True Love?

Perusing my local used bookstore, I found this book: True Love: Engaging Stories of Real-Life Proposals by Eva Marie Everson. I'm not the most “happily ever after” guy you'll meet, but I was certainly interested in this book and its topic.



I thought the book would be chalked full of real-life moments of love—proof that Harry and Sally, Philip and Aurora, and Rochester and Jane do exist in real life.

I was so excited about my purchase, I decided to crack the spine on my ride home on the Light Rail. Imagine my surprise when I realized the book is heavily rooted in Christian theology. In the spirit of Darkness, I decided to give the book a chance. Writing from a different spiritual background could challenge me to grow intellectually. These new Christian perspectives could help me understand my own beliefs in a more developed way. It would be closed-minded to disregarded a book simply because the author and I share different ideologies.

After a few pages, I came across the following quotation:
There is an obvious difference (though the world may not see it) between the Christian proposal of marriage and the secular proposal of marriage. Yes, the words may be just as romantic, the setting just as creative, the ring just as exquisite. But the difference lies in the understanding of the magnitude of the union. (62)

Apparently the author of the book didn't get the memo about being open-minded.

The way that Ms. Eva Marie Everson explains her thinking is simply too anemic to be considered rationale and open-minded. Her words are rooted in closed-mindedness rather than actual analytical thought. Let me explain.

Ms. Everson's diction is presumptuous. She assumes her readership shares her particular religious beliefs. Is there an “obvious difference” between the two types of marriages? Certainly. But to what obvious difference is she referencing? She doesn't clarify her thought process or her terms. And because “the world may not see [the difference],” Ms. Everson comes off like a self-proclaimed expert on the differences between the Christian and secular marriages even if that was not her intent.

She continues with an anecdote:
Years ago I read two articles describing the marriage proposals of two sets of celebrities. One couple had lived together for some time, and while their proposal story was interesting and fun, it lacked something...the other couple was John Tesh and Connie Selleca. The story was beautifully romantic (in my way of thinking) and their love for Christ and each other was evident throughout the piece. (62)

Apparently, the secular proposal was “interesting” and “fun” but it “lacked something” that John and Connie's proposal possessed. I find the phrase “lacked something” to be vague and worthless as support for her argument that Christian marriages understand something that secular marriage do not.

To that end, the purpose of this passage was not to prove her point logically, but simply promote Christian lifestyle while attacking the secular. If Ms. Everson had attempted an argument, even a flawed argument, I would have at least given her credit for her effort. But here, in this quotation, her words simply assume a secular marriage inherently lacks a spiritual gravitas and an “understanding of the magnitude of the union.” She does not attempt to debate her point of view logically—she simply relies on her own arrogance and closed-mindedness to provide the rhetorical momentum.

Isn't “True Love” supposed to be more universal than this? Why must a book about “True Love” be so divisive? Why must I read about why I'm not a good lover simply because I'm not Christian? Would an unwavering belief in Christ really make me a better husband? Why can't I love my wife as deeply as a Christian man loves his wife? Why can't this book about “True Love” simply make me smile at others' happiness rather than make me upset about others' preconceptions?

Ms. Everson, you have punished me for having an open mind. You're either a bad writer for being unable to support your thesis, or you're a ignorant writer for being unable to control your prejudice. Either way, you shouldn't be publishing books about True Love.

Everson, Eva Marie. True Love: Engaging Stories or Real-Life Proposals. Urichsville, OH: Promise Press, 2000.

My Narcissism Killed a Lizard

I went shopping this morning for groceries. I went out mostly for milk, but I got some other good stuff too like yogurt and granola. On my way to the checkout, I saw this CK underwear box.

















This box lit a fire in my belly. I've been incredibly lazy as of late. Spring break and March Madness will do that to a fellow. The constant snacking on chips and cookies has been a problem. I can actually see the physical results of my sloth. This box reminded me that I need to do some serious running.

I don't think I will ever look like the CK advertisement (beyond the fact that I'm Asian guy and the CK model is a white guy), but I think of the sexy ad as a kind of goal. I run to reach that goal.

Despite what some people think, I don't actually enjoy running. Sure, I feel more vigorous when I'm done, and I secretly delight in wiping my hand on my forehead and tasting my own sweat, but I don't enjoy running. I run only for the health benefits.

The CK ad is my goal of running. I understand that is self-absorbed, superficial, and masturbatory, but I didn't title this post, “Hyper-Self-Confidence and Comfort in my Current Self-Image.” I'll be honest: It would be nice to look like a model. And I think everyone has that superficiality to some degree. That is why people like getting dressed up for a night on the town. That is why people wear make-up. And that is why, on Saturday afternoons, my running path is pretty damn crowded.

