Man.  It’s been a month plus since I’ve written?  Madness.
It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say.  On the contrary, I have too much to say.  That, and I have little time to write thoughts.
That’s not true.
I just don’t give myself time.

This semester has been quite taxing.  I used to remember in high school, when I would say that there is rarely any time for me to practice music because I have a busy schedule.  In retrospect, I laugh.  I mock my old thought.  There was always ways to economize my time.

I’ve reached a point, this semester, where I’m burning too much of the candle.  Seven classes, three private lessons, eighteen hours of practice, plus job position as a TA.  It’s a lot.  Not too much, but a lot.  It’s bad enough by itself, but life has a funny way of throwing emotional jabs, adding to the weight.  It gets to a point where all I can cry is “Lord, slow me down!”

A slower pace.  I think we all can use it.
Sometimes we go too fast.  Sometimes I go too fast.  When we run, indeed, we get a lot of work done, but we miss out in the life around us.  I remember a couple weeks ago, I was super stressed.  I had to attend this concert—which would eat a huge chunk out of my time to do sleep and practice—and I had to perform one of my pieces at a friend’s junior recital (problem being, we hadn’t done a full rehearsal since the prior semester and our last performance of the piece was terrible).  There was more whip cream on top of the situation—it just evades me at the moment.
Point being, I was stressed. 
That friday, I was getting blows from the left and right constantly.  I remember walking to the music building stressed and pissed, and my friend Mark Freed commented how lovely the sunset was.  My response wasn’t a joyous or sympathetic one.  Rather, it was a self-centered and problematic one.  “I wish I had time to enjoy it.”

I wish I had time to enjoy it.  By saying that, I am recognizing that there is beauty and goodness in the sunset.  In the same sentence, I am claiming that I do not have time to look and accept the goodness.
I find it a fallacy to say that one does not have time to accept goodness.

God’s beauty is all around us.  His creation isn’t just for aesthetics.  While sunsets may be beautiful and landscapes may be breathtaking, there’s more to creation than just visual pleasure.  Just as the rainbow was a promise to Noah, God’s creation is a promise to us.  A promise that not only is God bigger than our troubled hearts, but that He is with us in our troubled times.  A promise that all will be made well.

But how can we see the sunset fade in the horizon if we try to speed our lives too fast?  I’m not saying to stop all our works and focus on nature.  Not at all.  I still go to Loma and still am taking many classes and still need to accomplish the goals my professors set before me.  But if we could just stop.  Stop and pause to see the bigger picture.  To see that our struggles and worries are part of something bigger that we can’t control on our own mere strength, then maybe our burden wouldn’t be as heavy as we make it out to be.  Maybe.

While my thoughts are rarely profound, I do hope to keep writing throughout the school year.
I just need to give myself time…

I have been struggling with many things lately.  Mostly ideas in the abstract.
What is wrong with relationships today?  Why is it hard for people to relate with each other?  Where has communication gone wrong?
Of course, I’m not the first to ask these questions and I doubt that this blog will be the last regarding them.   Nevertheless, as I ask those questions, I always seem to come back to two words:  empathy and sympathy.  Both words come from the same root—pathos—yet their approach can make such a difference.

Let’s strip the words down to it’s core.  By definition, empathy means to intellectually relate with another’s feelings, actions, or thoughts.  Sympathy, on the other hand, means to agree in feeling to another’s feelings, actions, or thoughts.

So difference?
One is to understand intellectually while one is to feel.
Does that make much of a difference?
Yes.  It does.

I feel like many people use empathy and sympathy synonymously, yet there’s a distinct line between the two.  To intellectually understand someone’s pain means nothing to the victim.  We all are capabale of analyzing the pain of a friend.  Indeed, we can even give advice to the victim, but how can they receive it?  How can they receive such advice that is served on a dry cold platter? 
In discussion, it’s one thing to be right.  But if your recepient can not receive truth, your validity and accuracy means nothing.

There’s a friend that I’ve constantly debated against.  We’ve gone through a plethora of topics.  Religion, music, love, politics, art.  However, I feel as I continue to talk, no progress is made.  All the words and advice I say one day fall apart and the next day I’m back to square one.

I used to blame him.  I used to say that he was so stubborn to agree with the facts. 
But there reveals the problem.
My search for truth was more prevalent than my search to be a friend. 
Empathy was there.  I clearly understood what his problems were.  I tried to offer him some good advice.  However, my ideas could not be served because I did not take the time and stand in his shoes and feel how he felt.  Sympathy lacked.

