Galactic Haiku

Beyond our small sphere.
Blackness. Cold. Dim, distant stars.
Where’s my lightsaber?

 

100 Words or Less

“Once more around, pilot,” said Vince Mancini. Looking out the window of his private jet, the sight of his company’s factory looked even more lovely since he’d successfully paid off those EPA agents to allow continued dumping of toxic waste into the surrounding swamp. In his mind’s eye, the smoke it belched glittered like the diamonds with which he adorned his tiny Thai wife. Yes, life was good, until a colossal “RIBBIT” erupted from below and an enormous, pink tongue shot out of the tree line, snatching the jet out of the sky like some massive metal mosquito.

[98 words]

 

To Another Young Student

“…You know, about what you said about not being cool enough to be in a band, don’t count yourself out too quickly. No one is really cool at 13, and those who seem like it have an unfortunate tendency of peaking early and becoming less cool with time.

“People decide around your age to start bands and to become cool, and it’s that determination that–lo and behold–leads to them actually becoming amazingly cool. So savor your frustrations now for the fuel they will provide you towards future success.”

 

Taught by My Students

My first English composition class was too nice to me. They all cared about their academic careers, knew where they wanted to go, and had no problem putting in the work to get there. No fussy children before the dinner table, these students happily gobbled up all their broccoli and even asked for seconds before I offered dessert. Although they did not prepare me for the challenges of less motivated students, they firmly established within me a love for the art of educating that no classroom challenge could tear from me.

It fell to my second class to test that love. Not only did students take a casual approach to when and whether or not they came to class, one actually stood up in a huff in the middle of a grammar lesson and walked out the door without a word. Unsurprisingly, she did not pass the class.  What did surprise me was that she did not seem to recognize that it was her money she wasted by doing so. That was also the class where I got the shock of seeing several students commit plagiarism. Did my students not realize that if they do not put in the work themselves, their poor English skills will betray them in all future writing endeavors? It seemed to me like signing up to a gym and then asking someone else to do sit-ups for you, expecting that to somehow sculpt your abs by proxy.

From this second class, I learned that my role as an educator is not only to assist my students with their writing but also with their understanding of what it means to be a student. For too many years, it is possible to get shoved through the public school system as a student under protest. School remains just some building where you have to sit for certain hours of the day, and whether or not you do the work asked of you, the school day always ends. It is sometimes difficult for students to make a connection between what instructors ask of them in the classroom and what waits for them in the world outside. A good instructor must offer not only lessons in a given subject but also perspective.

I began my next class by having my students answering the following questions as an ice-breaker exercise:

1. Where are you from? What brought you here?
2. What is your major? What do you hope to accomplish with it?
3. What known obstacles stand between you and academic success? How do you plan to overcome them? Who is counting on you to succeed?
4. What is something you do well? How did you develop your skill in it?
5. What is something that is unusual or special about you?

Before having students present their answers (typically in small groups), I answer these questions myself. That is when I tell my classes that I stand before them as a former college drop-out. With this, I let them know I understand how it is possible to lose confidence in what they are doing in school and what they want to get from it; and I share with them how it is possible to overcome that to reach whatever level of success they strive for. If they want a real education, they can make it happen. If they do not, they are wasting their own time and money.

As much as I want to build their confidence in their ability to reach any height, I do not believe in softening that climb. In my classroom, there is no excused absence, tardiness, or late assignment. All of these come with penalties of some degree to remind them that even good intentions will not do the work for them. When real life disasters strike, a student who stays on top of assignments will find that a modest penalty, earned through no fault of his or her own, will not destroy sound academic standing.

Some may say this is not fair, and that is when I open for them a video from National Geographic Explorer about baby sea turtles first hatching and struggling toward the ocean. Not all make it, and this video does not hold back in displaying the violence of various predators that keep the babies from the safety of the sea. I show this to my students to remind them that, when it comes to their education, they are on their own, succeeding or failing by their own efforts. That may appear frightening at first, but I believe it to be ultimately empowering. The student who knows that the future is his or her own to carve is the one who will put forth the effort to do so, and not matter what extraordinary circumstances befall, it is the effort that makes and keeps fortunes in the end.

 

Tragedy on TV

The year before, I dropped out of school, moved back in with my parents, and got a job at a video store, part of a local chain. My girlfriend of over three years left me, and with her went the last shred of my plans for the future. Although I had begun my second semester of classes at a local university, my heart was not in them. I knew my parents wanted to see me doing something, anything that looked like forward momentum, so I treated those classes as my “rent,” which didn’t inspire me enough to actually attend.