The original intention of the picture was not to post on the blog. I took the picture on my phone to motivate me to go running: I was afraid I would surrender to my couch once I got home.

After putting my groceries away, I set out on a run searching for the elusive CK-ad-like six pack.

Saturday's weather was perfectly warm. It wasn't so hot that I couldn't breath while running, but it was hot enough that the back of my shirt was visibly wet. I like looking sweaty, so when I pass people on the trail, they can see how hard I am running. Wow. I'm an egotistical fool.

I was running a pretty good pace when I looked down just in time to see a lizard sunning itself on the asphalt. The lizard was directly underfoot. I tried to alter my step, but it was too late—my right foot was already on its way down. I stepped on the poor lizard with all my body weight.

I think I only landed on about half of the lizard because it popped up and hit my calf, which was a very creepy feeling. I stopped my stride and examined the carnage. The lizard was gone—ran off into the bushes—but it left behind a tail and a slight oozing of fluid presumably lizard blood and internal viscosity.

I would have taken a picture of the tail as proof, but I was about four miles from my home, and I don't take my phone with me on my runs.

So there you have it. I stepped on a lizard. Usually, I think of my running as a private, self-love that doesn't really hurt anyone. But today, my personal narcissism killed a lizard. Well, to be fair, I don't know if I killed the lizard, but if I didn't kill it, I certainly gave it the worst day of its life. And that's a steep price for a six pack.

Suicide

Today’s the day. The choice is mine. I hold
Each tiny cat before I close the box.
The cardboard’s marked with gutter water stains
From when I found the kittens outside my home.
But I can’t afford them now. So I drive
To the rescue shelter down on Sunset.

There’s still some time before I reach Sunset—
I stop at the super market and hold
A fresh salmon fillet from the driver’s
Side seat for the soft, crying cats boxed
Shotgun. It’d be fun to have cats at home,
But I can’t nurture life when I have stains.

In the lot, the salmon’s gone, the smell’s stained
My hands, and it’s time to find the sunset.
The cats are sad in their temporary home.
I pet the furry calico balls, hold
Them close, so they don't feel trapped or boxed
Like me: beyond the noon of life, driven

In empty minivans and family drives
With Alfred Prufrock’s wife’s aborted stains.
The kittens’ sun has boundless sky: no boxes
Except the one they’re in, traveling to Sunset.
I lost my dawn in 51 50 holds,
And feeling business trip at home.

I deserved more, so they deserve a home.
I arrive and complete my shelter drive.
I lift them free and let the worker hold
My tiny family away from my stains.
I make them promise no early sunsets.
I walk away and leave the U-Haul box

With the shelter’s daily helpers. The box,
With the whole day ahead, will find a home.
And now, I’m free to choose. I leave Sunset
And down the forkless, pathless road, I drive
The fastest pace that lifts my body’s stains.
Today, I have made my choice: No more holds.

My dawn has lost its hold. Away from boxes,
Responsibilities, and stains: I’m home
To smile and drive into my sunset.

Lost

My brother and his girlfriend found a dog wandering around the streets. They brought her inside and let her stay the night much to the dismay of their family dog Chewy. My brother and his girlfriend are putting up fliers and checking to see if the lost dog is micro-chipped. But at a certain point, there is little that can be done.

This dog is a puppy. I asked my brother to send a picture, and the one with which he provided me is the one with which I have provided you, dear reader. Cute dog, no?

I feel that this post has one of the highest probabilities of pontificating into well-trodden and cliché ideas. Everything from the Bible to Nietzsche has covered the idea of being “lost.” I've had this picture for about a day now, and I couldn't think of anything smart or original to say about this lost dog. So, I'm not going to try.

All I can really say is that if I lost my dog, I would be sad. My dog is a good friend not because he's perfect but because he's flawed like his owner. My dog and I understand what it's like to angry and stressed and confused. We're friends because we are both flawed beings.

I bet the lost dog and her owner are also perfectly imperfect for each other.

When my brother told me the story of the lost dog, I thought of Aristophanes' Speech from Plato's Symposium. Aristophanes says that in the past, humans were complete with four arms, four legs, and two faces on one neck (189e-190a). Humans' shape was “complete” in the form of a perfect circle (189e). But while these humans were complete, their “strength and power were terrifying” (190b). So Zeus cut humans into two pieces: male and female. Thus separated from their perfect half, humans were weakened. Humans spent their lives searching for the other half of themselves. The act of intercourse is the humans trying to fit themselves back into their original, circular form. For Aristophanes, love “is just the name we give to the desire for and pursuit of wholeness” (193a).

