Thursday 12/16, 11:00 PM

I am writing an essay at the moment, but I just wanted to take a second to say that I LOVE WRITING. It doesn't make sense; I am doing something that I should be hating—I am at the library at 11:00 at night, re-writing the introduction to a 10-page research paper the entirety of which needs to be re-written. I am writing about an author I love, but of whose novels I have read none. The library closes at 2:00 in the morning. The paper is due tomorrow at 5:00, but I have a flight out of Utah to catch at 6:00, so I won’t be able to procrastinate to the last minute even if I wanted. I just completed the introduction (and by “completed” I mean that I said in my mind “Ok that’s enough for now”), and I have the glorious rest of the paper waiting in front me to be pieced together with white school glue and popsicle sticks—and I feel like I’m on ecstasy. I don’t understand why, but I honestly can’t get enough of it.

I should probably calm down. I think that good writers first need to get over writing about how wonderful they feel when they write before they can become good writers. It sucks to read about writing all the time. I bought a “Best Of” book of American essays from 2009, and a good third of them were written about writing. It was pathetic. Sure, they were good—most of them—but who wants to be reading about writing all the time? We know that you love writing. That’s why you’re a writer! Now tell us about something we don’t know. Tell us something interesting about the world we live in. Or at least articulate the things I already know but have never had the words to describe.

Okay, that’s been a good breather. It’s 11:06, and now I’ve got to plunge back into the ice-cold pool and get this done. But I just have to say, this is SO exhilarating!

Who Am I As A Writer

This was written as a response to a short reflexive question members of my English class and I were supposed answer in 250 words to finish off the semester. The question was: Who am I as a writer?

Who am I as a writer?  In order to answer that question, I first of all have to answer what it means to write.  Writing is organized thinking that also happens to be recorded.  My mind is constantly writing, but what it writes is constantly getting erased, since it’s not always written down.  Writing and writing things down, I think, are two very different things.  I think everyone is constantly going through the process of writing, whether they are aware of it or not.  It’s just that very few people actually get their writing down on paper, and even fewer go through all the effort of getting it published for everyone else to see and learn from their organized thinking.  

So, who am I as a writer—well, as a teacher of mine commented tonight, “Jacob, you just never stop thinking about things.”  While taken out of context that might seem like nothing short of a compliment, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t aimed in that sort of light—he seemed to say it as if with an unspoken but understood follow-up: “...And it gets in the way of things.”  I had to agree with him, and although my thinking may complicate things or bog things down from time to time, I love it, and it keeps me alive.  Writing is like a form of breathing for me, as cliche and melodramatic as that may sound, because breathing can turn into laughing, or sighing, or coughing—all very different experiences, but all resulting in some sort of a sense of relief.  So who am I as a writer?  Well, that’s sort of a dumb question.  I don’t think I need to answer it.

Writing for the Sake of Writing

I never really buy it when writers talk about writing for the sake of writing.  No one writes down words just to see the words being put down any more than they pour a glass of water just to see the water being poured.  There must be another reason—maybe the writer can't articulate it, but something is going on underneath.  I don't fully understand it myself, but I don't buy the explanation they usually give.  Writing is organized thinking that happens to also be recorded.  It is above the letters being formed on the paper that the action is really taking place, and later it is above the printed letters on the bounded pages that another action then takes place—which is why I also don't buy that readers ever read merely for the sake of reading.  Maybe they can't put words to it, but there is something else there—something happening that they enjoy.  But it's not the reading of the words on the paper.  

So what is it that's really happening?  When you find that out, please let me know.

Árvores de Luz (Trees of Light)

Minha terra tem montanhas

Com árvores de luz

As folhas, como brilham,

Tensão no ar reduz

Sobre manta de brancura

Amarelo resplendor

Cada haste cintilante

Pra um gigante, uma flor

E, à noite, se desligam

Deixando os ramos nus

E quando volta a alvorada

Alerto, o monte reluz

Meu céu está cinzento

Uma nuvem meu capuz

Se meu pensar se turva

E para a névoa conduz

Esperanças se despertam

Das árvores de luz

Inverno infiel

Um vento vil produz

Mas sempre que eu vejo

O mundo eu não dispus

Minha montanha continua

Com as árvores de luz

(Translation:

My land has mountains

With trees of light

The leaves, how they shine,

Tension in the air reduces

Upon blanket of whiteness

Yellow radiance

Each stem scintillating

To a giant, a flower

And at night, they turn off

Leaving bare the branches

And when the dawn returns

Alert, the mountain glitters

My sky is ashen

A cloud, my hood

If my thinking grows dim

And leads itself to haze

Hopes awaken

From the trees of light

Unfaithful winter

Produces a vile wind

But whenever I see

The world I have not made out

My mountain continues

With trees of light)