Dad had started working for a phonebook that had him on the road some days and at home others. That morning, he was home, so when I woke, I knew I had to stay quiet upstairs until he left. He might not realize I hadn’t gone to class if he didn’t notice me when until he got back. Eventually, though, biology insisted I pay a visit to the bathroom, so I crept down the hall as carefully as I could, trying to ease the weight of each step onto the floorboards of our old house.

It wasn’t quiet enough. He heard me, and called up from his office right away, but instead of yelling at me for skipping class, he shouted, “Turn on the television! America is under attack!”

“What?” My dad is prone to hyperbole, but there is always a grain of substance to his statements, and I couldn’t figure out what that could be.

“They flew a plane into the World Trade Center!”

They who? But the best way to find out what Dad meant was to investigate myself. I turned on the TV in my room and found the footage on every station that I could receive. I watched smoke pour from the first tower when the second plane struck.

For the next several hours, I did not move from that spot. The stations played that second strike over and over again from multiple angles.I watched people fleeing the building, with those in the upper floors falling to the death of their choosing. Then the top half shifted and began to fall. The news crews ran with all the rest down streets flooded by dust and ash. Arial footage showed smoke pouring out into the city, all the way out and over the water.

Dad never said anything about me missing class. Mom came home from teaching where her students had watched the news with her. Although we had all voted Democrat, she said she was comforted to know there was a Republican “hawk” in the White House to respond to this.

Conversations with friends carried commentary throughout the day. Talk of conspiracy or of this somehow being our own fault enraged me beyond the ability to communicate cordially. I kept flashing to images of what the passengers must have seen, of that flight attendant who had her throat slit with a box cutter–what a terrible way to die, gasping for air as blood floods down your chest; what a sight for those on board, shocking them into submission, hoping that by playing along they might be allowed to land safely and somehow get on with their lives. Whatever policy their elected officials had enacted to invite this invading outrage, these citizens did not deserve such punishment.

It’s been 10 years and two wars since. I’ve heard so much from so many sides attempting to make sense of that day. I’ve seen figures that say the deaths that followed among our own troops and foreign citizens dwarf those who died in the Twin Towers. I’ve known soldiers and protesters and respect the efforts of both, because each works towards the same goal–peace–even if within both ranks there exist those who strive via counter-productive means.

For me, these battles will only be fought on my television, transporting me from my own private dramas temporarily and reminding me that I exist as only a small thread of a greater social, national, and global tapestry; and because others fight for me, be it with rifle or rallying, I do not have to fight myself but may live within the grace of their sacrifices and think it unthinkable that true terror could visit me personally as it did my fellow civilians on September 11, 2001.

 

Sex Ed.

She first introduced me to the mysteries of man and woman, but it had been too long since we connected on that level for the baby to be mine. No, I came in as platonic male friend only; and walking into the delivery room, I never felt more useless. Whether nurses or not, the women there all seem to know every step of this dance by virtue of their womanhood.

What can I do? Hold her hand. Beside the bed stands a machine. Its tubes disappear between her legs, up under the blanket that covers her knees. Its numbers measure the pressure of contractions. I’m supposed to keep an eye on them, tell her when they peak and decline, “It’s almost over…” Assurance and steadiness–these are my contributions; but she and I have always had a combative friendship, saying, “You’re wrong” more than “I love you” over the years. So I decide, in my ignorance, that it’s a good idea to sling some sarcasm in there as well, offering support in the guise of oppposition. With a grin, I say, “Come on, you can take it!” Oh, the look she gives me. If I weren’t really busy right now…

Still, I had been invited, even though I only managed to join her for one lamaze class, which neither of us could keep straight faces through. I am godfather to the boy on his way into this world, as much a relation to the mother-to-be as her mother-in-fact, and more welcome. See, my friend is adopted, undergoing a primal rite in which the woman who raised her–a poor, sharp-tempered, histrionic Southern woman–never took part. That woman must wait outside, but the misguided desire to be helplessly helpful becomes too much. In she steps, and as she rounds the corner of the curtain, she suddenly faces her little girl’s spread thighs, a sight I’ve tried to avoid for modesty’s sake. All color drains from her, mouth slackens in awe, horror, wonder, fear, emotions befitting one gazing upon the opened Ark of the Covenant. “Someone get her the hell out of here!” my friend screams, and nurses escort her mother out of harms way.

The labor continues for hours. She chews ice chips to fight down fever. To help her push, they bring in a bar that arches over her bed, against which she braces her feet while gripping a twisted towel that has been tied around it. I see her strain like a squatting, sword-wielding samurai setting himself for battle, but still her son will not come. After all efforts and my friend are exhausted, they pull her baby forth through Caesar’s exit, out her side.