I know Plato was writing about human love, but I bet the owner is looking for the lost dog much like we all look for our other half from which Zeus tore us apart. Aristophanes' tale is wonderfully artistic, and I believe love, as defined in this example, can be applied to the relationship between a human and a dog: the search for a perfect match, where, when whole, the human and the dog have emotional strength and completeness impossible when separated.

The probability of this post actually helping is astronomically small, but I had to do something. Maybe these posted pictures will help reunite the puppy with her family. Out of sympathy for the affected parties and out of hope that the lost dog and her owner will become circular again, I'm doing all I can from Nor. Cal.

If you know of someone in the Fontana, CA area who lost a dog that matches this description, please let me know via the comments section, and I can put you in contact with the necessary people.

Plato. Symposium. Trans. Robin Waterfield. New York: Oxford U.P., 1994.

Teddy Grahams

During a walk with my dog on the beautiful Wednesday afternoon, I spotted an old friend: the Teddy Graham. It's been years since I've had a Teddy Graham, and the last time I had one was probably from an impostor snack-sized bag rather than the official 10 oz. box. It's been a long time since I've even thought about this companion from my past, but we were reunited on the sidewalk earlier today.

I remember eating Teddy Grahams often. Like other memories, I have only shards and feelings of eating this Nabisco snack rather than an actual chronological memory. I remember eating them after a day at elementary school. I remember eating the legs and arms first. I remember I hated the split-legged Teddy Grahams because the legs would already be broken inside the box. They aren't a particularly good dipping-in-milk cookie since they are so small, but I remember dipping cinnamon Teddy Grahams and my fingertips in milk.

If I had a box of them in front of my right now, I'd probably eat them. So why has it been years since I've eaten a Teddy Graham?

The answer to this question rests deep in the past. It took me some time to realize that my grandparents and mother were the sole purchasers of the Teddy Grahams for my household. My family bought the snack to bring me joy. But why no more Teddy Grahams now? The answer is that my family no longer sees me as a child.

When I sit and think “I'm no longer a child,” it's very strange—hyper-real, so to speak. I know I'm older, but I don't feel more mature. I know I'm smarter, but I don't feel more wise. Inside, I still feel like an immature child worthy of Teddy Grahams. But I know I'm getting older and getting more responsibilities even if my personality doesn't match my age.

My grandma sometimes gives me money when I visit her, but I no longer get Teddy Grahams from her. She tells me to spend the money on practical things.

The outside world sees that I have grown-up. The outside world sees Teddy Grahams as part of my childhood now passed. I could go to the store and buy a 10 oz. box, but what would be the point? Now that I've realized the truth of the Teddy Graham, they won't taste as good anymore. Sure, I can eat a Teddy Graham for nostalgia's sake, but eating the treat will only make me more aware that my childhood is dead.

It's scary to measure one's own mortality in Teddy Grahams. What part of my current life is a "Teddy Graham"? What is something I currently do or eat that, in a few years, will be obsolete? How many more versions of "Teddy Grahams" do I have in my lifetime?

During my walk this afternoon, I stopped and tipped my hat to a piece of childhood dropped by another little boy. I wonder what age he will be when his family stops buying him Teddy Grahams.

Traffic

This particular picture was taken on the 101 earlier today at about 2 PM. I don't live in So. Cal or any other highly congested traffic area, so imagine my surprise when I found myself in bumper to bumper traffic in the middle of the day.

Today was one of those days where it was very sunny but cool outside; however, while driving, the dreaded greenhouse effect kicked in. I became frustrated with my predicament: traffic and hotness. I'm sure we have all experienced this particular state of mind. Favorite songs on the iPod are annoying. Drivers in the adjacent cars look stupid or ugly or both. Minutes rather than miles become the unit of measurement traveled.

I felt chafed by the situation until I realized something: There could only be traffic on the 101 at 2 PM on a Tuesday because there is some kind of accident.

I've been in four accidents. Two times I was driving, two times I was a passenger. The most serious accident was when my high school buddy was driving. We got T-boned when we took an unprotected left when a pickup truck was crossing through the intersection. The car was pretty trashed. I remember my friend's face. His mother's car had just been mutilated. His face was sad and angry. He didn't cry, but the redness in his cheeks betrayed him.

Car accidents, especially ones that are your own fault, stay with you. The guilt and helplessness seem to echo regardless of the number of years that pass. I remember my accident outside my high school. I still feel uneasy when I think about it. Car accidents, perhaps more so than the boba incident, are life changers.

So here I am, sitting in traffic, no particular place to be and no particular schedule to keep, feeling angry for no reason other than the minor inconvenience.

Sure enough, about five miles up the road, I pass a white Mazda that looks like dynamite exploded the front end of the car. The bumper was twisted rather than shattered. The synthetic plastics of bumper looked like the tripe I get in my bowls of pho. The driver of the car was no longer at the scene. Only a few CHP officers remained. After passing the crash scene, the traffic opened back up.

