivation and attitude were wrong. I didn't want to help mankind out of love for my fellow man. I wanted power, and the power to heal the sick and injured is great indeed. It's easy to say the right words out in the open when you are pursuing something that does so much good for so many. It's almost as easy to fool yourself. But you can't lie to yourself forever. And, eventually, the attitude of the heart will betray itself through the words of the mouth or the actions of the hands.

That is why I am not in the medical profession now, although I was at one time. When I understood why I had been drawn to it in the first place, I was glad I left.

So what does all this have to do with Star Wars?

There is one pivotal scene that stands out in my mind, where one character is asking if Jedi are allowed to be in love. Anikin replies that he believes that service to the galaxy is unconditional love, and so it's ok.

In spite of all the critics' opinions about the wooden performances in this movie, that one moment is the one I would choose as the most real. Look at his eyes. He's rationalising. Love has little to do with either his pursuit of knighthood or of Amidala. This man wants power. Maybe I can see it better because I have been on his side of it, but others would be well-served to learn the lesson the easy way; Noble pursuits are often a mask for ignoble hearts.

May 9, 2002
While working in my garage today, I noticed several packages of seeds for various types of vegetables and flowers. They were lying on the clothes dryer, dormant, as life carried on around them.

I paid about half a fistful of coins for the whole lot of them. I was beginning to think that it was rather a waste of perfectly good pocket change, but then I had a thought (rare as that may sound).

Every year I buy several packets of seeds with a fistful of coins. Every year one thing piles upon another, and time makes it's usual escape from my grasp. Before long, the planting season has passed. There is a hole in the sod in my lawn, and several packages of seeds avoid their final destiny. Why do I continue to do this? Surely someone could put the seeds to better use, and my lawn could be spared for a year.

I have come to realise that, when I buy seeds, I am not buying future vegetables or flowers. I am buying the fantasy that I have time to garden. For a fistful of coins, I can buy the idea that I can actually grow a plant from a seed, and participate in, at the risk of sounding cliche, the miracle of life. It is true that only God can make a vegetable, but He occasionally allows us to participate.

All in all, it seems a remarkable bargain.

I wonder what I won't plant next year ...

April 5, 2002
Life is a vast learning experience.

If you have even a modicum of wisdom, you can spend your entire life learning, and never get any closer to the attainment of all knowledge. The self-absorbed, the small-minded, and those who are so incompetent that they don't realize they are incompetent are the ones who cease to learn when they leave the classroom environment. If you are spending any time reading this, you at least have the curiosity to keep looking for knowledge, so that keeps you in the learning crowd.

There are things that I learned at an early age, for which I am grateful.

• Crayons, while brightly-colored, have an unpleasant aftertaste.
  
• There is nothing wrong with an afternoon nap now and then, provided there isn't something really interesting going on at the time.
  
• Chocolate is not only an effective stimulant, but it is also legal for use at any age.
  
• If you have no friends where you are, you can always make some more.
  
• Everyone has been picked last for a team at some point in their life.
  
• A good laugh with someone you love is better that just about anything money can buy.
  

There are also, unfortunately, some things I wish I had never had to learn.

• You don't change the system, the system changes you.
  
• There really are people who hate other people because of the color of their skin.
  
• No matter how rich, cool, popular, skilled, etc. you become in your life, the memory of the stupid things you did while trying to make it through puberty will haunt you forever.
  
• There are people that not only are willing to hurt other people, they actually don't care whether or not they do.
  
• Some people hit children. With whatever they can lay their hands on.
  
• You will never be so smooth and suave that someone in this world won't laugh at you just at the very moment it hurts most.
  
• There are more fatal addictions than drugs and alcohol.
  

I'm sure none of this is a sruprise to you. Life is filled with unexpected disappointment and harsh reality.

But, then again, it is also filled with those moments that you can be suprised by joy. The sruprises aren't big. They are small, nearly insignificant things, like a rose growing through the crack in the concrete, and a prism of light on the subway wall. There is beauty and laughter and light all around, even in your darkness, if you can think small.

April 5, 2002
Life is a vast learning experience.

