The trees looked like monsters. Looming skeletons with clothes of foliage and vines cloaking their hollow bodies. They danced and howled in the wind, moaning in deep and lashing voices of the woe of the storm that was coming, and the storms that had come before. The lamp post stuck its head out into the dark and cast feeble shadows over the little brick and tin house that sat in the corner of the yard.

I leaned into the wind and squinted. I told myself to breathe and enjoy the cool air. It came once a year, and a few ghost stories shouldn’t ruin it for me.

“They said she never spoke again.” Memory of their words sent shivers down my spine. “When she woke up everyone else was dead,” I could hear his Job’s voice in my head as I  crunched over seeds and slipped in the mud. “No one cried, and no one was even surprised. The witch doctor said the family owed their lives to the spirits because all of them had defiled their family honour.”

I stubbed my toe in the dark. I winced and stopped walking. What was it that made people give up their lives?

A shadow slid through the dark across the lot. If spirits stole those away who disobeyed, how did we ever know how much we really owed?

“They say that anyone who sleeps in that house meets her ghost now. My son saw her, described her to the witch doctor before he knew the story. When we showed him a picture of her he recognized her right away.”

The story had gone on. Neither spirits nor ghosts were appeased easily. Dad had listened to the story too. He had smiled and winked at me every so often. I asked him afterwards if the stories were true. He told me that life was full of things we couldn’t see or explain, and people liked to change and grow the stories. Sometimes to explain them, sometimes to make themselves feel better. The truth, dad had said, was difficult to discern, and rarely looked how we expected it to.

I knew I believed in spirits. It made sense after all. With all the sacrifices and weeping. It seemed awful shallow to discredit everyone’s experiences. Ghosts though, I wasn’t so sure about. Dad hadn’t seemed in the least worried about them while he had told me I couldn’t play with the axe used for sacrifices.

I looked back up at the trees, just as a few droplets of rain flew in on the backs of the wind. I smiled and winked at the looming monsters, the same way dad had winked at me. Out of nowhere a sheet of rain hit me square in the chest. I burst out laughing. That must be how the tree monsters winked back.

People could tell ghost stories, but the trees and I knew that the real story was a little more fun. I hobbled my way against the wind to the little house on the corner of the lot and pushed the door open. Inside a lone fluorescent bulb lit a tiny living room and smaller kitchen and dining room. Dad sat at the little round table with mom. Between them sat a pile of steaming cookies and a scrabble board.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I sputtered.

Dad laughed. “Did you get in a water fight with one?” He smiled again, and winked at me. Then he picked up a cookie and threw it across the room at me.

“Garry!” My mom exclaimed.

Dad just laughed. “I don’t think anyone would want to stick around here after they died, Kev,” I was’t sure if he was winking again, or if it was just the light flickering. “Better get a shower, Bud. We have an early flight tomorrow.”


Heading West

The sky shone fluorescent blue like the the gleaming  of the sun off the boy’s eyes. His mind paced over the patterns of life that led him to this point; Pitter pattering over the most inconsequential  moments in his past. The placid sea of green ran off before him pausing only to shoot the occasional tree up towards the sun. Into the future a little road -barely a path-forced its way into the motionless world of green. The boy, named Elijah, after that pillar of Christian faith- a stranger who stood in the face of society to proclaim the need for revolution,  drove with his face towards the sun and his back towards his home. West. Always west into the sunset; falling farther from home every time the sun wearied of its work. His soul seemed to weary as often as the sun, and often set into the depths of the past to reiterate every thought once or a thousand times in a vain attempt to return.

Today the road and the silence stole his soul and Elijah found himself soaring over the earth chasing the white trails of clouds that swept with the wind over the prairies. Like all strangers and wanderers he felt the road and the freedom of the wind tied him inexplicably to the world around him and the human race.

Elijah rushed down a black, frost stricken road towards a little town that sat with its back to the road and its face towards the railroad track. It sat contentedly with nothing but a general store of white tin and a little “Best beer in town” sign hanging from the door and a feed mill that sat square against the railroad tracks.  

Elijah slowed ever so slightly as he came beside the general store. For a moment all time stopped while Elijah made eye contact with the little gray window that stared out from dirty white tin wall. Then the moment died as quickly as it had come. Elijah found himself lost among the green tangle of the wild grasses that danced every hour of summer.

