The Mind of Kintu

Grandma Geneva, God's Grace and Crack Cocaine - Part 2

2010-08-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

...continued from Part 1.

The porch of a stranger is not a place of ambivalence. It is a place filled with the intrigue of the unknown. But a porch is an especially enchanting place if the stranger is your grandmother. The stranger's porch I was standing on belonged to my grandmother Geneva and the enchantment I felt was crawling up my spine, standing up every hair on its way.

I glanced over toward my wife, and then down to my eleven-year old son, Isaac. I knew their anticipation was only a fraction of mine. How could they possibly feel what I felt? The harvest of my long-cultivated dreams lay bundled in the person behind the door. We stood there in collective silence, waiting for the door to open. For some reason, that's what you do when you're standing on a porch waiting for the door to open.

The house attached to the porch stood exhausted from years of semi-neglect. It still wore the same dingy grey suit with the burgundy trim it'd been painted with in the 80's. The sidewalk leading up from 10th avenue to the west was a cracked mess and the hedge obscuring our view to Ainsworth street to the south looked a little grouchy and unkempt. But none of that mattered as my vision blurred into a vacant straight ahead stare. I was only there to see one thing, Grandma Geneva.

I've experienced my share of life-changing moments; some pleasant, some painful. I've already told you about a couple of them. But as I stood there on Grandma Geneva's porch, about to walk into her life again, I knew for sure I was about to experience another.

The first life-changing moment I can remember was in 1973. I was a round-bellied five-year old with brown eyes, a full-lipped smile and enough hair on the top of my head to weave a small Afghan sweater. Alongside my six-year old sister, I stood in the office of a family court judge, watching him sign a piece of paper that said I had a new mom and dad. That paper gave me a brand, new life. We all went to Ferrell's afterward and gobbled down a bucket full of ice cream to celebrate (The famous Pig's Trough for the locals).

In my old life, my mother slammed heroin and nodded on the couch while we played by her feet with our toys. In my new life, my mother made us chunky peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tucked us in at night with a bedtime story. In my old life, my father was mostly gone; a shadowy figure who gave us only a sporadic and neglectful love. In my new life, my dad told us he loved us every day by going to work and, to my daily wonder, always coming home.

That judge had rescued me. But as he was rescuing me, he was also robbing me. It wasn't his intent, mind you. You’d have done the same thing too, if you'd seen the first chapter of my life. But, like it or not, adoptions are a lot like surgery. At the beginning, there's a lot of cutting and pain; horrible pain. All that cutting makes you hurt and bleed for awhile. But after the pain subsides, slowly you get stronger and heal. And most kids even thrive. I did.

But just like surgery, adoption makes you lose parts of yourself forever. You lose your people, your history. Standing on the porch, I was filled with a great awareness of that loss. I've always been much more thankful for the gain than sorrowful for the loss. But, as with radical surgeries, sometimes the doctor cuts so deep, he removes the good parts along with the bad. Grandma Geneva was the good part.

As I stood on the porch of Grandma's Geneva's house thirty-seven years later, I wondered how our lives would change once I crossed the threshold. It felt like a part of me that’d been missing a long time was about to be grafted back in. Like a greater Doctor was about to give me back a long lost piece of my heart.

I knocked again.

A short, stout, bleary-eyed man in a stained wife beater and soiled blue jeans swung the door open. His Jack Daniel's breath burned its way through the screen mesh on its way to our nostrils, as he barked out a disinterested, "Yeah?”.

"My name is Timothy," I said in the well-heeled diction with which I'd been raised. "I'm Geneva's grandson.”

He looked at me quizzically and then, as if finally recalling the answer to a test question, bellowed over his shoulder, "Geneva! It's your grandson, Timothy!"

[Author's note: Although my grandma's character and honesty are unimpeachable, some of the following events are subject to the memory and interpretation of a 90-year old mind. However, after speaking with DJ himself, I feel confident enough to share this account. I have changed his name to protect his identity.]

DJ was a crackhead. I don't know, maybe he still is. But we don't see him any longer. The family put him out last year after finding out what I'm about to tell you. You see, a few years back, Grandma and DJ's life mysteriously and shockingly collided when he brazenly sneaked into Grandma's house one night with all the gall of a peacock in a 3-piece suit.

You have to understand. By this time, Grandma lived alone, and although growing feeble, she stubbornly held on to her independence. Some years before, the white clouds of blindness had stolen her eyesight and it was becoming harder and harder to get around. Although family members did their best to watch over her safe keeping and care for her, she was easy pickin's for a crackhead with a little imagination and a light step.

Grandma recounted the tale later in one of our many conversations. For some time, she'd heard the noises; floors creaking and things going bump in the night.

"Weren't you scared, Grandma?", I asked her at the time she shared the story.

"Timoth-eh," Grandma croaked in her Tex Arkansas cadence that always makes me smile, "I KNEW somebody was there, cuz I heard the flo' creekin'. I could FEEL it."

"But you were scared, right?"

"Well, yes. But, the Lawd always been good to me. He kept me safe." her voice trailed.

DJ crept in and out of Grandma's house on his intoxicated tip toes for two weeks. He'd creep out to buy smack and creep back in to smoke it; slip out for a 5th of gin and back in to gulp it down. Mercifully, after Grandma's repeated demands to know, "Who's there? Who's in my house?!", he replied matter-o-factly, "DJ."

Beyond imagination, Grandma invited DJ to stay. She struck a deal with him, of sorts. She'd let him stay if he'd help her around the house, cook and clean up a bit, and "NEVER bring drugs into my house!".

DJ kept two out of the three terms in the deal, but Grandma kept all of hers and then some. Even with all of his blatant buffoonery, Grandma gave DJ what he didn't deserve. She gave him the roof over her head, the food off her table, and a chance to straighten out his life.

Grandma is a living "What Would Jesus Do" bracelet. To be sure, she was frail and reached out to him partly out of the necessity she felt. But that's not the strongest thread in the story. Grandma let DJ stay in her home because she is kind. You and I see crackheads like DJ and we cross the street to the other side. We avoid the DJs. But, a crackhead sneaks into my Grandma's house and she gives him the spare bedroom. The world lacks kindness. Kindness is mocked as weakness or naivete. But would there be so many DJs in it if there weren't so few Grandma Genevas?

I learned from Grandma Geneva that you don't have to be a ninety-year old blind, black woman to be a Grandma Geneva. Just keep a your ear to the floor boards of your life and listen for the DJs. You may not open the spare room, but you can open your heart.

DJ bellowed to Grandma again in his smoky voice, "Your grandson, Timothy is here!". He pushed the screen door open wide and motioned us in.

Grandma's house was an odd collision between her past and present realities. Old pictures of family hung on the walls and sat on the mantle above the fireplace in her living room; each displaying the faces of loved ones. I instantly longed to know their stories. I wondered where my picture would have hung, had life been different. These were my people and yet, I felt like a stranger among them as their smiling gazes silently followed me as we walked across the creaky hardwood floor. I tried to read the story of Grandma's life in the walls and curtains, in the smell of the air, in the feel of it all.

In my mind, the beautiful chapters were scenes of happy family gatherings. Of parents holding Easter plates piled high with chicken and home-cooked greens, while children darted in and around their legs in a wild-eyed game of tag. I could hear laughter bounce off the ceiling as aunties and uncles regaled nieces and nephews with childhood tales. I imagined baritone and tenor voices blending with alto, as well known hymns lifted the ceiling to new heights after church on Sunday afternoons.

Over and through it all, I could sense the matriarchal majesty with which Grandma watched over her brood. I could hear her voice, feel her power; a power that had once held a family together. A presence that made everyone know things were going to be okay. But, that voice had long since yielded to the slow and natural demands of age.

There she was, sitting alone in the corner of a cluttered dining room near a small end table piled high with odds and ends. Over her grandma clothes, an old apron hung from her shoulders and wrapped around her waist. A bonnet covered most of her natural, silver hair and her body was settled in her chair in a elderly slump. She was vulnerable, yet queenly to me. A venerable woman, subdued and resigned to the years God had apportioned her.

Seeing her sitting in that corner made me realize how much life had happened since I'd seen her in that hospital waiting room almost twenty years before. Then, she'd been vibrant and commanding, even though my only memory of was from a glance. Now, she was 90-years old and tired. Of the fourteen children she'd brought into the world between 1933 and 1952, four were left. She'd buried ten; mostly by violence or hardcore drugs.

DJ leaned over and yelled in Grandma’s ear, “It’s your grandson, Timothy!”

“Timoth-eh?”, a puzzled look stretched across her leathered face.

DJ leaned down with his moustached lips just inches from Grandma's bonnet covered ear and kindly raised his voice, “I said your grandson, Timothy is here!”.

“Timoth-eh? Timoth-eh? ... TIMOTH-EH!”

I'll never forget the look that formed on my beautiful Grandma's face as long as I live. It was as if different parts of her face burst into separate emotions independent of each other. Her cheeks raised with the unmistakable lift of joy, while her eyebrows knitted together with a familiar sorrow. All the while, her mouth gaped in disbelief as her hands stretched forward trying to find me.

"Oh, Lawd! Oh, Lawd! My grandson, Timoth-eh! I thought you'd forgotten me!"