The Heavens Like a Painted Wall

The heavens like a painted wall
Kept me by the yellow trees
Leaves carry in the sightless breeze
But I am kept in place

My squinting cannot see the blue
Not all the blue, not all the clouds
Nor can my ears hear the sounds
Of all of what's above

My heart beats downward
My lungs can't keep
My ears strain
My eyes shut

At last I sit, uneven earth
Contrasts the polished sky
I lean my back—a silent sigh—
Humbly cradled by an aspen

To my surprise my sigh was heard
And then was kindly answered
The leaves chimed in with laughter
With the words: "You're fine to stay."

The wonder caused my eyes to open
And looking, seeing—rich, green incline
The lighted trees gladly shine
But do not burn my eyes

And, catching my attention,
I slowly opened my ears
The yellows begged for me to hear
"Let go and listen. Listen!"

"Listen to my green sons the leaves!
Listen to the black soil my husband!
Listen to my golden daughters and me
Let go and listen. Listen!"

Ode to Ben

I cannot let another blog post go by without giving a hurrah to the fact that I know Ben.

Ben is one of the highlights of my life right now.  He is one of the highlights of all of our lives, whether we now know it or not.  Ben came into existence October 7, 1988, four short days before women were allowed to study at Magdalene College, Cambridge, for the first time.  Ben's existence has since continued to influence considerable strides in all areas of mankind:  education, public policy, the arts.

I met Ben two months ago, when he made the life decision to live in Apartment 85 at Glenwood.  We had a vacancy, and Justin had requested a roommate that spoke Spanish.  I will ever be grateful that this one wish of Justin's was not granted.  I am confident that Justin would concur.

Ben left his mark on our hearts from the warm nature of his first "hello," and continues to leave a lasting impression through his tireless cleaning of our apartment, his passionately graceful piano-playing on the Casio keyboard in our living room that he got for his birthday, and his saying "yes" every time I invite him to do something.

Ben is a champion of goodness, an emblem of virtue, a master of gentility, a sower of cheer, and a friend.  Life has not yet been lived until one has experienced for himself the gentle firmness of his handshake and felt the warmth of his smile.

I thank the heavens that I ever knew him.  I cringe at the unworthiness I feel of living beside him.  Yet I need him.  We all need him.  I promise you, with the depth of sincerity found in the deepest crevice of a weary heart, that when your life feels the prick of incompleteness, Ben is the solution you seek.  Go to him, and let your life be swallowed in the serenity.

Justin's Discovery

Justin Oldroyd, one of the greatest individuals of all time, had a remarkable discovery this morning.  He was searching for himself on Google and he discovered that he had created a blog years ago that he had completely forgotten about.  The title of the blog is "I Love Life."  When he shared that with me, it was no longer his remarkable discovery only, but mine as well.  Listening to younger Justin was a great experience.  He only wrote a few small entries, yet they were filled with richness.  I recommend that all listen to younger Justin.  The link is here: Click.

I just realized that I can do all sorts of things in this blog, like put links that go to my email.  Want to send me an email?  Click.  That makes it so easy for you.  Plus, I love receiving emails.  I also love receiving letters.  Click.  Blogs make everything so much easier, and better.

I love life.

Impassive of Time

Sheltered strong on eighth sixteenth note
Kept high on black mid-arching
Eyes scan breathless wastelessly marching
Fingers still feeling uncertain the fret

Stretching over leaping to violet bliss
Surfing under and over grey surface
Breathing of sandy and whitening purpose
Long and absolving more conquering mist

On land taking steps as giant as manstrides
And skipping concise as footprints
Ground caving in as gravel been put since
Fleshing out burrows and forming a couch

To Any Who Have Watched for a Son's Returning

He watched his son gather all the goods that were his lot,
anxious to be gone from tending flocks,
the dullness of the fields.
He stood by the olive tree gate long
after the caravan disappeared
where the road climbs the hills
on the far side of the valley,
into infinity.

Through changing seasons he spent the light
in a great chair, facing the far country,
and that speck of road on the horizon.
Mocking friends: "He will not come."
Whispering servants: "The old man
has lost his senses."
A chiding son: "You should not have let him go."
A grieving wife: "You need rest and sleep."
She covered his drooping shoulders,
his callused knees, when east winds blew chill, until that day . . .