That night the sun set over the road sending the clouds into a frenzy over Elijah. He opened the window and felt his arm fill with goosebumps as the cool air rushed through the car. It smelled of grass and swamp stank. The farther Elijah drove the closer he felt to the sky. Over the the prairies and into the hills Elijah sped, his foot on the gas and his hand out the window. The atmosphere flooded the car and fed the flood of memories and thoughts that seeped into Elijah’s mind. He took deep breaths letting the world feed his own sentiment.  


Driving is like like flying, and flying is like living. Everything happens in spectacular detail, but every human is stuck in a bubble of their own thoughts, living a mile high, a  mere passer-byer in a world that is spinning by.



Something New

I have four walls, a bed, and a little lamp that shocks me when I try to flip the switch. The walls are concrete, and the moldy black and yellow paint is chipping off and bubbling up. The bed is covered in blankets with bleach stains everywhere, and the bed itself is mostly just termite eaten plywood with some rotting stuffing on top. The lamp is cracked plastic, and the cord is raw and exposed in too many places. My flip flops that sit by the sagging door are worn to the point of holes in both heels. My backpack has mud on it from five different countries. My cellphone is plugged into a huge black multi adapter that can fit any outlet available on earth, and the the eight foot cord is almost entirely covered in hockey tape. Kind of like my toes. Blisters and torn wires are quite similar in that way.

Everywhere I go I look for something new. A new experience, or flavour, smell, sight, even a new me. The problem is that wherever I drop that backpack, or leave those flip flops, I am still me. I have seen all of this before in one form or another. The bubbled paint, stained white tiles, bleached out sheets. It is nothing new. I can remember back to it being new. I remember flying through mountains and catching sight of the ocean. I remember tasting raw eggs for the first time under candle light, and gagging over dog meat for the first time. It isn’t new anymore, or not new in that sense. Every day is new, and beautiful, and the thrill of finding somewhere new still wakes me up in the morning. But nothing is new in the way it was the first time.  I wake up every morning grasping for something to hold to, something new worth sharing. But every day I put on those same worn flip flops, throw that same backpack over my shoulder, and walk out some kind of broken door after turning off some lamp that has seen many better days.

The moments that most define me are the ones I cannot recapture, but continue to relive day after day. After all, the first time I slipped on flip flops and ran through the jungle I didn’t even realize it was something new. IMG_8343

“Leaving On a Jet-Plane”

“My bags are packed, I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door,

I hate to wake you up to say good-bye.

But the dawn is breaking, it’s early morn, the taxi’s waiting He’s blowing his horn.

Already I’m so lonesome I could die.

So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.

‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.” – John Denver, “Leaving on a jet plane”

The cooped up dry air of airliners has the same affect on me as a glass of whiskey, a fire place, and a blizzard outside. I fall asleep without even meaning to. Not deep sleep, just the kind where thoughts flit in and out, and reality becomes strained while emotions grow more intense.

I had my head on my hand, and my elbow propped up on the aisle armrest. The words if the song brought up all kinds of memories of foreign times.

The first time I heard that sorrowful tune we were sitting on a ragged brown carpet floor  at strangers house late one night listening to sad songs. We all had pre journey butterflies for the next morning’s flight. It might have been the stranger’s food, or just the excitement of being someplace new and going someplace new, but I couldn’t sleep so we sat up cross legged on the floor and listened to old songs. Mom teared up a little, and we all laughed at how sentimental she was.

All that sped through my mind on repeat as the song played on, till my arm fell from the armrest and I was jerked into wakefulness and my phone fell to the floor yanking my headphones with them.

Across the aisle a brown haired women in a large black sweater with her hair in a pony tail reached down and picked up my phone. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and then smiled. My screen was lit up with the album artwork of John Denver. The woman held up her own phone where the same Album cover showed. She gave me another faint smile as she handed the phone back. Her eyes looked sad, and she didn’t try to hide the tears that hung in droplets under them. I took the phone and smiled back, but I knew my eyes held the same kind of reminiscent sadness.