Worn and weathered hands searched for my face, as tears began to fill her eyes and gently spill down her cheeks. I put my face in those hands. Hands that had once held me so long ago.

After a long embrace, Grandma hugged and held Trudi and Isaac, too; as if she'd known them for a lifetime. And then, she immediately demanded we take her over to the "red couch" so we could visit.

The moment we sank into that couch with Trudi and Isaac on one side and me snuggled close on the other, Grandma launched into the first of many stories.

I'll always remember her very first words, spoken in a voice strong, yet laden with sorrow.

"We walked up Denver Avenue, me and my children. Just after the Vanport flood. Oh Lawd! Everything was gone. We got to the school and the white lady, she took care of us. They fed us coffee and sandwiches. Oh, Lawd! All my life, the Lawd's been good to me."

My ears loved her voice. My hands loved her hands. History poured into my heart, filling it with joy one word at a time.

To be continued...

Grandma Geneva, God's Grace and Crack Cocaine - Part 1

2010-08-03T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have one grandmother left. Her name is Geneva. But, I can't think of many parallels between Grandma Geneva and the capital of Switzerland. In fact, I can't think of one, besides spelling. Switzerland makes me think of yodeling, preteen maidens with flaxen braids and freckled faces skipping through an Alpine meadow on their way to milk the cows. Grandma doesn't skip. At least not anymore.

I don't know much about my grandma because I really only met her last year. Well, that's not exactly true. I saw her once before at Emmanuel hospital the day I said goodbye to my father in 1988. He was dying after years of hard living. It was a brain aneurysm or an embolism, I'm not sure which. At least that's what I remember them saying. But I knew he was really dying from drugs and alcohol. You could see it in his eyes and face. See it in his hands. An addict knows an addict.

Grandma was saying goodbye, too. She was saying goodbye to yet another one of her children that day. I'll tell you more about that later. But, she was sitting in the corner when I nervously pushed the door of the waiting room open to see a family of people that looked a whole lot like me. Most of them darker, most of them older, most of them somehow familiar. I didn't know any of them, but most of them knew me. I was Kintu, the baby boy that was adopted away to a white family back in 1972.

It was too much to take in, so in a robotic haze, I asked the nearest "unknown relative" if he knew where Khalid was. That was my father's name, Khalid. He'd changed it from Steve to Khalid when he became a Muslim in the late 60s. Grandma was a life-long, sturdy Pentecostal and had fiercely registered her complaint at the time. But my father had inherited more than a few things from his mother. Among them was a bullish will. So, it stayed Khalid.

My unknown relative whispered the room number where my father lay and motioned in the direction I should go. That was how I met my Grandma Geneva.

Since that day, twenty-one years passed by before I met her again. Standing on the porch of her broken down Northeast Portland home, I rapped my knuckles across her tattered screen door. A walnut-sized lump in my throat was threatening to grow to an apple. But, the eagerness in my belly to know this woman was even bigger. Waiting for that door to open, my mind went over the two decades that had flown by.

When I met Grandma Geneva in 1988, I was a brash twenty-one year old young man who'd somehow remarkably survived life thus far...unscathed. I was brimming with huge helpings of talent, potential and polish; seasoned with a generous amount of bravado. It's the same mixture that makes a lot of twenty-somethings wonderful, yet slightly dangerous. By then, I'd already survived a pretty savage skirmish with drugs. The sheer indomitable force of my youthful will had staved off those demons and the future looked fluorescent, it was so bright. At least that's what I thought at the time.

But since then, another twenty-one years had passed and a lot had changed.

I'd gotten married to a beautiful girl who'd given me three amazing sons. Five years into family life, I'd cheated on that beautiful girl and almost lost them all. But, for some reason, God didn't spank me too hard and with remarkable grace, she took me back. And, although sufficiently chastised, I was largely unchanged. But, I put away the most taboo sins and settled into the more acceptable kind that most of you are used to.

Over the years, I'd sung in almost every major church or venue in Portland. Eventually, my profile raised in local church ministry. Under the leadership of my good friend, we planted a church. And, faster than a reality TV star goes to rehab, I became lead pastor of one of the youngest, hippest, most dynamic churches in Portland. Not equipped to handle the pressure, the old demon from my youth (and my family lineage, it turns out) made a grand reappearance.

One day (after a polite round of golf no less), I dove headlong into the deep end of the sin pool again. After a two-day binge of non-stop crack smoking at the Stateside Motel on 82nd, I somehow made my way back home to my wife and church to face the music. A few days later, I stood before my congregation at the Old Laurelhurst church, told them everything I'd done (against the advice of my eldership) and resigned.

This time I'd lost everything but my family and Jesus. God got out his belt.

Now I could tell you a thousand lessons I've learned from that episode in my life. But today, I'm thinking about Grandma Geneva. I was just sitting here, making a connection between that terrible time in my life and the gift I have of knowing her today.

If you survive the kind of splendid fall from public acclaim and accomplishment that I did, or if you survive any self-inflicted crisis that threatens to eat you alive, you change. Some people change and become better and some change and become bitter.

I decided bitter suited me better. I blamed everyone I could think of. I think my dog was even pretty high up on the list at one point. "If only you'd loved me more, Louie, I wouldn't have smoked crack!". I blamed God. "What did You expect, asking me to lead a church? It was Your flippin' idea in the first place and You're the omniscient One! You should have seen this coming!".

But bitterness sucks. It really does. It's just so heavy and exhausting.

In subtle waves of grace, a new reality began to wash over me. God began to reveal to me that He'd meant for everything in the last twenty-one years to happen. Now, I don't mean that He literally HANDED me a crack pipe and said, "My child, take a hit on this. In the end, you'll find Me, so go ahead and hit it.".

No, what I mean is, God meant it in the same way that the fish was meant for Jonah or Bathsheba was meant for David. God is a genius and has this crazy way of turning our folly into glory for Himself and grace for us. God doesn't author our sin, but He is a Wiz at using it to spank us into becoming better people. So, Jonah got a whale and I got a crack pipe. You tell me who got the better end of the deal?

Slowly, I became better. No gold dust fell from the sky. No angelic choir sang a Yolanda Adams song. It happened more organically than that. It happened in the daily grind of life. Sometimes, while I was watching a movie, other times while I was reading in Proverbs. Sometimes, when I pumped my fist at the skies and other times when I worshiped the God who painted them.

I began to think differently about life and value different things. Higher things, things closer to His heart. I began to see that my whole life is about loving God and loving people. That's a whole story in itself, but right now, I'm thinking about Grandma Geneva. I suddenly had a desire to know her. Love her. It was like after all this crap, God knew we were ready to be introduced.

If not for God, she probably would have had to say goodbye at that same hospital to her crackhead grandson. I don't know. Only God knows.

But now, in a strange, unspoken way, I knew she needed me and I was ready to be needed by her. And, as I finally stood on her porch last year, two decades gone by, my eyes filled with tears.

I rapped my knuckles across her screen door again and waited.

Hello again...

2010-08-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile and I haven't an excuse for the year-long absence, except to say that I have 3 kids + 1 wife, which, for those that know marital math ='s a full life. I also read too much to write. I guess I’ve been too fascinated with the thoughts of others to concern myself with publishing my own. All of the above excuses amount to no excuse at all.

Plus, I think I've been too chicken to write. Especially about what I think. I say to myself, "If I write this down, then people will know my opinion. And then they'll have an opinion about my opinion. And then I might kill them." Something like that. On top of that, I think pen should hit paper (or fingers strike keys) only when the world can be enriched by the outcome.

If I'm to surrender to honesty right from the start, I do want readership. Who doesn't? That is why we update our Facebook statuses every time we have a bowel movement and tweet about the odd thing we just found in our toothbrush. We feel compelled to speak. To be heard. To be known.

But for now, I won't beg or presume an audience. There are already enough thumb-sucking ether-authors to outnumber even Lady Gaga fans, so why add another? For me, I'm hoping this adventure will produce a better harvest than simply sharing my inner life with the outer world. I'd really like to provoke thought and passion in the hearts and minds of people, and in the process, gain a few things that have been missing in my own life; some for awhile and some forever.

The first of thing I’d like is a more disciplined thought life. I find that writing consistently and continually creates a conduit through which I can both organize and express my thoughts.

Actually, if you really want to know the truth, writing helps me KNOW my thoughts. Ever feel like you don't even KNOW what you think until someone asks you and you're forced to stammer out an answer? Well this is where I'd like to stammer. About silly stuff like, "Should Lebron have gone to Miami?", or "Should someone finally criminalize coleslaw?". But even more, I'd like to stammer about weighty stuff that occupies our greatest hopes and deepest fears.

Anyway, my mind is ever churning, but seldom cogent, usually pondering, but seldom productive. I'd like to change that. And I think simply writing things down can help cultivate my mind from less of a weed patch to more of a garden (dangerous metaphor, considering vegetables grow in gardens).

The other thing is, I know that I am made to write. Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. I know it in the same way that I know I’m supposed to breathe every couple of seconds. Except, I've been breathing for a long time and gotten really, really good at it. Writing, on the other hand, is a flabby involuntary muscle that I think I’m supposed to be exercising regularly.