A form familiar, even at infinity,
in shreds, alone, stumbling over pebbles.
"When he was a great way off,
His father saw him,
and had compassion, and ran,
and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

- Mary Lyman Henrie

What To Never Leave Me

What to never leave me
To what I will remain
The letters white and blue in white
Beneath the picture frame

Sincere the face of whispers
It speaks both day and night
Painted in my bedroom
Untouched by natural light

Words untouched by thinking
Thoughts untouched by sight
Cheerful silence kept in motion
Like hummingbird's still flight

But time—it came a'thieving
Pounding at the door
I came outside not knowing what
Would turn to nevermore

The sun—it came out staring
On me its truthful gaze
It burns my eyes, and browns my skin
And dries me in its rays

Mists of blackness follow
Like vultures take their share
My lighted steps becoming scarce
Slipping unaware

But what to never leave me
Those words of white and blue
I left the letters sitting by
The candle in my room

And what to never leave me
Remaining from the start
Sincere your silent whisper
Is framed within my heart

Earth's now toning brown
The sky—it shades to grey
But still to never leave me
A blue and simple day

Discovery

In the world of writing, there are two basic classes of people:  those who write, and those who say yes or no.  Society needs its organization for everything, and writers are no exception.  If it were not so, all would be chaos.  So if you choose the world of writing, you must also choose which is worse to you:  the possibility of being said no to, or the certainty of eventually saying no to many.  Or which is more gratifying:  giving the yes or receiving the yes?  To you, how many no's is a single yes worth?

Noticed

I showed her my painting the other day
The one with the purples that blend with the grays
And the boy in the corner that was writing a book
And the kites in the sky
And the bikes going by
And the pond with a bench
And the boys and the men
And the girls on the grass
And the horses gone past

But in spite of all this
The part I liked most
Was the tiniest stroke
A small silver curve
By the girls on the lawn
On the bench of the pond
By the boy with his book
A small fishless hook

I've shown it to many
And allowed them to look
And they liked the sky
And the boy with the book
And the girls on the lawn
And the bench by the pond
And the bikes racing past
And horses and grass

But not once did they spot
As long as they looked
Beside the small boy
The unbaited hook

But once I showed her
She gave it a look
Past purples and grays
And boy and his book
Her eye didn't waver
Her finger she took
Right to the spot
To my silver small hook

Your Silence Stings Deeper Than Daggers

Your silence stings deeper than daggers
Your look colder than dry stones


There's a storm in my mind
I send lightning from my hands
But all of Jupiter's fiercest arrows
Could not make move these dry stones

Your silence is cutting like daggers
Its slashes grow deep without cutting the surface
Leaving the inside mangled
Without a single drop of blood
Or a wince to show for the pain

My anger is growing like bruises
It wants to come out but stays in
Ignites a cursed fuse
That grows longer, not shorter
And woodpeckers hide my chagrin


Your absence is like a dried flower
Its frozen and won't grow or die
And though my soul listens
For a sigh or a whisper
My eyes long to weep
For my face is too dry


Give me a reassuring whisper
Give me a satisfying sigh
Make me to weep
I, too, wish to sleep
My face is too dry
Its too dry
Its too dry

The Catch

He who withholds in nothing
Is by and by thrown into a cell erected for him

But he who withholds in all things
Builds up and mortars his own prison walls

Why Would I Fear to Taste of a Grape

Why would I fear to taste of a grape?
Seeing the ripeness without
Yet fearing within
That it will prove lemon-like in the proving?

I fear not it to be poison
But bitter only
That which doesn't kill
But makes unpleasant

Unpleasant is not death
But perhaps more life
More sanctity in reason
More triumph in action

No, it must be tasted 

Or forever regretted

For such a grape sweet as this to the eyes
Proving bitter
Will only teach wisdom
And give me experience.

Fear not, but taste
For, proving sweet,
The merrier I'll be
Or, proving bitter,
The better I'll become

Triumphing Hour

I will ask God for an hour
And I will do all in my power
To make it a triumphing hour
And if it be God's will
He will do the rest
And if not
He will help me to see
The better road yet

O Wretched Ship

O wretched ship
O dusty vessel
The anchor is stopped
The chains are rusted
You won't find a shore on this rusty ship

There are some things which I'll never get
Because I won't ever find them on this wretched ship

The sails have once seen much better days
But the birds have made waste and speckled with holes
The floor battered to pieces by myriad beasts

While that rusted chain
Turns green to wine
Bitter unsweetened


Your ship from the East
Came with fresh sails
And cut the chain that held me bound
And freedom-swept, I sailed to shore
And such bitterness I felt
Was made nevermore

Something I'm Realizing

When you adjust your personality even the slightest bit to appease someone else to tell them what they would want to hear or to be what they would want you to be, and you start repeating that for a hundred different people, all you get is a hundred people wanting you to be their best friend because you are to them what they always wanted and you don't want to be their best friend because you can't be your true self around them, and instead you are forced to be a hundred different people that you aren't.