When one merely discusses topics through intellect, they hold the other person in contempt.  They see that their views are right and anything the opposing side has to say is wrong.  Many times, they are quite valid in seeing this way. 
However, the human heart is not a piece of machinery.  Mending a heart isn’t as simple as replacing a faulty gear with a working one.  It’s much more intricate.  We can analyze it all we want, but until we step down from our world of intellect and just sit down with our friend, hearts will never be healed.

When Mary’s brother Lazarus died, she cried to Jesus.  Jesus did not explain that in the end, we all return to dust.  He did not quote scripture to help Mary through her pain.  Instead, he sat down next to her and wept.  Our Lord wept.  The shortest verse in the Bible, yet one with much potency.

We cannot win hearts through our minds alone.  Indeed, our minds help give us ideas at how to approach things.  But our intellect can not carry all the weight.  It is through our sympathy.  It is through lowering ourselves to our friend’s level and just sitting with them in whatever state of mind they might be in.

Cold chicken noodle soup is a paradox.  So is trying to convince a friend in need with mere intellect.
Best to heat it up by showing care.

I was talking to a friend tonight. 
This kid is someone I admire a lot.  She holds many strong and honorable attributes.  The only thing is, many times we just don’t connect.  It isn’t that we don’t see eye-to-eye or we are on negative terms.  Rather, it is that our conversations often run a bit stagnant — rarely a constant flow.  A possibility could be because our friendship is relatively new.  I’d like to hope that that is merely the case.

At this point, many people give up on friendships.  Heck.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I would if I found this person rambunctious, for lack of better word.  But I wonder if that’s such a good idea.  To just give up on someone because you don’t click initially.

There was one person who I met in beginning martial arts.  I first met him when I was paired up with him to do front kicks.  My initial thoughts of him were… I don’t know.  He was a little weird hahah.  He reached out, though.  I remember kind of talking to him at my 10th grade ASB Ball.  He started to IM me via AIM.  I didn’t really know how to respond to this kid initially.  I barely knew him after all.  However, I’m glad Jevin didn’t give up, because we became really good friends.

Now I don’t know if my friendship with this person will be as strong as mine with Jevin’s, but my past with Jevin gives me a reason not to let go.  There is no reason to let go.  Worst case is that our conversations remain stagnant.  But unless there is no hostility, I don’t see why anyone should let go of relationships and bonds.

Jon Foreman gave insight on his view of what friendship is.

I think that’s what a relationship is… not figuring soemone out, putting them in a box and calling that a friendship.  But it’s a dance really, where you’re continually trying to figure somebody out and they’re continually to learn who you are.

It is a dance.  Friendship is a dance.   Some people just connect really well and their motions synchronize flawlessly immediately.  However, in most cases, when you start out, you and your partner are bound to move in opposite directions, step off beat, or crunch the others’ toes.  It happens, but that does not mean you just sit down after your first mistake. 

Now, I’m no great dancer — I barely meet the adequate line for ballroom dancing.  However, just by observation, I can see that dancing flows easier when the two know each other well.  They know their weak points, their tendencies for transitions, and so on. 

But that comes in time.

Maybe that’s what inhibits people from connecting today.  Time.  In this consumerist society, who has time to waste with a person that might not become a good friend at all?  Time is money, afterall, isn’t it?  Time is short.  Those with an hourly wage definitley comprehend this pressure.

But life is more than money.  Time was never money.  (Uh oh… Jon Foreman again)
To extend ourselves to another is more important than getting 8 more dollars to buy something frivolous.  To bond with a friendship can last a lifetime.  That’s something time has no touch on.  Toes might get bruised, but in time, who knows how beautiful the two’s movements might end up creating.

I danced with a friend tonight.
I stepped off beat a couple times, but I think I’m understanding her better.

there’s a lot to write.  there’s a lot of ideas.  there’s a lot of “saved drafts.”
but i would like to do them justice by giving it time.
mer.
they will be published.  rest assured :]

There is comfort in routine.  Uncertainty can many times be frightening, depending on the conext.  Thus, routine ensures the idea that things will go as planned.  There are definintely proponents to this idea, but I’m glad that something tugged me away from it today.