For now, I have no grand goal in mind. I'm not gearing up to give Don Miller a run, or trying to attract a gaggle of blog groupies. I just want to write. And I think I'll try writing about anything and everything. Until, over time, I find what makes my heart thump hardest and fingers fly fastest. And, if readers like what they read, then maybe they'll hang around and we'll have interesting conversation.

So reader, read. Then comment with thoughts of your own. I can't promise literary wit or genius, but I can promise authenticity. And maybe, like blue cheese or a Will Smith flick, you'll acquire a taste over time.

Perfectly You

2009-05-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(For Trudi on Mother's Day - we love you perfectly!)

Perfectly you.
You perfectly
make me,
gave me
three sons
perfectly.
Each one so
perfectly you.

Perfectly you.
You love
so lovingly.
Each boy
knows constantly
your touch so
perfectly you.

If goodness is a petal, you're the flower
If patience is a flower, you're the field
If virtue is a minute, you're an hour
The secret gift of motherhood revealed

Perfectly you.
These years
flew fleetingly
We lived
them happily.
Each one so
perfectly you.

I Want Not More

2009-04-22T22:56:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(For the inestimable Trudi)

Tear the sky
to pieces
rip the
east from west
and south from north

Pound the ground
beneath us
til the
mountains meet
the valley floor

Slam the moon
to Pluto
smash the sun
a trillion
stars off course

And still my love for you remains relentlessly unmoved

Rake the trees
and scorch them
slash the fields
and flowers
from every dale

Bleed the Nile
and dam
the Thames
drain every sea
the sailor's sail

Thaw gone
the glaciers
dry Niagara
til her fount
begins to fail

And still the world has lost no beauty, long as I have yours

Count twice the
world's eight wonders
take the
sum and add
one forty four

But there's
no wonder
why your wonders
make me wonder
even more

So hide
the sky blot
out the sun
eclipse Orion's
celestial door

I have your love and beauty rare -- in all the world I want not more

My Heart Is Halved

2009-04-22T16:18:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(To those out there who are mourning a friendship lost. Life moves on with wounded joy and the air will sweeten soon again. Only beware of a bitter heart. And, don't fear; you've gained a priceless lesson learned. And, now, a firmer friend you'll be. And, soon, a firmer friend you'll one day find. These are the words of friendship lost when I was down and out.)

O friend,

you took away
your love
so easily?

To sit

with you
in silence
was my need.

And brace

my weight
upon a
brother's shoulder.

To look

and see
that I
was not alone.

Why did

you leave
and so long
not return?

Was the

mirror too clear
the cost
too high?

I'll leave

you in the
pages of
our history.

The past

is whole but
still my heart
is halved.

A Mother's Daughter Sings Again

2009-04-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(Written for the peace and comfort of Jada in her present sorrow)

Will each heavy
fold and bend
of sorrow crush
my weeping heart?

And countless tears
forbid my lips
to ever shape
a smile once more?

Or midnight thoughts
enshroud my sight
and hide me from
the light of joy?

I recall my
mother's goodness
and my heart renews
its beat within

Her hidden hand
dries falling tears
and now my lips
turn north again

The morning sun
a radiant joy
now rising strong
to part the veil

And from now on
despite the rain
a mother's daughter
sings again

A mother's daughter sings again

The Daffodil Scolds The Politician

2009-04-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

Witness the
dainty Daffodil
and how she toils
to quietly fill
her tiny world with
spritely amber joy

She humbly sips
rich soil's wealth
through root and stalk
to gain her health
and yet the earth beneath
does not destroy

She takes but what she needs and never more
Yet more she gives than what she takes through every velvet-golden pore

And never is her presence nor her welcome overstayed
with Spring she springs and Summer fades her fleeting term but once displayed

Now spiring
pompous partisans
who suck the soil
in Washington
to vainly fill the earth
with more hot air

Slither down
your ivory tower
and bend your eyes
to this small flower
and in her rediscover
what is good and just and right and fair

Sedona Rapture

2009-04-10T10:08:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(An homage to the desert bluffs of Sedona, Arizona to which my family and I recently traveled.)

I stand small
lightly planted feet
upon your russet
rolling sands

You rise tall
midst auburn stones
stacked heaven high
by Divine hands

What silly sophist
claimed that age
and beauty ne'er
live side by side?

Let them gaze
your ancient plains
and their ill words
they'll soon decry

See your stern
Saguaros fingers
stiffly pierce
the desert air

Long they reach
to probe the sky
and stretch to shade
the prickly pear

Count the golden
rings that paint
your crimson cliffs
a Sinagua story tell

Their etched and aged arms
embrace the bluffs
where Montezuma's
family dwelled

Men's hearts you
thieve Sedona
when first we view
your peerless stone

What rival desert
queen can match
such beauty wild and
rest away your throne?

I pray my eyes
will see your hills
and yawning valley
once again

'Til I return
my eyes resolve
that day shall be
not if, but when

Shame Quickly Flew (Joy Springs Afresh)

2009-03-24T22:14:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

With stolen key
and uninvited certainly
a fleshy pang of brazen Shame
sauntered through the doorway of my mind
and there reclined in full repose

Asked he, "Do you suppose
while lounging here
a feckless guest so absent cheer
you'd kindly be a gracious host
and make more room
so I may make the most
of my long stay?"

To which I did say, "What other guest
shall I dislodge and turn away?"
For I now see that it is true
your growing size and shape
require not space for one, but two."

"You need not cast another out,"
said Shame, in feigned compassion.
"For all your guests may
safely stay, if my
soft whisperings you obey
the space within your mind
I'll fairly ration."

Meanwhile, among those lodged
within my thoughts
a weakened Joy did live
She overhearing Shame's nefarious
voice did tremble at the
sound and hid

And then my heavy heart hung low
and yielded fast and cheaply
to his slow and coaxing
counsel spoken dark and deeply
in my inner soul

Said he, "As I increase
in width and weight,
so too must Joy decrease
in order to create
the space I need
to grow and thrive
and breathe."

Just then I reminisced
the cross and
from its priceless, blood-soaked cost
sprang Joy afresh and life anew
and from my mind
Shame quickly flew

And in my mind
His Word again
surged promised faith from deep within
Christ strongly rose with key in hand
and safely locked
the door again

Crackhead's Delight

2009-03-13T14:35:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(Based on a 1988 conversation about crack-cocaine, while smoking with an old man named Lyle, a small time dealer. Some years later, Lyle was shot to death, two blocks from the police station on NE Roselawn in Portland.)

Got a way 'bout her
jus' ain't right
Shine bright like da day
But she dark like da night

Got a voice real easy
Sound proper clean
Got a style real breezy
But she nasty, she mean

She keep a nigga in love
Show jus' enough leg
But keep messin' around
She be havin' you beg

She got a cold kinda love
She ain't fire, she ice
Fo you hit dis, brutha
bettah think twice

Jack, she smooth
She smooth like buttah
She kill you real slow
You ain't never recovah

But I ain't goin' nowhere
She da love train, Jack
If I leave her today
She goin' bring me right back

She got a way 'bout her
jus' ain't right
Shine bright like da day
But she dark like da night

Postcards from Tibet - Part III

2009-03-10T10:41:00.000-07:00

By Kintu

(This article is part 3 in a 5 part series chronicling my memory of a most memorable trip to Tibet in 2005. Click here to read Part II.)

I must confess that my childhood idea of God pegged Him as a somewhat boring and aloof figure. The thought of a being so transcendent and inscrutable "having fun" or "being fun" was itself inscrutable. And too, the certainty of His purposes and immutable nature of His character left no room for Him to be bothered by things like "silliness", or "carefree moments".

Of course, I didn't know serious words like "inscrutable" or "immutable" as a child. But somehow, I was aware of their reality and didn't have a way to reconcile them with what I really liked to do. Have fun!

Although kind and benevolent, God certainly wasn't fun. He'd never muddy up His school clothes while playing football in the rain. There's no way He'd ever play hot wheels with His tongue hanging out of the corner of His mouth; gathering lint from the carpet.

He might laugh a thunderous and patriarchal approval over something He enjoyed, but He'd never whoop and howl a belly laugh at a funny joke until tears spilled out of His eyes and His cheeks hurt (excuse the over-reaching theophany). I could totally envision Him boosting me up on His knee and beaming a kingly smile. But, I never once imagined Him tickling my ribs 'til I peed my pants.

It wasn't God's fault that I imagined Him this way, but I did.

Some of this imagery stayed with me deep into my adult life, despite God constantly showing off His infinite sense of humor in various way. There's that time in high school, the night before the big Junior/Senior banquet (the Seventh-Day Adventist version of a school dance), and I was feelin' pretty good about taking Jennifer Rupert, one of the hottest girls in the school. Mysteriously, my face decided to sprout a single drum-tight zit the size Mt Hood...a volcanic Mt Hood...right in the mathematical center of my forehead. That was hilarious.

Or the birth of my second son, Anthony, comes to mind. The fact that God gave two rookie twenty-something parents the most notorious rabble-rouser since Jesse James was a toddler was a downright knee slapper! (Anthony...if you read this, you are the apple of the apple of my eye). Or, just ask Trudi if she thinks God is funny. Eighteen years of putting up with me has often sent her into side-splitting gales of laughter.