Just a Memory

Arito, Near to Bayombong, Luzon Philippines

The first time we left Manila at around 5 am. I don’t remember eating anything, just crawling out out of bed In the Manila guest house and loading into a big white van full of supplies. Most of it wasn’t ours. The air was thick with humidity, smog, and the smell of cooking fish. The concrete was still warm from the day before. I managed to stuff myself in a back seat surrounded by bags and a blanket.
We drove for hours. Not the nice driving most people imagine where you cruise down a highway listening to some music. But a mad stop and go with swerving and honking and huge potholes and jars that often sent my head into the roof above me. We went hours without stopping. When we did stop it was to get gas and some snack food. I ate an ice-cream. Not mango ice-cream though, a plain nestle cone with vanilla and chocolate. Of course it wasn’t real ice-cream. I doubted if there was even dairy in it. Mostly likely it was just gelatin and whipped something with some chocolate on top. It was cold though, and it tasted alright. We all felt sick. It was hard not to when you were on a rollercoaster for five hours without stopping. We all begrudgingly got back in the van and started driving again.
This was before the days of GPS, and there were no real road signs the Philippines, and the maps were all out of date. I don’t know how dad managed his way from one little road to the next through the mountains and through tiny towns. But he did, and we drove onto the Arito grounds sometime in the afternoon.
Arito was a huge dead missionary school base. full of cute little non filipino houses made of boards and covered in oil to chase away the termites. The whole place was built on a hill, and covered in huge trees and buffalo grass. The hanger was on the top of the hill, and the school at the bottom. Between the Pilot house and Mechanics house there was a huge rope swing and a trampoline.
This was the kind of place MK’s are made for. In my mind I imagined strong barefoot boys swinging from the highest branches of the tree and running shirtless down the runway after some lizard. I could see soccer matches played on the semi flat field between the supply buyer’s house and the pilot house.
I never even thought of putting my flip flops on. I was right away out the door and letting the mud squish between my toes. The place smelled so fresh and and clean compared to Manila. I started to run, but remembered I needed to help unpack the van first. I dropped three boxes on my toes, and stepped on a thorn of some kind, but refused to wear shoes.
It didn’t take long for mom to get stuff unpacked and begin to cook. The hunger hit as soon as I smelled the chicken cooking. The sun went down just as we began to eat. It all felt very exciting. Eating in a new house, and eating chicken tacos none the less, with semi real cheese from Manila. The musty smell of old houses, and being on real wood floors. No more bare concrete or bamboo slats. These were real wood floors. Looking back they were full of holes, and not even close to smooth, but at the time I thought they were the real thing. Outside I could hear bugs buzzing and birds and other animals. It’s strange, because though Lada was in the middle of nowhere we really didn’t get much wildlife. Stray dogs maybe, snakes of course, and lizards, but nothing else. It was really exciting.
I slept that night without the sounds of traffic or horns and nothing but dogs and chickens and the wind to play into my dreams. For the first time since I could remember it actually cooled off slightly and I found myself chilly underneath the sheets.
Arito was the greatest adventure for me. I have written about it before, and I recognize all the terrible conflict that happened during our time there. The consequences of those conflicts came up later when were were back in Manila, or Palawan, or Mindanao, but not while were actually in Arito. At least for me. Arito was filled with old books from the library, bb guns, climbing trees, doing footwork in the grass, hitting a shuttlecock against the brick wall at the supply buyer house, and working in the shop with Dad.
I read a few books there that really impacted me. The first was “The Book Of Three” and the rest of the series by Lloyd Alexander, and the second was a book on big game hunting. The book on big game hunting really gave me motivation to perfect my skills at whatever I did because it taught decision making and the art of doing something so many times that you become a master. Lloyd somehow had a way of changing the atmosphere of my whole day with his books, and to this day that sticks with me. A nobody boy who goes on a grand adventure only to learn that it is better to be a grower of turnips than a great war hero.
I read a few other things as well that impacted me but, but have yet to change the fate of my life. I read books upon books about flying and instruments, techniques, weather, and finding your way using a map and time and and heading. I would often try these techniques on the ground, traveling from tree to tree with my eyes covered with my cap except one little piece that could look down and see my compass. I never got particularly good- I once ran straight into the tree. Apparently my step size varied.
I also learned to whittle fishhooks. This skill never got fully tested till we reached Mindanao, but I did perfect my technique in Arito. I tried to make snares and traps outsides of the mowed area of the base. The only thing I caught was a chicken, which I freed as quickly as I could because I assumed it belonged to somebody.
There were various trips to Arito. Each one blurred in the with others for some reason. No matter what was going on in Manila, or wherever we were, it all got left behind when we got to Arito. It was like I could pick up the book again and continue the story I had been reading.
My best memories are exhausting myself training, or working, or doing whatever I did outside, and coming to the porch in the afternoon tired and sweaty just as it began to rain. I would pick up a book and lay in the hammock and for the first five minutes I wouldn’t read a thing, I would just sit there and listen to the rain on the tin roof. Then with my muddy feet sticking out of the hammock I would start to read. Every ten minutes or so I would stop reading and look out into the rain and imagine that we got to live in this house for the rest of our time, and I could build a tree house to study in, maybe learn to fly, and help dad rebuild the 180. Then I would laugh at myself and start to read again. The sound of the rain seemed to drown out my doubts. When I finally went inside to help mom cook or clean I did so with a hop in my step. I put some punk rock on the little speaker and sped around the kitchen inhaling the sweet smell of real food. We would eat under dim white florescent lights, and by seven pm it felt late and I would already want to go to bed. We had hot showers if I remember correctly, and the mud from the day always washed off too easily.