After taking eating lunch outside, routine asked me to go and work on my piano skills — seeing how rusty they are.  However, I looked at the ocean that we Lomalites sometimes take for granted and I paused and decided to extend my break a little more.  I walked down the stairs, past the golden gym, and stood on top of the fitness building, looking aimlessly around. 

There was ease in those moments.

I began remembering how things used to be.  I looked down on the field and remembered seeing Jackie picking up balls as her favorite golf class was ending.  I looked over at the benches and remembered cheering on Evan during one of his games.  I remembered how I was running around the gate at night after coming back from the library so I could play fugitive and I tripped and skinned my knee. 

So many memories.

I tried to remember how I felt when I first came to Loma.  A new boy who had nothing to lose by raising his hand in class.  No more conceptions of who I was/what box I should be placed in — at least not yet.  A new boy sitting in his room because he didn’t know how to approach his new hall mates.  A new boy who spent the whole semester trying to find who the heck that girl was that reached out to him during NSO.

So many memories.

It made me wonder:  why do we reminisce?  What gives us the urge to make us remember pivotal memories, be them good or bad (though usually the case of the former)?  Many people say it’s a mere yearn for what was good in our lives.  However, the realism in us tries to push it away.  “We live in the now” our side cries out.  “The past is the past.  Those good feelings are over.  It’s time to move on.” 
Yes. 
We can’t live in the past.  But something inside is trying to tell us something.

Is it a mere defense mechanism, a homeostatic response to make us feel good?  I think that’s closer to the point, but I would definitely reword it.  I don’t see it as a mere chemical reaction.  It can’t be.

Maybe we reminisce because something inside of us is trying to say that there is still hope.  There is still good.
Many times in our lives, we get caught up in the monotony of routine. 

On, off.  Back and forth.  Tick tock.  Days pass by.  Pay day.  Buy food.  Do the dishes.  Pay the bills.  Loans.  Expenses.  Debt.  Suicide bombing.  Genocide.  War threat.  Friend dies by gang violence. 

After a while, all we see are the negative attributes of life.  After all, it’s always sorrow that hits the headlines.  Heavy stories make for heavy purchases.  Negative stories come in bulk.
Nevertheless, the positive events still exist.  But they come in small progressions.  Does that mean they are outweighed by the negative stories?  Not at all!  But good is not as easy to see as bad.  It takes a bit of looking to see what truly is good.

But when do we have time to look?  When do we give ourselves time to stop what we’re doing and see the good in things?  With such schedules and routines that we give ourselves — and many times rightfully so — when do we have time to see the good in this world?

So goodness reaches to us at even closer level.
Our memories.

When we reminisce, it isn’t so we can feel good about the past and try to remember the glory days.  No.  Not at all.  The realism in us is right to say that the past is the past.  It isn’t about reliving our old experiences. 

It’s about hope. 
Hope that new memories can form.  
Hope that there still is good in this world. 
Hope that despite our barricades, our snares, our issues in society… despite all the problems that arise around us and within us… there is evidence; there is proof; there is hope that the good we experienced in our lifetime is not over.

I’d love to learn how to surf.  In fact, I find it odd that I don’t know how to surf.
I go to a campus that was rated second best college for surfing.  Many of my friends last year taught themselves how to surf — my roommate included.  One of my heroes loves surfing.  This list could go on.

I find that surfing can teach one a lot of things.  A surfer is faced to deal with water in all its conditions.  Water is calm.  Water is ferocious.  Water is movable.  Water moves others.  Water can not be broken.  Water breaks others.

The ocean is a force to be reckoned with, yet there is no equation that fully controls its powers.  Of course, there are patterns one can learn, but the ocean can never fully be controlled.  Surfers know this.  Maybe that’s why their lives are different.

While life may not adjust in a cup the way water does, but the ocean has many parallels with life.  Life fluctuates and changes in a manner of seconds.  One can never control the way life throws us joy and pain.

Yet we try.

We try so hard to make our lives fit in a perfect box.  We try to so hard to make our plans fit in a perfect timeline without any room for error.  But things happen.  Life throws waves at us.  Life’s current pulls us a different direction than the one we are heading for. 