So, yeah, I've grown to see God's funny side. And in other ways, His fun-loving side. You can see it in the fun-loving hearts of the Tibetan people, even if they don't know where it comes from. As I write, the Chinese regime is concentrating both their political and military might in an effort to forcibly assimilate the Tibetans into the People's Republic. And yet, I can imagine that in the midst of a fearful future, an irrepressible spirit remains. If only that spirit could enter into the joy of its Maker.

There I sat, scrunched nice and tight between a Tibetan cowboy and three precious little tykes, who thought it their duty to shriek into my ear every few seconds. Now, I'm not sure if God gives each people group on the face of the earth their own unique brand of armpit sweat, but that cowboy's was blue ribbon, baby! Each time he raised his arms to jubilantly cheer the horsemen racing by, the stem of my brain suffered a mild epileptic seizure. And just as I my nose began to recover from the latest noxious wave, my three little friends would kindly assault my ears with their bat-like shrieks of delight, as another rider whirred by.

And you know what? I was having fun! If I could just insert a Polaroid of the sheer glee plastered across my face in that moment, as I tried to take in everything at once, you might think I'd gone insane. I was at the Litang Horse Festival in Tibet! And the wondrous blend of exotic sights and sounds (and yes, smells) swirled about my senses in a way I hadn't ever quite experienced before.

What was so enrapturing you ask? Okay, I'll give it my best shot, trying to describe it. But, it's a little like describing the pleasure zone you slip into at the first bite of Crème Brûlée. You just have to taste and see for yourself.

Okay, look behind you. Go ahead and look! A sea of round and brown faces are stacked on top of each other, intently leaning forward with their necks craned to the left. They're straining in unison to catch the first glimpse of the next horseman to come flying down the wide strip of grass-matted, hoof-pounded earth. The older ones have seen every acrobatic trick a hundred times before, but wonder still lights up their faces.

And the younger ones! All those waist-high moppets and knee-high toddlers look fit to be tied! The little ones are hoisted high above the ground straddling their daddy's shoulders in their dingy wrap-around coats; electric joy jumping up through their bodies from their tattered boots. If you've ever seen a kid's sparkling face as they witness the circus for the very first time, there's an awe that far out sparkles the little faces you see now.

Now, study the women's faces a bit closer. What kind of unknown beauty is this, you wonder almost aloud? Apple cheeks are set against dancing, ebony eyes; while silky, midnight hair is capped by a flourish of feathers and beads. Laden and adorned from head to toe in the finest silks and cloths with enough color to have a rainbow asking for fashion tips.

And while the older women's beauty may have faded many festivals ago, deep wisdom lines now etch their faces with stories you wish you could hear. I don't know if I've seen anything more beautiful than an old Tibetan woman. And to think, back in my country, Hollywood would book the nearest nip-n-tuck artist and sign her up for a followup mega-session of Botox treatment in a shallow attempt to erase each story line.

Later, in Tagong, our eyes would fill with tears watching these golden matrons chant their way around the monasteries all day; desperately trying to produce enough good karma to tilt them upwards along the path of enlightenment.

If you're still looking into the faces of the crowd, take note of the men. These are a brand of men who know hardship and toil well, and yet, still retain a fierce and resilient chin. They are the cowboys of the Wild, Wild East, and like their western counterparts, a good day ends with an aching back and a chapped hide. But their grins are just as wide as the brims on their hats.

Turn 180° again, and gaze just beyond the track where the horsemen race. Rising high above the ground on a scaffolding is a large, imposing dais, upon which at least a hundred and fifty Buddhist monks preside in their ancient priestly raiment. Shaded from the sun, they appear like a living wall of holy red and gold. To the Tibetan crowd, these men hold the keys to the tantric dreams of Bodhisattva. Only they can lead them along the winding road toward Nirvana, where one day they can become one with all things through detachment from all things. (I know...you have to read that sentence twice to get it. Thus the confusing and broken path of Buddha)

Now, follow the eye line of the monks to the distant horsemen some 300 yards down the expanse that separates you and the crowd from the dais. You'll have to squint to see them sitting tall astride their proud pony steeds in the late afternoon sun. You can just make out the quiver of bows strapped diagonally across their backs. You might think, for just a second, that Genghis Khan has risen from the dead for one more ride west toward European conquest.

Well, do you see at least a sketch of it now? You're at the Litang Horse Festival! And it's been going all day. Earlier in the morning, festival goers were treated to the traditional dance, music and pageantry of the Tibetan people. With great fanfare, hundreds of men, women and children performed with captivating display. But, now, the restless crowd is in high anticipation for the climax of the festival. And that, of course, would be furnished by the ponies and their riders.

Each year, the best horsemen in Litang mount their Tibetan ponies and engage in a contest to see who owns the finest and fastest in the land. The winner enjoys the blessings of the holy llamas and the prestige and honor of his fellow townsmen. The contest demands magnificent feats like, pin-point archery maneuvers while racing side saddle on a pony at break neck speed (something I like to dabble in); swiping silk and satin scarves off the tundra floor while in said side saddle position (again, a little known hobby of mine), and an all out foot race, mano y mano and pony y pony.

And neither the ponies nor the riders disappointed! These riders make the Lone Ranger look geriatric. Their long hair streaming behind them like obsidian ribbons holding on for dear life as their ponies gallop down the track at full speed. With lithe agility and superhuman strength, as the archer nears his mark, he clamps his legs around the torso of the thrusting pony. At the right moment, he nimbly draws an arrow from his quiver and calmly affixes it to the bow.

The archer teases the crowd, making it seem as though he'd waited too long. And as we all hold our collective breath, he releases the arrow to fly straight and true, burying itself deep into the waiting target. Cheers shatter the sky! And, as if by pre-arranged agreement, three shrieks rattle my brain stem and a pungent cloud of pit odor chases its way up my nose again.

Rider after rider whizzes by, some winging arrows and others wowing the crowd by gymnastically plucking up silk scarves from the valley floor at top speed.

Midway through the show, I began searching for Jeremiah and Kyle in the crowd, trying my best not to molest the view of others. Two things motivated me; sharing this once in a lifetime experience with my boy, and escaping the malodorous man and the three screeching ankle biters. It didn't take me long to find Jeremiah leaning along one of the fences in the teeming crowd. His pasty, reddening dome rose high above the hats and heads like a Goliath among Davids.

It was then that I noticed how many journalists from around the world had made the trek to capture the moment. National Geographic and The Discovery Channel camera lenses as wide as dinner plates dotted the crowd. I realized I was witnessing the last vestiges of Tibet's ancestral past giving way to it's uncertain future. The rest of the world was crashing the party through photo shutters, video cables and satellite feeds. A melancholy wave threatened to wash over the day, but it was quickly beaten back, as I joined Kyle and Jeremiah's side.

We spent the rest of the afternoon snapping pictures and smiling into the many faces smiling at us. Throughout that entire day, I found moments to stop and pray for these generous and gorgeous souls around us. I knew that what they needed most, was not the preservation of their ancient culture, but an introduction to an ageless one. But that's what every people group needs so desperately, whether tucked away in the remote mountains of Tibet, or preening on the world stage in New York or LA.

Leaning against that fence with Jeremiah and Kyle, I couldn't help but notice the stoic and sober faces of many of the monks on the dais. Especially the older ones. I was sure they laughed just like every other human laughs. But their faces became living harbingers of the days to come for those who seek truth along dead end paths. I knew their path of enlightenment would end in a bitter darkness. So I prayed that many would come to this land with Bibles in their hands, humility in their hearts, and fun in their eyes.

And I was grateful for the joy of my salvation. And a Father who awaits me with the promise of an eternal supply of days filled with side splitting and knee slapping laughter.

I'd like to beg your forgiveness, as I fall short of my earlier promise and end Part III here. Next in Part IV, I'll happily share my cultural bumblings as I rehearse for you, Oops, was that fly your grandmother!, along with some final thoughts from Litang.

Until then,

Kintu

Postcards from Tibet - Part II

2009-03-09T10:55:00.001-07:00

By Kintu

(This article is the second of a 5 part series chronicling my memory of a most memorable trip to Tibet in 2005. Click here to read Part I.)

I should probably let you in on a little secret, just in case you ever find yourself traipsing through the Tibetan mountains. Try to go easy on the yak kabobs. Whew! It's not that they're not tasty. It's that they are. In fact, they're delicious. And therein, fearless traveler, lies the rub.

As Kyle, Jeremiah and I continued our exploration of the Tibetan tent city, high atop the steppes of Litang, we made it our sincere business to sample the food from time to time. The plentiful food pavilions gave us an authentic sampling of the everyday Tibetan fare. Among the variety of edibles there were momos, an exotic version of steamed ravioli; balep korkun, a popular barley based flatbread; yak yogurt (the sourest you've ever tasted in your life); and vegetable stews made with goat, mutton and yak.

But let there be no doubt, the yak is king of the table in Tibet (of course the yak didn't get a vote). And as the day wore on, I must have shoved five or six kabobs down the hatch, barely stopping to remove the skewers in my haste for taste. I'd devour a kabob and then exclaim to complete strangers my hearty approval, clumsily blurting one of the only Tibetan phrases we could remember from our training, "Ro-sham-BOOOOOH!" (Be sure to roll the "r")

I don't know if it was the kabobs themselves or the human teeter totter torture back there with the white floured crowd (or maybe a sinister combo), but my stomach was threatening an all out revolt. To be fair, it politely tried to give me a few early warning gurglings, but no...like most of you, I ignored this first round of negotiations and foolishly vetoed its protestations. Now, all negotiations had ceased and a dangerous uprising (or outrising) was in full swing.