Going for the Gold

I know a girl who cries when she practices violin.
'Cause each note sounds so pure
It just cuts into her
And then the melody comes pouring out her eyes.


-Bright Eyes

Inception

I just saw Inception.  It was a really well-thought out movie and I would be among the first to appreciate that, but I asked myself what was the purpose that the creator was trying to accomplish.  Maybe it was just to entertain, but I think that there had to have been some motive, or desired end, for investing so much time and effort into a single two-hour product.

Maybe that's besides the point.  Maybe the creator's conscious motive has nothing to do with it.  But I suppose one of its effects is that it causes its viewers to question reality, even more so than they already do. And it makes you wonder, what is reality?  Are movies reality?  Is television reality?  Is the Internet reality?  Online chatting, emails, text messages, blogs, apps, online shopping, online dating, online friendships--are these things really reality?  These seem like dumb questions, and they are.  But when is it that we're all going to wake up?  As I walked out of the movie theater I saw what seemed like 50 new movie posters of new movies about to come out staring me straight in the face.  "Hope you come back to see us soon!"  How much time and money does the average human being invest annually in cinema alone?  I mean, it was a great movie and everything, but it made me wonder, what's happening to us?  What are we getting ourselves into?

Maybe I'm just overreacting.  I feel, though, like I'm beginning to wake up to some hidden truth that movies and music and Internet and everything in between just eat hours, and, if they can, dollars as well. Its clear that what we know does not always correlate with what we do.  What can I do to live more fully in reality?  I feel like I need to start by shedding a lot of dead weight.

What am I willing to give up for simplicity's sake?

Fear Itself

I met one of my best friends today for the first time in nearly 3 years.  His name is Don Johnson.  Don Johnson has been such a determining strand in the web my life has spun.  Don helped me overcome a lot of the self-created barriers I once had that kept me from taking another step on the path of self-progress.  There are still about a jillion more of those barriers ahead of me, but I think I'm going to start to have to learn to overcome them more on my own, since Don's getting married.  He gets married next week.  His fiance is Emily.  They love each other so much.  I always knew that, whoever Don married, he would love her so much.  

When I was there, Emily was writing thank-you cards.  She was writing them to all of the people that had given them gifts at the wedding reception they already had in Baltimore.  Their life is on a great big track right now, and even though I know I loved seeing and being with Don again, and he felt the same for me, I knew and could feel that I was not on that same track.  Its like he was looking at me down from the railcar, and we briefly exchanged smiles as I saw him go on.  I will miss Don.  I know I will still have Don with me, but I will miss him.

I'm standing on an interesting stage right now.  The characters are unfamiliar.  I have no trouble talking with them, and figuring out what their roles are, and even enjoying their company vaguely.  But I can't seem to see exactly where I fit into the plot.  I try a role here, or play a piece there, but it doesn't feel smooth.  I don't want to walk off the stage, and I know that its about to change acts soon so I'm just trying to be patient.  

But I haven't studied the act, and it makes me a little nervous.  They said "Don't worry, just play it as it comes," but I still feel anxious.  I don't want to feel anxious and I try to think about other things, but I can't stop the plunging.  I can't stop the people trying to spend some last moments with me when I'm about to spend my first moments with everybody.  I feel like I need something that I'm lacking.  Its not stage directions, its not a script, maybe its the fellow players.  Once I have them, it will be okay.  Because whatever happens to them, will happen to me.  Why is it that we feel so uncomfortable going down, until we are reassured that we are going down together?

Difficult Issue

I think that the blog thing is starting to compete with my journal.  Where will I unload my thoughts from the day?

No Cars Go

My brother James' favorite band is Arcade Fire.  He said he saw an Arcade Fire t-shirt I'd left home when I went to Brazil, and he got interested and got attached.  They just came out with a new CD.  Actually, technically, they will be coming out with a new CD tomorrow, but since James specially pre-ordered it, he got it today. So he's been listening to it most of the day.

I guess I'm getting old because I can't get myself as into new music as I used to be able to.  It used to be my life.  But when he was listening to their new album in my car, I just wanted to listen to their older albums, the ones I was used to.  We put in an older album of theirs, and we started listening to one of the best songs, entitled "No Cars Go."  I love that song.  I don't know what it is about it.  They sing a lot about the need for kids to stay kids in their hearts and not lose their imaginations.  I suppose thats something I've always agreed with, which might be part of why I like it, though it isn't just the lyrics that get me.