Things just don’t go the way we want them to, sometimes.  Today, was one of those days.  I was asked to perform a couple pieces with my Dad and Josh and rehearsing just didn’t go the way I wanted it.  It was so last minute that we ran out of time.  Here, I had to play three songs with Josh and my Dad:  two that were half-baked and the last wasn’t even touched.  I’ve played these pieces before, but through different mediums.  I always used a bass rather than an acoustic, so that meant I needed to change things.  But I was out of time.  The show had to go on.

On the ride to the event, I was royally pissed at the way things were working out.  These songs were not ready to be performed and all of us knew it.  Then I actually thought about one of the songs.  “We Ride”  by Fiction Family.  It’s a song about surfing.  It’s a song about living.  Heck, it’s a song about my situation.

Life throws harsh blows.  This isn’t one of them, but it was definitley a wave that knocked me off my board.  But what am I going to do?  Do I stay on the beach and never touch the ocean again?  Or do I get my board and roll with the waves that hit me?  Waves will come in life, but that’s no excuse to cop out.  We can’t control these waves.  We can’t put up boundaries to prevent the sea’s blows.   We can go home and seperate ourselves from the ocean.  We can decide to let the ocean swallow us whole.  Or we can ride.  Ride the wave.  Ride the problems of life and have fun.

Yes.  I would love to learn how to surf.  I’m sure the ocean has many more stories that I’d be eager to learn.

Right now I am writing indepth stories of my trips of the Philippines.
However, it’s being saved on the proper date that the actual trip took place.

Click here to read each entry

Prologue [hundreds.]
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Epilogue

In 10th grade, my English teacher Mr. Jerry Urick had us to create a list of adjectives to describe us.  The trick was, we were only allowed to use twenty-six adjectives, one for each letter in the alphabet.  For example, you take “A.”  Your adjective could be “advanced,” then you write a sentence or two defending why you find yourself advanced.  Then you take “B.”  Your adjective could be “buff,” then you defend your argument with a sentence or two.  You do the same for each letter.  Silly but interesting exercise—it was a part of a big portfolio about ourselves.

By the time people reached “X,” Mr. Urick said many people choose “X-Ray” and say they’re transparent or something on the lines.  He understood that there aren’t many “X” adjectives in the english language—especially no a posteriori “x” adjectives—so it was okay if we weren’t creative for this letter.  However, I was determined to be against the grain and find something that worked.

I came across the word “xeromorphic.”  I’m sure all of you have heard of this word and use it in everday language, but for those who don’t, our lovely dictionary states:  “of or pertaining to structural adaptations of xerophytes that help them store water and withstand drought.”  To go deeper, xerophyte is a plant that adapts under hot conditions.

So there it was.  My answer.  Adaptable.  At times I wish I was more adaptable, and at times I wish I was less.  Right now is the time I wish I was less; less changing to my environment.  I landed back in America from my trip to the Philippines last Friday, and I feel like I’m already going back into the regular system.

But I don’t want it.

I don’t want to go back to the normal ways without retaining what I saw and felt over in the Philippines.  While I was only in the Philippines for nine days, I can definitely say I’ve gained a new appreciation for Filipinos.  I’ve been the Philippines twice before and I’ve heard many stories about my Dad and Mom’s experiences in the Islands, but it’s different walking where they walked and seeing the Philippines through more mautre eyes.

My days over in the Philippines were amazing.  Beautiful scenery, great family, lovely roaches… wait.  Scratch the last part.  Other than that one roach, the whole trip was amazing. 
Before leaving, I wasn’t all that stoked to leave America.  I knew it would be an experience, but I was a bit depressed that I wasn’t able to take summer school (yeah, I’m normal) and get ahead of my classes.

I’m glad my initial disappointed mindset didn’t stay with me throughout the trip.  I’m glad I went.   First of all, for family.  I don’t get to see my Lolo and Lola a lot.  Although I didn’t interact with them as much as I should have, it was great to see them in their own environment.  Also my cousins.  I usually just hang with them for a quarter of a day for some special event then head back to San Diego.  But after living with them for nine days, my love for them defintely grew.  Especially with Hayley, the youngest.  Usually, she’s either clung to her sister or watching TV.  However, since she was out of her regular environment, I was able to interact with her more.

Second, for culture—or rather, awareness.  There is a lot of history in the Philippines that I don’t think many of the Americanized Filipinos know about—but I’ll leave the details for another blog.  There is also a Filipino culture, but it’s buried underneath Spanish and American influence.  Where did my cousins want to go to?  Malls.  Ehh… that’s western and material.  Sure.  Philippines is known for having the biggest mall in Asia—second in the world.  But that isn’t culture.  So this trip definitely brought awareness to what’s in the Philippines and whats lacking in awareness.