"Hey man, I'll catch up with you guys." I clutched my gut and wheezed to Jeremiah and Kyle, "I'm gonna run back to the tents and grab some tee pee."

"Cool. Don't fall in!", and Jeremiah and Kyle called as they struck out toward the "arena" to see the gathering crowds for the horse festival later that afternoon.

I don't mean to be crude here, but have you ever tried to run while locked in a life and death struggle with your sphincter? Ah, it's the worst! Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead and began trickling down the sides of my cheeks as I stilted along the tent alleys, stiff legged and half bent over. Panic began to set in as I felt my sphincter start to gain the upper hand. With seconds to spare, I lunged into my tent, frantically clawing my backpack for toilet paper (insert the obvious traveler's tip here). With the tee pee in a death grip, I dashed headlong toward the large latrine, thirty yards away.

To assign the word, "latrine" to this ghastly, gaping hole of horrors would be an act of kindness. Essentially, it was a 20 ft x 20 ft nondescript hole, crudely dug roughly 3 feet deep into the ground. This hole, just outside the camp, was absent any wall, barrier, sheet or tarp that might provide a little privacy. I quickly learned that the Tibetans in these nomadic hills somehow didn't share my deeply held convictions about bathroom etiquette. To insult my injuries, the hole was located roughly 15 yards from the main road, so that passing cars and taxis could enjoy a premium view of latrine activities.

Have you ever noticed that when you have to go to the bathroom real bad, you quickly abandon any attachment to the self worth or dignity you may have previously possessed? Suddenly, these now silly inhibitions are swallowed up in the white-hot struggle to find relief. Oh, you could be on the front row of the NY Metropolitan Theatre about to watch the Russian ballet, sitting between the president and the pope; but if your sphincter is about to give up the ghost, you'll drop your drawers in a hot second right there!

And such was my frightful dilemma. So, privacy be damned! I backed up to that hole, careful not to get to close, shamelessly dropped my drawers and hung my posterior over the edge for the whole world and the heavenly hosts to see. I don't know what's supposed to go through your mind in such bare-skinned and vulnerable positions. But I had no deep thoughts. I chortled under my breath (which I was trying to hold) and wondered what I looked like from the side view. Shocked at my own self-mockery, I immediately tried to delete the image from befuddled mind.

Reader, I'd like to give you some relief at this point and joyfully move on to less fecal chapters of my story, but I must share with you the deep moral crisis that ensued. As with all bathroom visits, for some reason, guys have to find something to look at to pass the time. In more civilized surroundings, I might have grabbed a newspaper or magazine. But, oddly, they didn't think to put a rack near the latrine. So, since I didn't have the latest Sports Illustrated or Christianity Today (hehe) all I had to look at to pass the time was the scenery around me.

Still precariously haunched over the hole, I began to cautiously and slowly pan around a bit and try to get my bearings. I suddenly realized that, in my haste to win the war, I hadn't bothered to see if anyone else was engaged in their own battle. I figured now was as good a time as any to see if I had any "hole mates".

I widened my stance a bit (no Larry Craig jokes please) and rotated my neck first left, then right. Happily, I discovered that I had the latrine to myself. With new confidence, I raised my line of sight and began to survey my surroundings beyond the latrine. Horrors! I could literally feel my sphincter re-tighten! Not 25 yards away, at a neighboring (and apparently female) latrine, my eyes registered a sight not previously filed into my personal database of images.

Hanging over the edge of this neighboring latrine, much the way I envisioned myself, was the wrinkled, brown-bottomed profile of an elderly Tibetan woman, handily winning her own sphincter battle. I almost fell backward, as I instinctively whipped my neck around in the opposite direction, trying to avoid both her embarrassment and mine. Thankfully, I hadn't caught her eye, as she was facing at a 45 degree angle away from me.

Just then, I heard a car whiz by on the nearby road and imagined the driver's indicting eyes boring holes through the back of my neck for accosting this poor lady with my rude American stares. But heedless of the cost, and without my permission, my mind immediately engaged in a back and forth struggle over whether or not to sneak another peek. Sometimes, an intense moral crisis will descend upon you in the strangest of places.

Now, c'mon! I dare you to tell me you wouldn't at least be tempted to take a second look, right? Alright, fine! I know, I know! I was on a mission trip! I was there to shine the light of God's glory to the Tibetan people, instead of preying on their most vulnerable with my probing gazes. But, geez, if I didn't want to take a second gander! And, in case your waundering mind might stray too far, let me here and now defend my motivation was only rooted in curious and not profane! But, I will concede the pull might have been just as strong.

I looked. And new horror twisted and doubled around my throat, threatening to fade me to black. She was staring right back at me. And as my eyes met hers, she beamed back a three-toothed grin that seemed to say, "Hey there, how's it goin' for you?". Rattled, but amused, I put a rush on things, nearly tore my Levi's trying to pull them up, and loped back toward my tent without so much as a glance over my shoulder.

Anxious to reset the day, I hurried to catch up with Jeremiah and Kyle; not sure how much of my latrine nightmare I was willing to share. I joined up with them somewhere in the heart of the tent city and they filled me in on what I'd missed. I can't remember if I reciprocated.

It wasn't long before we stumbled on another unforgettable scene. A Tibetan picnic! It looked to be around 40 or 50 relatives and friends occupying a couple of empty spots amid the rows of tents. There before us, men, women and children of all ages and shapes feasted on a potluck of home cooked delectables. I was relieved to see the absence of kabobs.

Two or three rows of blankets had been arranged on the ground in a huge, colorful loose-knit quilt for seating. A large log had been rolled to the edge of one of he outer rows of blankets to serve as a slapdash table of sorts. At this log, all of the women and children shared their meal, while the men ate together on separate blankets.

Near the men, a row of tables had been erected, over which a bright-colored awning gave shade. At this table, we were fascinated to find five regal and serious looking llamas (Buddhist holy men), seated in stately repose. Their plates were piled high with food and their layered, flowing garments were the vivid yellow and red, typical of buddhist teachers. As the family enjoyed their meal, seasoned with laughter and playful jesting, the llamas overlooked the merrymaking with detached parental approval.

"K" and "S" later revealed that inviting llamas to preside over family gatherings of this nature was a common practice among the Tibetan people. Llamas are held to almost god-like status, especially among the poor, and to have them grace your table with their presence is a divine blessing and high honor indeed. And, it was a fantastic arrangement for the llamas, as well. Having some experience in this area, I can tell you that Pastors love free food!

As we walked by, we could help taking in the scene with overbaked stares. I'm sure our prolonged gawking caught their attention and, together with the intensely hospitable nature of Tibetan culture, you can guess what follows. Many a Tibetan will give you the shirt off his back or the food in his bowl, even if he has but one shirt or bowl. So, seeing our curiosity, several of the men began excitedly motioning for us to join them. Jeremiah and I did a quick pulse check with each other and made our way happily to the beckoning men.

Almost immediately, a woman began shoving plates under our noses as the men made room for us on the blankets just beside the llamas (Reader take note and reconsider our American ways. Without even knowing us, they gave us seats of honor!). One of the men was a short, squatty fellow with a round and happy face. His cheeks glowed with the typical Tibetan ruddy hue, caused by the high altitude air. Our new squatty friend had had a considerable amount to drink that fine afternoon and, with his face inches from mine, sprayed his name in 100 proof spittle. (Unfortunately, I've forgotten his name now, so I'll call him "Squatty. I'm sure he'd like that.")

"My name is Tim.", I offered in reply; overshaking his hand. "And this is my son Kyle, and my friend Jeremiah." Squatty's eyes made a drunken roll from my face to Kyle's and then craned upwards toward Jeremiah's. I was sure he'd lose his balance while trying to focus his bloodshot eyes skyward. But somehow, he shook Jeremiah's hand without planting himself into the laps of the men behind him.

In a grand gesture, he wheeled around and waved us toward the stately llamas who, I could swear were trying to stifle a laugh. In an inebriated drawl, he introduced us to each one before we took our seats on the blankets.

I've not met a more merry people in all my travels, as the Tibetans. I'll grant you, ample droughts of beer can make even a cantankerous soul lighten up. But, despite their austere and often impoverished lives, Tibetans are a happy people. At least the few we met along the way. That unlikely paradox deserves a pause and a ponder.

As far as our language barrier would allow us, we talked and laughed, ate and drank with these beautiful men. And every few minutes, one of the women did their best to shove more food on our plates. We weren't sure what anyone was really saying, and more than once, they rolled on their backs in teary-eyed laughter as we stammered out a butchered Tibetan phrase. But, language didn't really matter. Sitting on those stained and dusty blankets, spread out on the roof of the world, I learned that humans can profoundly share themselves in ways that don't require words.