I feel like a solipsist. I feel like the person I so harshly impugned only a few days ago. I'm in my own world, selfishly thinking about the traffic, when someone else had a very negative, emotional, and, quite possibly, life-threatening moment.

If I had to choose between losing my car in a wreck and sitting in traffic for an hour, I would certainly choose the traffic. And I should be thankful I was given that choice today. To the driver of the white Mazda: I'm sorry you had a tough day. I hope your tomorrow is better.

Sacrifice and True Freedom

Allow me to muse about one of my pastimes as mentioned on February 7, 2009. I apologize to my readers who care little about video games. But before you navigate away, know that a particular video game is simply the means of the post—not the end. While this post is rooted in a video game, my goal is to make the message as universal as possible. If I fail to reach that lofty goal: my apologies dear reader for subjecting you to trite “fanboy-ism.”

The first particular game my brother and I collaborated on was a game called "Final Fantasy 6" for the Super Nintendo. I use the word “collaborate” because my brother had to help me play through the 40+ plus hours of the game. For a 10-year-old version of me, 40+ hours were difficult to get through. I remember getting lost in the complex maps and constantly calling on my brother to “help me get out of here!”

"Final Fantasy 6" is a game about wayward travelers who form a party to fight the evil doings of Kefka. The game has a simplistic overarching story, but the characters that comprise the protagonist party have wonderfully charming back-stories.

Two particular playable characters in particular were Sabin and Edgar Figaro. They are twin brothers.



Edgar is currently the king of Figaro, a desert kingdom resisting Kefka’s evil actions. His brother Sabin is a wanderer who left Figaro in search of his true freedom to explore martial arts.

In a particularly poignant character-development flashback, Sabin and Edgar’s father, the then current king of Figaro, is dying. Sabin and Edgar meet on roof of the castle to decide who will be the future king once their father dies. Neither brother truly wants to inherit the kingdom, so they leave their fate to a coin toss.

Edgar, knowing Sabin longs to be free, rigs the coin toss with a double-headed coin. Edgar says to Sabin, "If it's heads, you win. Tails, I win. The winner chooses whichever path he wants..." Sabin of course “wins” his true freedom while Edgar stays behind to rule Figaro. Both brothers wanted a life outside Figaro, but Edgar sacrificed his true freedom to stay behind and fulfill the family duty. Edgar gave up his dreams for the good of the kingdom but mostly for the good of his brother.


I had to have my brother explain the significance of this part to me. At 10 years old, I didn’t quite understand why inheriting the kingdom would be considered a “sacrifice.” It would be so awesome being a king! But my brother was there to explain the nuances of Sabin and Edgar’s relationship. With my brother's help, I remember thinking Sabin and Edgar the richest and most trenchant of all all the characters in Final Fantasy 6.

Since 1994, I have since measured the literary, poetic, and artistic world against the story of Sabin and Edgar. The two-headed coin is my archetype of sacrifice and true freedom.

I’m sure there are millions of other more-worthy examples of artistic sacrifice, but this is the artistic representation that first resonated within me. With my brother’s help, I didn’t simply read the words on the screen—I began to understand and empathize with both Edgar and Sabin. In their relationship, there is no hero and no villain. At the time, the two princes in the game were as tangible as the two Asians playing the game.

My brother is the Edgar of the family. He did the smart and responsible thing. He’s a doctor. I’m the Sabin of the family. I pursued my true freedom. I read poetry. But I guess we are not exactly like Sabin and Edgar: We both chose our separate paths independently from each other; we didn’t have a defining coin toss in the desert night. He didn’t give me my English-degree freedom like Edgar gave Sabin his martial-arts freedom.

Between my brother and me, our "coin toss" is more of an overall sacrifice of his childhood to make mine more enjoyable. He didn’t need to give me baseball cards in my cardboard mailbox hanging from my doorknob. He didn’t need to yell at the neighborhood bully for me. He didn't need to help me shave my head. And he didn’t need to interpret video games for me.

But what if "Final Fantasy 6" was my origin as a literature student? What if my love of literature is rooted in my fascination with Sabin and Edgar?

If that is the case, then my true-freedom path is dependent on my brother's sacrifice. My current livelihood in literature is based on his sacrifice of explaining the plot to me. My personal "coin toss moment," the moment that changed my path in life, was when my brother explained the video game coin toss moment. Maybe we are Sabin and Edgar after all.

I might not understand how to run a kingdom, but I understand a sacrifice when I see one.


The young king of Figaro Castle, / ally to the Empire, and a / master designer of machinery…
Edgar’s twin brother, who / traded the throne for his own / freedom…