If you have even a modicum of wisdom, you can spend your entire life learning, and never get any closer to the attainment of all knowledge. The self-absorbed, the small-minded, and those who are so incompetent that they don't realize they are incompetent are the ones who cease to learn when they leave the classroom environment. If you are spending any time reading this, you at least have the curiosity to keep looking for knowledge, so that keeps you in the learning crowd.

There are things that I learned at an early age, for which I am grateful.

• Crayons, while brightly-colored, have an unpleasant aftertaste.
  
• There is nothing wrong with an afternoon nap now and then, provided there isn't something really interesting going on at the time.
  
• Chocolate is not only an effective stimulant, but it is also legal for use at any age.
  
• If you have no friends where you are, you can always make some more.
  
• Everyone has been picked last for a team at some point in their life.
  
• A good laugh with someone you love is better that just about anything money can buy.
  

There are also, unfortunately, some things I wish I had never had to learn.

• You don't change the system, the system changes you.
  
• There really are people who hate other people because of the color of their skin.
  
• No matter how rich, cool, popular, skilled, etc. you become in your life, the memory of the stupid things you did while trying to make it through puberty will haunt you forever.
  
• There are people that not only are willing to hurt other people, they actually don't care whether or not they do.
  
• Some people hit children. With whatever they can lay their hands on.
  
• You will never be so smooth and suave that someone in this world won't laugh at you just at the very moment it hurts most.
  
• There are more fatal addictions than drugs and alcohol.
  

I'm sure none of this is a sruprise to you. Life is filled with unexpected disappointment and harsh reality.

But, then again, it is also filled with those moments that you can be suprised by joy. The sruprises aren't big. They are small, nearly insignificant things, like a rose growing through the crack in the concrete, and a prism of light on the subway wall. There is beauty and laughter and light all around, even in your darkness, if you can think small.

March 5, 2002
I had an unpleasant memory today.

It wasn't anything serious. No death of a loved one, or memory of love lost and heartbreak, or abusive adult . It was simply an unpleasant experience from a long time ago.

What suprised me was how intense the memory was. The impact was like a fist in the guts; sudden, unexpected, eclipsing every sensation around me. It took my breath from me. The pain was almost physical. Have you ever felt such a thing?

The particular memory in question has come up before, with much the same results. I'll be going along with my life, calm and contented, and such a thought will completely blindside me, with no warning. Generally its a memory of something stupid or humiliating I did during my misspent youth. The feelings are as vivid now as when I first experienced them, and only grow worse with logical analysis, because I was indeed stupid and humiliated. Granted, the opinion of those around me mean a great deal less than they used to, and the opinion of most of those involved in my life all those years ago hold all the influence of a stranger looking through my front window. And yet they meant something to me then, and that is what I remember.

So why do I go into all this? It doesn't change a thing for me. I will still go through this every now and again. But it always bugged me that I might be the only one who felt like this until the day that I found out that I wasn't the only one who felt like this. If I can help anyone else come to this realization any earlier than I did, then I've done something worth doing.

January 3, 2002
I cannot write.

I have not put the first significant word on paper or web page since the last update to this journal. The Muse, once so flirtatious and attentive, has moved on to another, and I am left here to wonder just what is wrong with me.

I thought it might be my environment, which temporarily changed from one of tranquility to one which was loud, squalid and dangerous. So I waited, patiently, until the storm had passed, and all was once again serene. But when I returned, I found I still could not write.

I thought it might be fatigue, because I had become so busy with celebrations, and mournings, and transitions, and labours. So I waited, patiently, until I regained strength and had a clear mind, unclouded by physical and mental exhaustion. But when I rested, I found I still could not write.

I thought it was a passing fancy, like the taste for raspberry sherbet, or the music of the theremin, or many thousand such fancies that grip the heart and mind with passion and then fade away, having left little impression on one's life. So I waited, patiently, for the desire to link words into sentences into paragraphs, and lines into couplets into verse, to fade and be replaced by some other temporary desire. But when I waited, I found I still could not write.

Like the taste for cool, clear water, or the music of the wind through the trees, or the fancy I have taken to inhaling on a regular basis, it has not faded with time. The longing has, in fact, grown, so that it is no longer a distraction, but an ache, a hunger, like a lust in my body.