Why is it that at every family picnic, somebody's drunk uncle ends up singing? Apparently, that's true in Tibet, too. Not half an hour into our potluck visit, Squatty struck up a tune. I'm still not sure what the song was, but everyone new it, and soon an all male chorus raised their voices in a raucous anthem. As their voices pitched and fell, then pitched again, I must admit a lump formed in my throat, even as a smile lit my face. I wanted this moment to freeze in time! Not to live it forever, just to borrow from it's goodness from time to time.

And, of course, Jeremiah had to let the cat out of the bag. "Hey, hey, hey you guys! Hey! He really knows how to sing!", pointing a yak greased finger my direction. Like synchronized swimmers, all of the men turned their heads my way and presented smiles that would make a dentist shiver. And, from the look in their intoxicated eyes, there was no way I'd get away without at least a note or two.

Now, when I'm in my car, I can remember 500 worship songs from all the way back to childhood. Shoot, who wouldn't remember Amazing Grace in a pinch? But, under the stares of Squatty and my new Tibetan groupies, I went blank. After a 10-month pregnant pause, I turned to Jeremiah for help.

"How about Glory, to Glory, to Glory?", he easily directed. And like yesterday's fool, I immediately agreed without thinking through the song. Those of you who know that Fred Hammond tune have already predicted the coming train wreck. What you know is that song is as high as a California surfer and relies heavily on background vocals. And I knew Jeremiah and Kyle weren't going to volunteer for that. I still wonder if I could have recruited the llamas, but they probably have a whole different worship set.

Too late for last minute arrangements, I rose to my knees (prodded by Squatty), and belted out the most hideous version of that song this side of Beijing. Angels begged the Father to just say the word and they'd be happy to take me out. But, to my surprise, after a rushing through the last chorus and plopping back down on the blanket, I opened my eyes to the hand-clapping adulation of the whole picnic. And topping it all off like a cherry on top of a sundae, I snuck a glance at the llamas to discover their stoic faces had broken out in approving smiles.

Missionary tip: If you ever find yourself invited to spontaneously sing Glory, to Glory, to Glory on a mission trip, find a way to ply your audience with plenty of beer before you strike a note.

After a few more hand gestures, a few more bites, and a few more laughs; we said our reluctant goodbyes and continued our way toward the site of the Horse Festival. Our stomachs were full, but our hearts were bursting.

If you can suffer to read on, I'll share what follows in Part III of this Tibetan tale.

Satin sashes and the horsemen who catch them

Oops, was that fly your grandmother!

Until then,

Kintu

Postcards from Tibet - Part I

2009-03-07T18:48:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(This article is the first of a 5 part series chronicling my memory of a most memorable trip to Tibet in 2005. It is with my deepest affection for Kyle, my son, Jeremiah, my brother, and "K" and "S", my heroes, that I write this brief history.)

Note: The real names of some who appear in this writing have been withheld.

The mid-July air was thinner than a runway model. But, standing there in that pale morning sun, soaking in the panoramic scene before me; I was barely aware of the slow and laboring heaves of my oxygen-starved lungs. This was a beauty words failed to measure.

"I've never seen a blue this blue?", I marveled inside my head.

The cloudless Litang sky stretched high above our heads in a peerless beauty that would make the Sistine Chapel beg for a skylight. It arched a deep blue dome racing toward earth, stopping only to embrace the majestic mountains that encircled the tundra floor.

"Can you believe this?", I exclaimed, giving Jeremiah's back a stiff slap, "We're literally on top of the world!". He stretched out his 6'6" frame in an early morning contortion and replied in his usual esoteric style, "I know, dude!". Kyle's face yawned a, "Good morning." as his body poked out of the tent behind us, just in time to share in the spectacle.

As our eyes finally fell from heaven to earth, our jaws sagged wider. An ocean of tents, some yak-skinned, others not, stretched out across the Tibetan valley as far as our eyes could see. In a hiveish choreography, busy bodies bustled about. If you crossed your eyes a bit, their vivid clothing looked like a confused stream of rainbows flowing in a constant frenetic motion. Rosy-cheeked children darted between tents and mindful parents earnestly completed their morning chores; readying for the big day.

At this point, a movie director would pull away to a high and wide aerial camera shot and pan across the plain, allowing you to see what Moses saw from his perch overlooking Mt Sinai. Tens of thousands of Tibetans from as far south as Lhasa and east as Kangding had made the annual summer pilgrimage to gather on this 15,000 ft high plain and share in the revelry of the Litang Horse Festival. The festival showcased the gravity defying tricks of the Tibetan horseman, the pageantry of the holy llamas, and the ancient customs of the Kham Tibetans. The air, once so thin with the extreme altitude, now was thick with excitement at what new wonders this year would bring.

This was a day of high celebration, for the festival was the climax of the year and demanded the finest in traditional Tibetan couture. Most of the women wore festive floor length dresses with brightly striped aprons about their waists. Their long, silken sleeves flowed freely past their wrists, contrasting with long hair tied up in varying patterns of buns and braids atop their heads.

Hardy men tucked their long-sleeved, western shirts into dark and sturdy trousers and finished off the look with well-worn cowboy hats and boots. Aside from their ruddy, brown cheeks and winsome smiles, they could have been featured extras in Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven. They looked a little like 18th century Native American braves who'd mysteriously decided to switch uniforms with the settlers. Most of boys and girls mimicked their dads and moms in both dress and manner.

I looked down at my straight-legged Levi's, ankle-high boots and cotton polo and thought about diving head first back into my pup tent for a quick wardrobe change. I was only stopped by the comforting realization that Jeremiah and Kyle stuck out like sore thumbs just as much as me.

Kyle! I was beyond happy to have my 14 year-old son standing by my side to witness such rare sights! The three of us had been sent by a group of friends back home in Portland on this unusual trip to visit "K" and "S" and encourage them in their work with the Tibetan people. After a couple of days in Chengdu learning basic Tibetan phrases, "K" and "S", along with our third host Brian stuffed us into two rented SUVs, along with a few provisions.

For two days, our ears popped and our bums grew hemorrhoids as we bounced along the treacherous and winding climb through the imposing mountain passes on our way to the roof of the world. Close your eyes and envision the towering landscape that surrounded Frodo and Samwise on their harrowing journey to Mordor and you'll see what we saw. There, high atop the Tibetan mountains and plateaus we had embarked on a 5 day tour that included the remote town of Litang and the ancient village of Tagong.

And now, standing dazed with our mouths unhinged at the sight of this grand maze of Tibetan tents, I knew I was about to see things I would never forget. So, anxious to touch and taste what my eyes were seeing, I motioned to Jeremiah and Kyle, "Welp, let's have a look around you guys! I'm sure "K" and "S" are already up and at 'em."

Our voyage into the sea of tents had absolutely no strategy. We just struck out in an aimless stroll, following the sights, smells and sounds as they came to our eyes, noses and ears. The camp was a dense sprawl of weather-worn tents pitched four to five feet apart in no particular groupings that one could tell. But it wasn't without organization.

Every three or four-hundred yards, there was some sort of municipal feature that supported the needs of the community. The Tibetan people are fiercely nomadic, but decidedly communal and it was impressive to see how naturally and generously they shared all things. Sprinkled throughout the camp, small food pavilions were crowded with hungry campers, feasting on everything yak; yak stew, yak kabobs, yak butter tea.

Traveler's memo: Never buy a buffet meal in Tibet, it'll all be yak.

Several large public squares (approximately 100 x 100 yards) were nestled among the rows of tents throughout the camp. These squares were crudely marked off by makeshift fences and offered an assortment of endless, carnival-like fun to passers by. Inside one of these squares, one of the most popular games grabbed our attention, and ended up grabbing a few Chinese yuans from our pockets.

Strewn across this particular square was a sundry of cheap flea market items, from clothing, to kid's toys, to the grand prize of an 80's style boombox. At one corner of the square, a long line of contestants were waiting to pay their 1 yuan to stand at a small opening in the fence and give the game a try. Along the fence was a row of used car tires from every western brand under the sun.

Near the center, A "ringmaster" bellowed out the game's instructions in the Tibetan tongue through a bullhorn. I imagined him to say something like this:

"Take a tire and roll it! If it lands over a prize, you win that prize! Only 1 yuan a roll! Anyone can win!" The spirited crowd leaned over the fences on every side, roaring their approval at the occasional winner and raising a chorus of, "Oooooooo's", and "Ahhhhhhhhs" at the near misses.

"Whaddya think? You guys wanna give this thing a try?", Jeremiah offered.

Kyle and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and sidled up to the back of the line. And you guessed it. I guess some things are just universal. We walked away with nothing more than a healthy serving of the "agony of defeat". But hey, losing at that Tibetan carnival was 10 times more fun than winning at the Oregon State fair any day.

We licked our wounds and resumed our meandering through the tent city stopping occasionally to take a picture or throw a wayward Frisbee back to it's owner. Soon enough, one of the oddest sights I've yet to see opened to our view. In an opening amidst some tents, a large crowd of men were huddled around a small wooden block, lustily cheering on one of their fellow campers. As I looked at the faces of the crowd, I was bewildered to discover that around a third of them were covered with a white powder from hairline to chin. Hadn't I seen this savage ritual on page 93 of the National Geographic?

I was alarmed. My old Pentecostal sensibilities urged me to burst into the middle of the crowd, chanting in an heavenly tongue, as I banished the demonic forces from this heathen ritual. But, just as these long dead passions were about to sputter back to life, I noticed that there was a man in the middle of the crowd, teetering precariously on the wooden block; a huge grin wrapped around his face. Curiously, we moved closer to join the crowd.