Some of it goes (and this is from memory, it could be incorrect.  If so I apologize) "There is a place where no planes go, there is a place where no trains go.  No cars go, no cars go, where we know. ... Us kids know, us kids know."

Its a longer song, the way I prefer it, and it goes into a change of pace and he starts to sing "Between the click of the light, and the start of the dream.  Between the click of the light, and the start of the dream."

I'm not sure why I'm sharing all this.  Maybe its because I'm currently between the click of the light and the start of the dream.  And I do love places where no cars go.

Sunday

Morrissey sang a song that goes like this: "Every day is like Sunday.  Every day is silent and grey."  I disagree.  Well, I guess if you can take those things in a positive connotation, then yes.  I mean, silent and grey aren't always bad things.  They say that silence is a rare commodity, and the color grey, in the right shade, is one of my favorite colors.  To me it resembles a form of a quiet dignity, something I have always admired and respected.  But the point is, I believe that Sunday is without a doubt the best day of the week.

Today I was invited to eat lunch at a family's home.  The ironic thing is that this is a family of non-members, and very firm in another faith.  The other ironic thing is that I didn't really know these people except for their daughter Becky, who was one of my high school friends, and who is leaving on a mission trip for her church this month.  She is going to China.  Her parents are leaders in her church. I wasn't really nervous to talk to them; I always knew that they were amazing people and I was excited to talk to them about my mission.  I brought photos to show them.  I had the greatest conversation with Becky's dad, Craig.  He is an incredible man.  When you talk, he has this glow in his eyes and you can feel that he is deeply listening to what you are saying.  He taught me a lot of things, too.  He is the type of guy that you instantly realize that you need to spend a lot more time with, because you learn so much from having a conversation with him.

Fast and testimony meeting at the singles branch in Salem was incredible today.  Summers are the best for that branch because it gets the people from all over.  Tomorrow will be "movie night under the stars."  I'm excited.  I never thought that I would actually be excited for the singles branch activities.  I guess things change.

First Words

Well, I have officially created my first blog.  I half can't believe it.  Now I don't know what to say.

I guess I will start by explaining why I created a blog in the first place, and why I can't believe that I did.  I never thought I would create a blog because I never was interested in blogs.  I always just thought of them as one of the billions of things that people can do on the internet.  Why I created one is a little more complicated.  I don't know if I can properly lay it out in words, but I think that it is partially due to my need to make sense of my life and the things that happen therein.  I feel like a blog is a lot like a journal, except that everyone's allowed to read it without even asking permission.  Kind of an interesting concept, I'd say.

I guess we'll see where this goes.  This could be my first and last post, or I could keep going with this until I'm seventy.  We'll see.

I wanted the site of my blog to be jacobkunz.blogspot.com.  I think that jacobkunzler is too wordy.  But due to a blogger by the name of Jacob Kunz, who decided somewhere back in 2005 to make one single blog post, that site is forever claimed.  Go ahead, visit Jacob Kunz's blog briefly.  You would probably be the second or third viewer, since I am pretty sure I was the first.  Jacob Kunz, if you are reading this, I am sorry.  I just really wanted that name for my blog site.  I wonder, what if we could wage war and conquer internet territory by sheer force?  What if I could claim jacobkunz.blogspot.com as my own?  That's what people did in the past with physical territory, isn't it?  I would consider physical territory much more valuable than virtual territory.  I wonder if it's possible.

The reason why I named this blog "My Own Spontaneous Power of Will" is because I think that something I do is only of real worth when it is done by my own spontaneous power of will.

So, I suppose I am creating a blog, like most people do, to be heard.  Though I do not plan on inviting anyone to "follow" this blog 1) because I wouldn't want to be a cause for someone to waste even more precious time sitting at a computer desk when they could be doing something so much more productive and 2) because I'm too shy.  I would be lying if I said I didn't get utterly delighted if I found out someone was reading my posts.  Maybe I will leave strategic hints as a trail of bread crumbs to lead people to this site, and hopefully they get hooked from reading a bit.  I will have to come up with some very good first lines.  That way, if someone does start to "follow" it will be due to their own spontaneous power of will, and I will be able to remain shy.

I should get going.  I need to get ready for something.  There's always something to get ready for, but at the same time always some reason to delay that getting-ready.  But I've delayed enough; now I really should get ready.