Minutes drift into hours, and hours into… I guess days just flew by, just like the wind when it took all my aspirations of having a home. The little room up in 7A, with its one little window and bed that was too short almost felt like home. I had a little rack I made out of cardboard, broken poles, and badminton string. I kept all my clothes, and an assortment of Oreo cookies there, along with my drying towel. I had my suitcase on my bed, the only place it would fit, coving a huge black spot of mould. It wasn’t home in the traditional sense, I hadn’t been there long, nor did I have family or friends there. In fact I lived with two guys I didn’t know from Adam. It was home I guess because I put my things there, right where I wanted, and I decided it would be home.

Minutes and days sped by, and I found that it was time to go. After that first week when I made my room my own, the room had not changed. It felt the same amount home at the moment of leaving as it did in the moment when I stuffed my backpack in the corner and my suitcase on my bed.

The days always drift by. That is the scary part of staying in one place too long. Time goes by without anything to mark it. Days can slip into years before you know it and nothing has changed. Home does not become more home, it only become a place to sleep and eat.

When you pack up and move a place every choice is layed before you to be evaluated and judged. Why did I buy three of same tshirt? Did I really spend that much time eating at that one noodle place? Why didn’t I work harder to learn the language, I can barely tell my neighbours I miss them. Why didn’t I ever fix that leak? I have four hams left, I kept saving them for a special occasion, and now there are none left. You cannot stay the same and move. You cannot remain the same person and say goodbye.

I am packing up again, and I am not the same as I was before. This move brought things I didn’t imagine. In this little room full of other people’s things I saw the power of prayer, and the felt the depths of loneliness. I worked at learning a foreign language and questioned my own. Now I look back and wonder why I didn’t study harder, pray more, read more, listen better, and why didn’t I spend more time out of that little room? I will not do the same things this next week, and I can thank moving for that.


 The wind rushes under the door in warm puffs pushing the dry air conditioned air out through the cracks in the wall. I keep my eyes shut, trying to lay still and let the contrasting smells and air caress my nose. The laundry drips around me, and the rank smell of sweat comes up from my multiple shoes below. Even after brushing my teeth three times my mouth still tastes of fish and and some numbingly hot pepper. 

 Downstairs I can hear the children playing and their mother scolding their every move. Outside my window skyscrapers rise above the jungle and red dirt river beds carving their way out of the wild in random clusters. Everywhere there are cameras. The moment I step outside of my room there are cameras keeping watch of me. 

 The sunlight strokes the recently rain soaked plants of the common area. Little electric bikes with brightly coloured umbrellas wiz past on the brick walk ways, then rattling their way over the little wooden bridges. All along the side are little shops, usually with red signs and bold white or black Chinese writing. Little tents are set up randomly amidst the sidewalk with anything from fruit to whole pigs being sold underneath. The block is gated in, and there guards sit a little hut and let people through to the next block, or on the north side into the streets beyond. 

 Everywhere people walk with their slow methodical steps, chatting or texting. Inside they sit around small tables reaching in front of one another to grab a bite of some entree with chopsticks, or to pour someone a small cup of tea in peaceful show of respect. 

 Outside the gates of community is a mad rush. Four lane roads are over taken by small motorcycles and tricycles going the wrong way through traffic in a haphazard fashion, daring death to dart between cars and weave to narrowly miss buses. The cameras above the streets flash constantly. Pedestrians walk through traffic as calmly as some circus show. Children play on the side of the road, darting through cars and motorcycles to retrieve a ball. Somehow the relaxed communal living melds seamlessly with the hectic death-wish reality outside. It appears to be a paradox, a terrifying contrast. The same way the skyscrapers look both at home and as strangers rising like strict overgrown brothers of the jungle around them, always attempting to grow as tall as the mountains the loom overhead but instead look like nothing but naked and artless spines amidst nature. 