Just in front of him lay a two foot round pile of white flour, 6" high, upon which sat a single piece of wrapped, hard candy. It didn't take long for us to figure out why all those men had powdered faces. Spurred on by the growing chants of the pressing crowd, we watched, as the man on the block slowly crouched down until his knees folded out in opposite directions in a yoga-like pose. In my head, I immediately calculated the pain quotient that would inflict on my hamstrings.

From this position, he deftly replaced his feet with his hands on the wooden block into a horizontal handstand. Then, like a human teeter totter, he slowly and steadily tilted his body forward, until his face hovered within centimeters of the flour pile on the ground. The veins of his neck knotted and swelled, ready to burst, as he strained to keep his equilibrium and thereby preserve his dignity. The crowd continued to cheer, while the men with powdered faces secretly hoped for a spectacular face plant, thus excusing their own failed attempts.

But, with panther agility, the man nimbly squeezed the candy wrapper between his quivering lips, reversed his cat crouch into a stand, and raised his hands high, as if that wooden block were an Olympic gold medal stand. The crowd erupted with the same delight of onlookers on the streets of New York in the early 80's when a break dance pioneer invented a new move.

Well, that was enough for me! "After all, aren't I here, in part, to shed my American skin and embed myself into Tibetan culture?" I prodded myself. "And what better way to become incarnate among the people, than to display my own heroic agility?", I continued to reason. Kyle and I raised our eyebrows at each other in an unspoken challenge. He seem ready if I was.

"You gonna try it, Tim?", Jeremiah grinned, half knowing the answer already.

"Ah, man. I dunno?", I feigned reluctance.

Sixty seconds later, I found myself teetering between life and death on that wooden block. I prayed that God would show Himself glorious and strong. Sixty seconds after my fervent petition, I was brushing white flour off my cheeks as we howled in laughter over my undignified face plant. Jeremiah and Kyle soon followed suit and, after kind consolations from the crowd, we slipped away in chalk-faced defeat to resume our hapless adventures somewhere else in the yak-skinned city.

What awaited us in the alleys and corridors ahead? That, dear reader, is what you will read in Part II of this Tibetan tale. When, to your shock and delight, you will learn of:

The brown bottomed lady at the latrine
Tim strikes a tune with a drunken Tibetan

Until then,

Kintu

In Praise of the Poem

2009-03-06T15:19:00.001-08:00

by Kintu

With lilting swing
and velvet tone
old truths you bring
new thoughts make known

Sage voice demure
word-chime your song
While loud and clear
We hum along

On angel's wing
and rustling trees
In scent of Spring
and Summer breeze

Your rhythmic rhymes
make light the earth
and fill our times
with joyful mirth

Enlightening friend
of young and old
your folktales penned
and stories told

Do gently heal
the heart and mind
and raise the wit
of all mankind

Now forward hence
safekeep this gem
through providence
our b'loved poem

To Hear What Homer Heard

2009-03-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

A Confession of Love for The Poem by Kintu

Preface: For those who have peeped in on my early and meager attempts as a neophyte poet, I'm taking a short respite from writing them tonight -- Did I just hear all of Facebook do a standing ovation? -- to share my motivation for writing poetry. I'd sure love to hear your thoughts, fellow poets. How you fell in love with poetry. So with that...here goes...

With lilt and swing
on tune and tone
old truths you bring
new thoughts make known

With voice demure
you croon your song
While loud and clear
We hum along

I love poetry. But, I'll admit, a mere month ago, I thought of poetry as a largely effeminate exercise for the idle and elite. That didn't keep me from appreciating it and even savoring it from time to time, though. My life wouldn't have been the same without watching Def Jam Poetry, or hearing Prince's Dorothy Parker, or reading Frost's The Road Not Taken. But sitting down to actually write a poem held all the appeal of an afternoon tea party with 4 thirty-something single women...just after they've been dumped.

Again, don't get me wrong. I've always held the poem in high esteem; appraising it among the fairest forms of human expression. Whitman and Tennyson, Angelou and Dunbar, Homer and Hughes; give them a pen and and hour and they can transform the menu from Panda Express into a literary classic. These poetic savants can command the heart to soar and cheek to blush with a single lilting phrase. So, yes, I've always been a poetry fan.

This Valentine's Day, I thought back to all the lame pre-written cards I'd picked up at the last minute for Trudi from Target or somewhere over the past 17 years of our marriage. I remembered the pathetic ritual of frantically combing over the few, dog eared cards that were left after other, less tardy husbands had gleaned the good ones (yes, I'm the classic procrastinator). I always loathed the exercise of searching for someone else's words to express my own private and personal love.

So, I decided to write a poem to my wife. Spurred on by Isaac's hearty approval, I braved the terrifying black hole that is our kitchen drawer and found a pen, lurched upstairs, grabbed a piece of printer paper from the office and plopped down on my bed; ready for the inevitable battle with writer's block. But that didn't happen. Instead, to my surprise, an instant and violent gusher of poetry sprang up from somewhere behind my sternum, surged through my arm and leapt out of my scribbling pen. These words almost electrically splashed onto the paper in a mess, but they splashed.

No, Whitman didn't smile warmly over my shoulder with nodding approval, nor did Emerson guide my hand. The actual poetry itself wasn't good by any measure (except Trudi's glistening eyes when she got home). But these words were mine. And each one was discreetly wrapped in knowing love and private memory. Lying there, plopped on my bed with my hand scrawling wildly across the page, sometimes writing, sometimes erasing; I fell in love with poetry.

I've thought about the possible reasons why. I'm sure that some of my affection is rooted in the simple, yet endearing magic of rhyme. I think humans just innately like the sound of vowel-chime; the way it dresses words up real pretty. Maybe this hypnotic attraction reminds us of our childhood and takes us back to the simpler days of the nursery songs and lullabies. Or maybe it's as unexplained as our primordial fascination with fire watching. Too elemental and Darwinian, you say? I'd rather think it spiritual and God-implanted.

It could be the pure symmetry of sound poems create in our heads, like a melodious and metronomic stream of words soothing our insides. Or, maybe it's in our biology. Somehow, words soaked in poetry find their way deeper into our emotional senses. Our inner tuning fork vibrates and hums along with the cadence and rhythm, pulsing with enraptured joy, or falling still with piercing sorrow.

I'll venture a vote that all of the above is true. But, I'll also wager that poetry enjoys a more indigenous home in the human heart. Could it be that the poem is that demure and humble friend who keeps it real without shouting; the old-souled sage who tells us who we really are, while somehow preserving our dignity. There is no threat in the poem's voice; no vitriolic scream demanding to be heard and obeyed. It is fierce, yes, pushy, no.

The polemic argues, the essay proposes, the history chronicles, and the epistle reveals. All of these literary forms have their native place and beauty. But the poem? The poem sings! It chants and croons the same raw and naked truth, but absent the obnoxious blaring of a bullhorn. The poem coaxes open the heart the same way grandma did. Daddy could tell you, and Mama could tell you, teacher could tell you, and preacher could tell you; but when grandma spoke, the world paused to listen in. Poems are like your grandma, only sometimes they wear 5 inch heels, and other times they have on angel wings, or sometimes they murmur like the rustling of the trees.

I love the poem and hope it will someday grant me the keys to unlock its door. If it will, I'll enter. I'll kneel down and place my ear to the floor of it's hidden passages and listen close. Maybe I'll hear what Homer heard. So, dear poem, I don't aspire to be the next Jupiter Hammon or Phyllis Wheatley. And yet my aim transcends beyond those majestic heights. Show me your hidden virtues, so that I may attain three things: to make my Savior smile, my children laugh, and Trudi's inner tuning fork hum.

On angels wings
and rustling trees
Your grandma's
wisdom stirred

With ear to floor
on bended knees
You'll hear what
Homer heard

Make Your Place, Sovereign God

2009-03-03T23:55:00.000-08:00

A Song of Praise By Kintu

The least
of Your love
is more fair than
the best of all other's

The first
of all other's wine
is less fine than
the last of Yours

The light
of Your hidden smile
shines brighter than
the countless sunbeams

The rays
of nine noonday skies
are outshined by
Your midnight shade

One seed
of Your spoken Word
yields more fruit than
all Eden's gardens

The fierce winds
of a cosmic storm
are subdued by
Your hand at rest

Condescend
to me, Lord
Rest Your throne
in the midst of my weakness

Make Your place
sovereign God
In the heart
of my sin-sick soul

One Kiss and a Mile to Go

2009-03-01T17:28:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

One kiss and a mile to go
is all that keeps your lips from mine
on this Serengeti plain
of love unwon

Your secret, veiled plateau
tops the cliff that I must climb
should my heart complete
the quest it has begun

Will your love know no one else
here beneath this ruby sky?
Will kind fate keep safe your fickle heart
and fasten it to mine?

Now, call down to me my love
and excite my weary feet
At the sound of your sweet voice
the ground must yield

Fly you down from up above
and light your lips upon my face
For one touch will make our
love forever sealed

Or has a young usurper
scaled your summit yet unknown?
Did a vile and swindling bandit
pluck my rose?