And somewhere in there, modesty slips, pushed away by the urgency of the moment, and I too behold that from which my eyes have refrained. What I see is nothing I have not seen before, but never as it was then. Revelation comes to me, and reverence. I am gazing upon the divine, upon creation itself; and here she teaches me something that never could be learned from any awkward adolescent union, that a man who comes to a woman for merely his own pleasure plays tiddly winks upon sacred ground. We may be invited along that path, o my brothers, but only as a tourists, at best an honored guests, and never–no matter how we might like to imagine ourselves–as proud conquerors.

 

“Best” and the Artist

(From a letter written in response to a very talented student who asked about how an artist should deal with not being best. She probably was not expecting an essay in response.)

I spoke to my poetry class about the word “perfect.” I have heard “perfect” come up a lot in student writing, and it makes me twitch. It upsets me to hear young men and women apply this term to any aspect of themselves (fear of not being perfect) and angers me to think of someone imposing this idea upon them (being told they must strive for perfection). To me, the idea of perfection implies an overly simplified universe where there is one “right” way to be and myriad “wrong” ways. Such a system sickens me with its short-sightedness.

“Best” does not fall far from “perfect.” Where do we find “best” in nature? Is there a best quartz crystal? A best sea slug, best ice storm, best mating season, best quasar, best ocean current, best fern? These things just are. They exist because of whatever conditions brought them into being, and when we encounter them, we judge how “best” they fit into our purposes. “Best” is a subjective reality, and it only extends so far.

So when you want to be “best,” what does that mean to you? Does it mean that you want to be better than any other or perform at your best ability?

The first will drive you crazy. It is a fool’s errand. Look for competition and you may as well count grains of sand on the beach. Is that the best use of your time? I confess that I have lost hours and maybe years of envy towards my fellow artists. We produce art, generally, to gain recognition. The amount of recognition we receive may be something that we quantify (loudness of applause in auditorium, number of publications, amount earned); however none of these speak to the nature of creativity. What generates that sort of recognition is more deeper than skill. It is insight. An effective artist cultivates not only acute awareness of her or his own faculty for expression (word, image, motion, etc.) but also of her own personal experience and how this experience matches those of her audience.

To put it more plainly, when your audience loves your work, it won’t be because you are clever. It will be because it resonates personally with them, and you will learn how to find that resonance by being deeply honest with yourself while keeping your eyes on the world around you.

If you want to be heard better, you must listen better. Developing this skill requires a lifetime of effort; but luckily it never gets boring, and there are many rewards along the way. In doing so, you will refine your awareness of your personal perspective, and thereby sharpen your ability express that. The specific always trumps the general. Honor your own personal artifacts and rituals, and these will connect you to the world around you. That’s the paradox: pursuing the personal, we reach the universal.

For further commentary on this, I recommend Emerson’s Self-Reliance:

There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried.

If, however, what you mean by “best” is pushing yourself to maximizing your potential, pushing for ever farther heights, and “being your best self,” then that is something between you and the standards you create for yourself. We can always do better. “Best” is a horizon we constantly reach for and never grasp, but it is better that way.

What would we do if we actually took hold of best? We exercise physically not only to get our body limber and fit, but to keep it there. We eat every day because we hunger every day, and no one meal offers indefinite satisfaction. So, as artists, we keep creating because we want to maintain our ability to create, keep expressing because we continue to feel there is something worth expressing–and every day, every minute, every breath can offer new inspiration, a new, never-before-seen moment to speak to.

You know what the problem is with “shades of gray”? They imply a gradation between black and white, right and wrong, yes and no, best and worst. When you see shades of gray, you have to alter your palette. Gray is just how colors appear to those looking for black and white. Instead, look for color, for every color, and you will open up to a far broader spectrum.

 

The Lion Who Loved His Thorn

One day in the forest, a mouse stopped her underbrush scurrying at the sound of a terrible wail. Now, mice live longest when they stay unseen and out of the way. Mother mouse’s first rule of survival is, if you see trouble, stay out of it; but this particular mouse had philanthropic leanings. Yes, it’s a world of eat or be eaten, but she believed that animals could be more than just animals, so she set out to find who was in trouble and how she could help.

There, in a clearing, lay the fiercest of forest creatures, the lion; but this usually majestic animal had sprawled out on his back, twisting in agony. With one paw over his eyes, he roared his pain. His other, outstretched paw showed the cause of his suffering, a single thorn piercing his feline flesh.

Cautiously she approached, then pitching her squeak to be heard just above his cries, she said, “Excuse me. I see you are suffering. If you promise not to eat me, I can remove that thorn from your paw.”

The lion calmed his caterwauling and opened one eye in the direction of the mouse’s voice. “You would?”

“Well, I…” Such bravery did surprise even her, and the mouse blushed. “Yes, if you promise not to eat me.”