Third, for lifestyle.  I think I may have the “xeromorphic” trait from the Filipinos.  These people are very adaptable—maybe a reason to the buried culture.  Through a western eye, people might see many of them as poor and pity them.  But from the Filipino standpoint, despite their economic state, they are still happy.  Their happiness isn’t particularly in things like many Westerners.  There’s a song by Freddie Aguilar, a famous Filipino musician, called “Buhay Nga Naman Ng Tao.”  I don’t know exactly what the song’s about, sadly, since I do not read or speak tagalog.  But from what I’ve been told, it’s the idea that life is hard, but life is good.  Adaptable, and I enjoy that.

Pictures are already up:
Day Two [Walkabout]
Day Three [Open Doors -- Mall of Asia]
Day Four [UP Manila]
Day Five [The Anniversary]
Day Seven [The Plantation]
Day Eight [Cebu]
Day Nine [Bohol]
Day Ten [Recede]
Epilogue [Return]
As of right now, these are just my pictures.  My Dad’s and my Brother’s pics will be up soon.

I will also have blog entries for an indepth summary of my trip in the Philippines.

“I don’t believe man was meant to fly for 17 hours through 11 different timezones”
–Jonathan S. conversation with Megan F.

I woke up unwillingly today.  It was 8 o’clock AM, received seven and a half hours of sleep—which is more than the average school day—yet my body was still tired.  It wasn’t that I was depressed about the day’s events.  No.  Not at all.  I was very happy to go back to the Philippines—one of my homelands.  I guess it was just the previous day’s events that had my energy low.

The night before, my Dad and I scrambled.  There were so many things thrown at us that we were not expecting to do.  Of course there was packing (I was done by Saturday, though, so that wasn’t much of a problem), and then cleaning the house for our relatives who gratefully volunteered to water our lawn/backyard.
Not bad, right?  Not yet.
Around 6PM, we received a phone call from my aunt Momiji.  My grandfather was supposed to drive us up to LAX the following morning.  However, this phone call just killed that plan.  My aunt called, telling us that my grandfather got a cold from working on the frontyard late the previous night.  At age 86, my aunt didn’t want him to drive us, just to play it safe on his health.
Understandable.  Only problem was… whos going to drive us tomorrow?  We checked shuttle services.  Cost?  $225.  Sorry… this trip to the Philippines was taxing enough on our budget.  My Dad decided to drive to our church to see if anyone there would be willing to help us.  It’s a good thing he got lost, because he wouldn’t have ended up at the Paguio’s doorstep.  Gratefully, Mr. Paguio was willing to drive us up, even with such late notice.  That was… a big worry off our back.  Now to worry about… other things (worth omitting )

Back to the present.  Despite the stressful prelude to my trip, the excitement of the trip was still present.  It has been 13 years since I last visited the Philippines.  Things have surely changed.  Not just in the Philippines, but I am not able to see my homeland through mature eyes.  I wondered, though… what could be done in merely nine days?

Mr. Paguio and Jarel arrived at my house around 8:50.  The ride up north was a good one.  Jarel and I talked about… a lot of things—mostly revolving around music.  Wishlists, sound equipment, how synthesizers work… it’s always good talking with Jarel.  Only problem is that I couldn’t shift my body in my seat, so my eye the whole time was forced right to communicate with Jarel.  Gave me a slight headache on the airtrip… but it was worth the chat.

My first flight was on Northwest 81, from LAX to Narita, Japan.  I was a bit disappointed.  Not necessarily in the flight, or that we were landing in Japan.  Rather… we were flying over the Pacific, and only one of the numbers on my flight corresponded with “the numbers”… as in the numbers from Lost.  4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.  I shot a text to Jackie regarding this, but she didn’t seem to comprehend what the heck I was talking about until after I got back from the Philippines.  Waste of money -.-