And so, in desparation, and with nothing to say, I have turned again to the journal, throwing myself at it desparately, like a drowning man, only to discover that I have, in fact, actually written. Admittedly, I have not written well. If my name were posted here, I would never let this be posted. The cliches have flowed like Thunderbird; cheap, nasty, distateful, but easily accessed. It has been almost narcissistic. I almost feel cheap.

But at least I wrote something.

December 3, 2001
Recently I was contacted by someone I knew in my wild youth. When we were familiar with each other, we were friendly but not deeply involved with each other, and who will ever know if either of us wanted to be at the time. We were a couple of crazy kids, part of a larger group of crazy kids, which was part of a still larger crazy generation that had come to the brilliant and insightful conclusion that the previous generation was wrong-headed in all its thinking and that we would straighten out the world.

My friend has become a lawyer.

There is nothing wrong (contrary to popular belief) with being a lawyer. Especially in this case, because she is a prosecutor and is doing her best to follow the dream of our youth and make the world a better place. However, the revelation did cause me to ask a few questions.

For one thing, how in the world did we all end up so different that we imagined we would. My friend was never the type I had imagined to be in the legal profession. I saw her as more of a journalist, fighting against the excesses of government, rather that working for it. Then again, no one ever imagined I would end up being whatever it is that I am, and they certainly never imagined me doing anything anonymous.

It's been a while since I mentioned my latest musical preference. Aside from the latest seasonal music, particularly Manheim Steamroller's Christmas Extraordinaire, I've been listening to a song from Tingwei Meng. Although my Chinese leaves a lot to be desired, the song title roughly translates to Come See the Rain Falling in Taipei With Me This Winter. It's quite a beautiful song, but heavily western-influenced.

Another question that has risen (now that I have that random thought out of the way), is the one of what really is a significant life. Is my friend more important in this world because she is a prosecutor? Am I more important because of what I do? Is there any point to the question?

Here is the conclusion I have drawn. What my friend does is deeply significant, because she improves the world around her. Whether or not what I do will improve the world around me remains to be seen. And to be a true friend, in this world that has become so superficial; to really have an impact on someone else's life in a positive way, is all the significance anyone could ask for.

November 7, 2001
This evening, I am having a cup of this morning's coffee, and I am thinking about my father.

It's been more than eight years since I last spoke to him. He crosses my mind about once a week, maybe twice. Some odd thing will remind me of some event from my childhood, and I will recall how he looked at that particular moment, or how his voice resounded in whatever space tried to enclose him. He was a pretty good Dad, as far as anyone could hope to be a good Dad to me, helion that I was. He was always supportive of whatever wild notion entered my young mind, whether it was the time I developed an interest in American football without bothering to develop a talent for it, or the year that I took up my first instrument and filled the house with the joyful sounds of a beginning trumpeter which, if you have never had the pleasure of enduring, are remarkably similar to a congested elephant crying out in desparation for someone to please God just shoot it and end it's suffering. Dad was a patient and longsuffering man. He took me to Boy Scout meetings, ate my cooking every Father's Day without complaint, accepted the ill-considered Christmas gifts without so much as a puzzled look, and somehow survived my teenage years, and the [ahem] relationships that I went through while somehow keeping both of us from incurring either permanent scars or prison records.

Then, not long after I had gotten married myself, my parents ended their thirty-year relationship. Soon after that, I lost touch with him. We lived in different parts of the world, at times at almost exact opposite sides, and priorities seemed to shift. Once a year or so, I would send off an e-mail, and I would get a reply, and I would send off another, but it generally ended there.

I know right where he is. I know how to reach him. But, somehow, I get the impression he would rather leave things as they are. I feel somewhat sad about it. You see, I rather think I've turned out to be a decent human being, and I think it would be nice if he could share in the benefit of having raised one. Admittedly, I am a bit selfish about the whole thing, too. Even though I am ever so much older than twenty by now, I still sometimes would like to have a father around to talk things over with.

Well, I think I've said about all I can say on that topic for now. I may revisit it one day. And Dad, if you ever see this, no hard feelings, eh? I still love you.