Rolling his bulk in her direction, the lion took a harder look at the mouse. “Do you know how long I’ve had this thorn in my paw.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t either,” said the lion. “It’s been with me so long, it’s like another claw, only this sticks into me instead of sticking out.”  He turned his paw this way and that, appreciating the sight of his favorite wound more than giving the mouse a good look at it. “I do not know what it was I stepped on…”

The details of that day became more luxuriant each time he recalled them–the sound of the night creatures surrounding him in the dark, the crunch of twigs and dead grass under-paw, and the scent of one particularly alluring gazelle calling him. “…And then, oh, the pain. Out of nowhere. Everything turned upside down then. How could I continue to stalk prey? How could I anything?”

“You poor dear.” The mouse drew closer, feeling an urge to nuzzle the lion even with their size difference. “Please, let me pull the thorn for you. It would be my pleasure.”

“I don’t know…” His drooping maw savored the slight petulance in his tone. “It’s thoughtful of you. I do appreciate it. I just don’t know if you can.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I could. My teeth are just the thing. I’ve nibbled my way through all sorts of stuff. Just let me try.”

Still looking at his thorn, he said, “Sometimes I forget it’s there, you know? If I’m not walking on it, I mean. Maybe it isn’t a problem, really.” He didn’t tell her that when he noticed he could not feel his thorn, the lion would press his paw against a hard surface until that sweet sting overcame him again. “At this point, what would I do without it?”

“Why, you could do anything! You’re a lion! You are meant to rule! It can’t have been easy catching prey with that thorn there.”

The lion shrugged. “I don’t really do the prey-catching thing anymore. Other lions go for herd beasts, and, you know, that’s their choice. Some just prefer the traditional route, I guess; but I’ve been working on this other idea. See, it would be a kind of system where others all bring their kill into a sort of central location, and then we divide it according to our size. The smaller animals need less of course, but everyone gets to eat something. It’s a very exciting idea, really. I’ve been speaking to some weasels and there’s this one badger–he’s a little older but…”

“Don’t you miss it though? The kill? The rush of stalking live prey? The feel of their necks snapping in your jaws, and then hot blood flowing down your throat?”

This sort of thing occupied the mouse’s imagination more than she would care to admit. Being such a small animal, she often looked at the bigger ones with just a touch of envy. What makes the deer think they are so special? Why should those rabbits be such sluts? Thinking of them being torn open and devoured occasionally comforted her.

The lion, though, found himself becoming uncomfortable with this conversation. “You know, I’ve actually got to meet this snake over by the shady tree…”

He rose, gingerly avoiding his thorn, but the mouse could not allow him to escape. She needed the lion to let her save him, and then he would belong to her. He would be her pet predator, and never again would she have to keep to the shadows and small places. Instead, she could ride on his back, nest in his mane. Let all others cower at their approach, for he was the king of beasts and she would be his queen.

“Wait! Please!” she shrieked. “You can be so much more! I know you can! You are better than this!”

The lion stopped and looked at her. She started to sound to him like someone’s mother–someone else’s mother though, not his. The lion’s mother made it clear to him that he was absolutely perfect, not like her previous cubs who the new alpha killed when he took over the pride. Those had deserved to die because they were weak, inferior; but his father was the strongest male, so the lion came from the best and was the best.

If the mouse was right though, if the lion could be better than he was right then, well that would mean that he was not already perfect, and that didn’t sound right at all.

“Just one second, that’s all it takes,” said the mouse. “Then you’ll be back to–”

She did not get out another word before the lion scooped her up in his thorny paw–which worked just fine when he wanted it to–and popped her into his mouth. With a gulp and a mouse-flavored burp, the lion continued on his way, making sure that his limp looked good for any who might be watching.

 

For Father’s Day

Though he’s a good one or bad,
If you came from his nads,
Then you better be glad
That he’s your dad.

 

To the Future Mrs. Andrew Campbell

I look forward to seeing silver sneak into the hair you brush from your face;

To holding you as you cry in the dark of our room for reasons beyond your control, no matter how very late the hour or how very early we both have to wake for very important things;

To glancing up from our bed as you brush your teeth in our bathroom, stealing a long look at your ass with the forbidden joy of a boy one-third my age;

To reaching for your body under the blankets and feeling the softened wrinkles around your nipples from where our children tugged their first gulps with toothless gums;

To watching you tell a joke at some party with old friends, a party we can only have with the kids out of the house and a joke that would make them gasp in horror, “Mother!”;

And, if you must leave this world before me, to still telling you every little thing about my every day, knowing just what you would say about each, still hearing your voice still clearly,

Or, if I must be the first to go, to the sight of your eyes being the last that my eyes see, my last thought a sense of satisfaction for a life and lives well built together with you as partner to that construction.