The flight to Japan good.  Food was relatively good.  I was able to listen to some good tunes… until my laptop died.  Downsides were… the movies sucked.  There were three movies, only two that I remember.  “He’s Just Not Into You” and “Hotel for Dogs.”  If you’ve never seen/heard of the movies, the titles speak for themselves.  In fact, I don’t think I really needed headphones to understand what the movies were about.  It just was… plastic.  I guess some people can relate to it… iono.  It just seems like that that’s the world, yet there are more/better things to write about.  I just finished The Chosen on the plane and to see those movies just paled in comparison.  That’s one man’s opinion.  (Tangent:  The Chosen was a great book, and you can bet that there’ll be another blog regarding it)

Nearing the last quarter of our flight, the woman next to me decided to talk a bit.  Then my Dad got into the discussion, which turned into a pretty interesting conversation.  Her name was Sue and she lived in northern Washington—a part where she states is basically the middle of nowhere.  Her life is an interesting one.  Initially, she pursued spanish in college, thinking she would do missions work down in Mexico.  It turned out that that led to her father to setting up missions works in the southeastern pacific—I forget how  
Now she has her house open to foreign exchange students to live in—mostly from Japan—hence the reason why she was on our flight.  One of her previous kids from Japan invited her to JP.  Through prayer, she received a ticket for a very low price (400 was it?).  Shocking stuff.
Sue felt that Japan is the country that God has lead her, and I wouldn’t disagree.  Japan seems to be prevalent not through her job, but she even married a half-Japanese man.  However, that was the area she needed prayer with.  It was weird… we barely knew this woman, yet she gave her concern.  There were events in her husband’s life that was bringing him to a state of confusion in life.  There are more details, but it probably wouldn’t be polite to share.  We prayed for her and she reciprocated.

It’s just interesting.  We bonded with one person’s life.  I don’t think I would’ve done it on my own, seeing how I can be turtle-like regarding socializing with new people.  But because we reached out, we warmed a soul.  One of… how many on that plane?  There were hundreds I’d say.  There are so many lives out there that are in our grasp, and if we reach, we can make their day. 

In economics, it’s called a multiplier effect.  One action creates a chain reaction to the whole population.  We are all connected, and if we do just one good deed, who knows how that will respond to the general populace.

It reminds me of the Japanese movie “Nobody Knows”—though to a much less depressing state.  There are millions of people out there… people concealed in their livingspaces.  But nobody truly knows what lies beyond those concrete walls.  Nobody truly knows the hurt that each individual bears.  Everyone has hurt.  So why not reach out?  There are a million answers to that question, but I’m not sure if any bear true sustinance.
There were hundreds of lives on that plane.
I don’t know what kind of impact we made on Sue’s life, but indirectly, she helped me realize (or re-realize) the importance of opening up.  I hope the best regarding Sue and her husband.

We landed in Narita… I can’t remember what time.  It was hard enough to add four hours to the Pacific Standard Time and flip the Meridian to find out Japanese time.  Light was still out.  Heck.  It felt like we were chasing the sun the whole time, since when we left, there was light out.

My Dad searched the airport to get my grandmother (on my Dad’s side) otabe.  Meanwhile, I looked around.  It was a very interesting airport.  The entire airport was constructed in a way that the sound died as it travelled.  It didn’t matter how many people were in the airport, relative silence was present.
The airport art was interesting in itself, as well.  The way the couches were arranged… the paint on these random glass sheets… the use of wood.  Cool stuff.
Speaking of cool stuff, they had very interesting rooms.  I don’t remember encountering any airport with “Shower rooms.”  I remember in SFO and LAX, they had those air glide driers, which were nifty… but shower rooms?  If that wasn’t sweet enough, they had a playroom for kids.  Not good enough?  Try an “Oxygen Room.”  Yeah.  You read correctly.  “Oxygen room.”  I am still befuddled to what that does…
There were quite a few sex magazines in the convenience stores.  I guess I’m not too surprised… it just isn’t something you see in every airport.  Oh wells…

Northwest Flight 1 — From Narita to Manila.  This flight was probably the most pressing.  Only four hours, but I was so tired that I didn’t even bother putting headphones in for “Yes Man” (which seemed like a funny movie).  I’m not sure how it’s possible for anyone to get sleep on a plane.

The plane landed in Manila around 11PM.  I took one whiff and the familiar smell arrived in my nostrils.  The smell of moisture and diesel.   My Dad and I left the airport and although it was dark, the blast of heat caught me by surprise.  Not just that, it was raining, but the presence of heat was still there.  Very odd, but I got used to it.
Josh got a haircut.  A hair chopping.  I was next -.-
We arrived at Kamuning, and despite that it was 12AM, Dad and I had 4 meals already today… well… you know Filipinos.  “Eat!  Eat!”  So Dad I had another serving of food.