 I assume that is how I stand out here. A tall, white stranger who walks too fast, or walks too slow, never understanding, and always attempting a dumb smile in response to questions. A awkward tower among the masses, standing stiffly, eyes glazed over, frantically waving his arms while gibberish comes out of his mouth. But I guess if a skyscraper can survive among the jungles and mountains, and even make them look better, then I can learn to fit in here too. 

Exams- Repost

I wrote this last year for finals, and since finals are approachingagain I thought I would repost because I still get a kick out of exam time. 

It is exam time. That means milkshakes and coffee, pajama clothed students wandering the halls with bloodshot eyes and bed heads. The aesthetic of professionalism, of higher learning, is replaced by an over all negligence of personal hygiene and common self care. Students who have spent the semester in hightop shoes, skinny jeans and slicked back hair are suddenly seen walking aimlessly in socks and sandals, and any semblance of what used to be a nice hairdo are long gone, only the leftover caked gel in their hair shows that they ever cared. The library, formerly full of diligent students poring over books and writing careful notes, is now full of the zombie population of the campus. Empty coffee cups, energy drinks, and scattered notes clutter the tables, while students lay snoring on the couches. 
Why? Because, acedemics are graded by this one final exam that you prepare for all semester. An exam that once it approaches you feel totally unprepared for. Your value as a human falls to a simple three hour section where you are crammed in a white walled room with three hundred other students with a few sheets of paper and a couple hundred questions. It’s the one place in the world where everyone’s worth is decided by questions that one man or woman find relevant. 
When you walk out your door and see a hapless student wandering with bags under their eyes, a half open backpack, and holding a half eaten snickers bar, don’t judge. This student is about to face a gavel that no human is ever prepared for. Finals. 

Walking Into A Sketch

I remember the first time I  touched snow and looked at the great pine trees towering above me cloaked in a glittering blanket of diamond cut ice and snow. “It looks just like the pictures, just like all the books said it would,” I gasped, “All the fairy stories are true,” Everything I read and looked at in sketches and pictures came alive before my eyes, more real and more bright than anything I had imagined. It was as if Aragon was taking the Fellowship right up the mountain and I was there too. It took the words I had read on a page and pasted them all around the world around me.

This morning I drove through a small neighborhood in eastern Washington full of swooping purple and pink blooming trees and pine trees and the sun floating through the limbs. The dew on the grass bounced light straight up to the pink and purple flowers that fell lightly from the trees in the morning breeze. It was just like a sketch I had seen when I was younger.  A path cut its way through blooming trees. The artist sketched the flowers with sharp magical strokes that blended into one mix of lines that left me feeling mesmerized by the peace of the moment. The tree trunks were bold black and the sunlight was the warm off  white of paper slicing through blurred pencil strokes and smudges. I left the picture imagining the peace of an early morning with nothing going on besides perhaps an errand that didn’t weigh too much on the heart. I could see a gentleman in work boot taking his time walking down the road to pick up a tool or off to fix the fence. No rush except the bright sun and the cool air.

This morning I drove down the reality of that path letting the cool breeze stroke my hair as I drove unhurriedly to an appointment I would be early to. I knew I was driving through someone elses piece of art. I hadn’t been here before and getting here just reminded me that I wanted to be here almost as much as I wanted this to be home.  That is what traveling is all about isn’t it? Finding home wherever you, finding the familiar in the fantasy. Walking into the story books you read and finding them as real as the mundane life you have back home. You find that the fantasy of the bizarre in that moment is just as mundane as your reality, and back home the mundane reality is as much a fantasy as the world you explored.  Because when you get back home you realize someone from a far off place drew a sketch of that place too, and there is some story about the beaches you walk and they are peaceful to walk as the forests on the other side of the world.

If Only Originality

You would think atmosphere would breed creativity. It breeds thought after all. Or at the very least the strong emotion of feeling like you are thinking deeply. Perhaps it does. I can feel a story sticking to my tongue, right between the bitter aftertaste of black coffee and the tangy taste of cooped up hotel room air. There is the looming approach of change and deadlines hanging over my head, and that always feels somewhat like inspiration. But alas, none of these are truly creativity or originality leaking through the hotel room atmosphere. 

Unfortunately for me the buzz of the AC, no matter how soothing hasn’t given me enough inspiration to write any of the three papers that are due this week. Instead it has instilled in me the greatest desire to nap. The greatest work I feel currently ready to accomplish is that of rising to make another cup of coffee. 

One more cup of coffee it is, and then off to bed to let this cold air drag me into the depths of sleep. Creativity will come tomorrow, after another hard day of work and stress. Originality never comes without a little dying first anyway, and atmosphere alone won’t take me there.