varying degrees of light

Angst.

Or whatever you want to call it that might imply less of a restless, frustrated and wound up young man. Surprising though, today, how motivation and discouragement don't balance each other out. That's how I put it earlier and it still doesn't make... well, not that it has to make sense. The day, weather-wise, was lovely if not the best of mid-November days. Ross and Carmela, a cup of delicious coffee made terrific with a spoon of condensed milk and that smug, comfortable grin in sitting with each other that says, "Hey, I haven't seen you since late last night..." No. I did not have a threesome with Carmela and Ross. It was a good, exhausting morning and early afternoon and Ross and I sat by the window and watched the kids in their bubble-wrap coats jump off the big, yellow schoolbus and run to their waiting moms, waving furiously to their friends as if they just learned yesterday how to use their limbs.

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I rolled out of bed with a throat of bee stings again. Mom and dad expected the room to come home for lunch. Paul and I found Mark and Henk, in their Sunday gear, napping in the living room. Adam came out of the bathroom in a sweater looking drowsy. And hungry. My voice sounded like the grittiest of the rappers - my mom would not be pleased. But the day was gorgeous, and I grew furious at my finite body and immune system for keeping me unconscious through the fleeting daylight of the season. No call for enormous resolution however; the sun shone and a home-cooked meal awaited.

"The ABCs of Korean barbeque," dad said, as we sat down. Plates of sliced beef and pork in front of two tabletop burners, green lettuce, green onion salad, sesame oil dipping sauce, kimchi and - oddly - a 12-pack of Coca-Cola. I put on some hot water for tea before dinner, but was handed a bowl of miso soup instead and kissed my mom before taking my place at the opposite end of the table from my dad, cooking the meat and throwing the pieces at my roommates. They ate silently and efficiently - shoveling the food in and not putting any thought into facial expressions or conversation. My sisters watched them - the white kids with facial hair and skinny pants fiddling with their chopsticks and eating Korean food! I saw dad stare at them briefly and raise his eyebrows; mom smiled and continued to pile food onto their plates. Matty biked over to fill an empty seat and also went to work. After a bit, after enough meat filled the plates, and the room developed a bit of a haze, I grabbed an onion and a few cloves of garlic to cook with the meat - charring the former and softening the latter. I asked why they weren't out already. Dad agreed, looking playfully at mom as we watched on as she calmly explained, in Korean, that she didn't think our guests would have liked it. Dad and I shrugged, I chopped them up and we all enjoyed it together. Plate after plate of food, several references to how Hani would be freaking out (when we put the kimchi and rice on the burner with the meat) and going to town, lessons in Korean etiquette and language and the ensued laughter. Esther and Sally, whom Val tutors, were walking by outside, enjoying the day and we ran out to call them in and hang out with the white guys. They did. We had ice cream and tea and fruit and worked on digesting the plates and plates of food, the plates and plates of food and moaned for naps and activity and, "Oh look at this food baby. Whoa! Look at yours!" and, "I feel like I should be hungover right now," and "I don't hate my students. They make me hate them." I missed my brothers - they would have had a good time. I missed Joel and Travis who were still in bed when we left the apartment - they should have been there.

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When do we believe each other? I love you. I'm fine. An embrace. A smile. A shrug. When do we believe what people do as an indication of who they are in light of our looming expectations of them, and how do we reconcile the growing realities with what we hope for? Every interaction is a moment to exercise our mantras - Prov. 17 A friend loves at all times; You may be ministering with every word you say or don't say; Continue being friendly. All words spoken directly to me, recently, by friends of varying intimacy and frequency in meeting. So we act and speak deliberately or I hope I do. I try. At the same time, and as I'm told, and as I claim and use to justify my wardrobe... I'm an English major; I don't like a lot of unnecessary writing, or speaking. I'm not against exploring possible truths or beliefs to be corrected afterwards - Irimi or Ura, for everyone in my Directing class with Prof. Hubbard (They're Japanese for entering the battle and possibly facing pain, defeat or death, Irimi, or continuing to go around in circles waiting, Ura). Does anyone else feel irritated when statements are thrown about without regard not only to who will hear, but to what kind of person you are for saying it? Still, so many more sleepless nights because of insecurity for unspoken words when they cry to be spoken, for facing the walls of our shortcomings, the veils we construct and hope, one day, to believe in. And still more nights of aching. Vulnerability. And honesty and, unfortunately, I'm choosing to keep from expressing specifics here, hoping that you manage to reflect and find something good here anyway, dear reader.