Then I hit the hay.  Exhausted… it was 3PM in San Diego -.-

Last night, I went to sleep a little earlier than usual so I could start the new day early.  As I began to drift into another story, I heard a voice from outside.  Many times I can hear rowdy drunks talking loud late at night outside, shouting in an unintelligible manner.  This time it was a bit different.  Instead of many people, there was just one guy talking on the phone.  Intelligence level:  equatable to the drunks.

Apparently, this guy was ripped off by another man, and was going to get his friends to get back at him if he received more betrayal.  I think that’s what was happening.  In all honesty, I only heard three words constantly.  “Nigger,” “shit,” and “fuck.”

I remember someone once telling me that saying vulgar words makes you less intelligible.  When I first hear this, I found it ridiculous.  Of course it isn’t about intelligence.  When one is angry or frustrated, ideas are not constructed in a strong fashion.  Many times, it just takes a simple shout to understnad where one is coming from.  However, what this friend of mine meant regarding intelligence goes beyond the personal status of the speaker.  It affects the culture as well.

Fall semester of freshman year, our Introduction to Listening class was required to read three books on art:  Walking on Water by Madeline L’Engle, Letter’s to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, and My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok.  I used to laugh, saying how I read more books in a music class than any other class that semester, but I am definitely glad I read each of them.  The one that spoke out the most was L’Engle’s book on art.
In the second chapter, “Icons of the True,” L’Engle discusses many things, including langauge.  L’Engle emphasizes the importance of words, not just on a caste level, but on a personal level. 

“Because I am a storyteller, I live by words… and that involves language, for me the English language, that wonderfully rich, complex, and ofttimes confusing tongue.  When language is limited, I am thereby dimished, too.”

Vocabulary and language help us think.  They give us names for both concrete and tangible items.  Without names, all we would have is descriptions of items.  A very Nietzschen approach, but a very slow and sometimes confusing approach. 
L’Engle continues by saying it is in times of war when language is stiffled.  The despotisms seem to attack the writers during times of martial law.  And in the end, it is the writers that liberate a country.  While an outright extremist, Thomas Paine’s “Common Sense” brought social awareness to the atrocities at hand.  Harriet Beecher Stow’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin brought awareness to slavery.  Through language, we are aware.  We are liberated. 

“When our vocabulary becomes exhausted, our freedom dwindles—we cannot think; we do not recognize danger; injustice strikes us no more than ‘the way things are.’”

“Where language is weak, theology is weakened.”

She goes on to elaborate on her idea, but I think enough is conveyed on this blog.  Language is important.  Language gives meaning to actions, ideas, and objects around us.

However, language is fading.  It is diminshing in all aspects.  L’Engle says she lived in a century of war, and this is the product of the past events.  Here, we live in a generation where vulgar words are synonymous for just about anything.  Where if you add “fucking” to any verb, it can mean a positive or negative action, depending on the context.  I don’t get it.  One word bringing forth polar meanings. 
Vulgar words are considered taboo, yet… they aren’t.  They’re used in everyday language.  Angst is one thing, but for it to be added alongside everyday language is depressing.  Boondock Saints.  Haha.  I don’t remember seeing a movie where the f word was used so often.  It was comical.  I think that was its intent.  But, it is a clean portrayal of how people act.
Pop feeds it.  Pop culture feeds off this death of vocabulary.  Chris Crocker.  Ozzy Osbourne.  In turn, we feed off it.  If simplicity is what we want, then simple minds is what we will get.

Who are we at war with?  Is this a mere product of the past, or is war still raging in our blood?

I am not asking for us to pick up our dictionaries and learn new words everyday.  I’m not asking to speak with a thesauraus, changing every common word that comes out of our mouth with a more intellectual one.  I merely ask to look before we leap.  I wrote a blog about this two years ago.  Words are powerful.  Words can hurt or heal.  I remember last January when I used one wrong word in a letter to a dear friend where our friendship hit a blip.  One word.  I meant one thing and it was expressed a completely different way.
The more knowledge we retain regarding the words we use, the less conflicts we have to encounter.  Less misunderstandings.

If language is equated with culture, I see no reason to let it go for the sake of simplicity.