No, your garden grows much higher
far above the desert floor
So, I'll climb for there's one
kiss and a mile to go!

Anguished Goodbye

2009-02-27T15:51:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(The only time I saw my father alive after my adoption was a single meeting full of awkward pain. I met him and his children in their tiny, two-bedroom, Section 8 house in the Columbia Villa in 1987. He died soon after.)

Like a lazy Sunday afternoon
your door takes its sweet time
riding slowly on its hinges
til its mouth swings open wide
unaware of who I am

An awkward, mutual pause
hangs thick between us
Our eyes survey the cost
of twenty years gone by
since we once were

Your hair line, just like mine
in a heart-shaped valentine
both our bodies five foot nine
corresponding jaw lines

Five heads peek round your hips
to steal a giggling glance
wond'ring grins on ten round lips
I stoop and take the chance
to squeeze a chin

You search for words
you know that you should say
My lifetime list of questions
somehow slips away
we're left behind

Flesh and bone become the sole
testimony of severed family
leaving the better witnesses
of love and history
silent in the stand

With overdue departure
I shake your hand in mine
and save your face in memory
the contours of each line
one final time

Anguished goodbye

Headlong into Sally

2009-02-26T21:27:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

At the center of the city
Dwelled a blissless teenage boy
Who lived a life unpretty
No truelove to enjoy

His doleful heart near broken
His soul the color blue
Undone with ache unspoken
He bid abode adieu

And ran through street and alley
With wild, unbridled craze
And headlong into Sally
Who fell back with amaze

"Strange boy, pay close attention
Stand still and undisturbed
While I politely mention
I'm really quite perturbed!"

"You've soiled my only stockings
With your barbaric pace
And what is far more shocking
You've torn in two my lace!"

"Declare your explanation
As swiftly as you ran
Make plain your litigation
Or you'll never run again!"

"Fair lass, I beg your mercy
My legs good sense betrayed
Had I performed my duty
Your lace would not have frayed."

"But now my heart is merry
My soul no longer blue
For had I slowed or tarried
I shan't have witnessed you."

Fair Sally's heart did quickly melt
Her frown became a smile
Her cheeks so flush, she surely felt
They'd burn a country mile

And soon, these two emboldened
by love not felt before
Did live a life so golden
and happily ever more

His Sculpting Hand

2009-02-26T16:27:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

In the end
my shattered pride
gives way to the
fierce, unflinching grace
of Your sculpting hand

Like forgotten chaff
riding on a playful wind
my huff and hubris
woosh and wing away
along the current of Your love

Others glimpse my
gaping wounds and
briskly dash away
throwing kind and hurried
comfort over fleeing shoulders

But You stay
and with dauntless care
fashion, form and frame
the little that remains
of my crushed and crippled soul

Because You love me
constantly and evenly
Your ruthless, tender Word
planes and smooths away
the coarseness of my being

And I can hear You singing,

Day by day
rise and pray, child
I will never take away
My saving grace

Grind and smooth
sand and shape, child
'til they see My image
in your shining face

Do You Got Time?

2009-02-25T11:33:00.000-08:00

A Love Ditty by Kintu

At 1 o'clock
I'll buy
You chocolate candies

At 2 o'clock
I'll take
You to the zoo

At 6 o'clock
I'll dress
You up real dandy

We'll dance all night
until the day is new

Do you got time for me baby?
Do you got time?
Candy and wine for my lady
Candy and wine

At 3 o'clock
You'll look
At me real funny

At 4 o'clock
You won't
Know what to do

At 8 o'clock
I'll plumb
Be out of money

But that's alright as
Long as I'm with you

Do you got time for me baby?
Do you got time?
Candy and wine for my lady
Candy and wine

At 5 o'clock
I'll take
You to the movies

At 7 o'clock
I'll read
You poetry

At 9 o'clock
I'll sing
To you real groovy

I'll make you mine
before the night is through

Do you got time for me baby?
Do you got time?
Candy and wine for my lady
Candy and wine

Makin' you mine, ain't no maybe
Makin' you mine
Quarter to nine little lady
Quarter to nine

Fade the World Away

2009-02-25T00:14:00.000-08:00

By Kintu (for Trudi)

Can I not lie here
free and cavalier, as I lean against your breast
Making smallish circles with my finger
on your thigh?

Is there a reason why
the whole world stands outside begging
my attention when my singular affection
lies in your caress?

Let the fall leaves lie where they fall

The small of your neck ends
my need to ever see the sun again,
ask a thousand other men, in comparison, and
they will only look away and wonder

Curious walls and windows leave
their usual posts, leaning over close
to hear our hushed and breathless whispers
fade the world away

Let the green grass whither into hay

I lose myself within the inner folds
of your familiar form and
gently take my time to warmly
say a long and slow hello

Let the day glide by on its own

My eyes see your eyes smile
at my faces, while a million foreign
places fall asleep under
the glimmer of the midnight sun

Let the moon cast a shadow 'til we're done
And fade the world away

Lima Bean Lambaste

2009-02-24T13:21:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(For a quick laugh with my son)

Slimey, curving spine
Dressed in sickly green
Fetus-shaped design
You wicked little bean

Gag-reflex inedible
Why do you exist?
Long-evicted vegetable
From my shopping list

Red bean, black-eyed, fava
Tasty to consume
But not the ghastly Lima
Hideous legume

Tongue turns inside out
At the thought of your embrace
It's legs begin to sprout
As it plans a quick escape

The menu for each guest
In the dining halls of Hell
Allows but one request:
Lima with, or without shell

Gardener, grazer, grower
Other produce happ'ly glean
But, planter, reaper, sower
Kindly not the Lima bean

Mulatto You

2009-02-23T11:52:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

Halfway, in-between
antipodal pedigrees
I longed to find
My ethnic plumb line

Amalgamated ancestry
Equidistant progeny
The world was not
so inclined

Multi-ethnic middling
Intermingled offspring
My place remained
Undefined

Down the middle melanin
European, Nubian
I muddy up the
Color lines

So, who am I?

I am a double wonder
painted in a golden tone
White lightning, onyx thunder
Paradoxic to the bone

I span from tribe to clan
A dappled family tree
Whiteness ends where black began
Varicolored me

I'm a racial interstitial
An inverted antonym
A twofold individual
A selfsame synonym

I am Hip-Hop in a hymnal
Jazz fusion symphony
The high-hat and the cymbal
Syncopated culturally

Bronze brothers, chestnut sisters
Need not choose one hue
Love yourself much deeper
Embrace mulatto you

Rose's Jubilee

2009-02-21T11:47:00.001-08:00

By Kintu

(Remembering the first time I met my biological mother at Rose's restaurant in 1987 at the old Lloyd Center. One year later, she died from a heroin overdose.)

Butterflies the size of eagles
Flutter up my chest
Winging bursts of
Hot staccato breath
My unease

Ankles, feet and toes
Rebel against my legs
Sticking to the floor
Like stubborn wooden pegs
Unheeded pleas

Twenty feet to go
'Til my eyes see yours again
Thirty questions fill my
Mind from all the way back when
You left me

Squared up shoulders
Jutted jaw
Round the corner
Fear begins to thaw
Count to three

One...two...three...

Did you love me? Will
you love me please?
Can I love you? Will
My heart unfreeze?
Just little queries

Seventh booth, right-hand side
Smoke that cigarette fast
Clock on the wall slowing down time
Our eyes meet at last
Rose's jubilee

Tiny frame, averted gaze
Face cast down and leathered
Shoulders slope from nights and days
A heap of shame you've weathered
Over me

Tears slide side by side,
slow and southward ride
down your cheeks
My hand covering yours
Gently reassures
Now you speak

"Kintu, forgive me"

Luh's on dah rise 'round heah

2009-02-20T18:32:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(In memory of my Ancestry once enslaved, yet somehow free)

Luh's on dah rise 'round heah
Takin' mah gurh to dah pulpiteah
Luh's on dah rise 'round heah

Luh's on dah rise 'round heah
I's gottah luh song she wannah heah
Luh's on dah rise 'round heah

She gottah thang fo huh man
She wahns dah ring I's got in mah han'
She gottah thang fo huh man

She gottah thang fo huh man
She wannah dance wit me nek'sah dah ban'
She gottah thang fo huh man

I's gottah thang fo mah gurh
I luh dah way dat huh lon' hair curh
I's gottah thang fo mah gurh

I's gottah thang fo mah gurh
I's gwanna take huh 'an giv huh ah twurh
I's gottah thang fo mah gurh

Luh's on dah rise 'round heah
Takin' mah gurh to pulpiteah
Luh's on dah rise 'round heah

Luh's on dah rise 'round heah
I's gottah luh song she wannah heah
Luh's on dah rise 'round heah

Tarifa (Tah-REE-fa)

2009-02-20T14:05:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(Remembering my favorite Spanish town when Trudi and I traveled there in 2003)

Ivory hamlet
Daintily sloping into the aqua sea
Like the curve on a woman's hip

Salt air, breezy
Like three hundred daisy flowers
breathing me a kiss

Ancient harbor
Medieval byroad of Moor ambition
Catholic tug 'o war

Adobe bijou
Mercados heaped in yellow saffron
Paella delight

Windmill sentries
Fleck the hills that hug you
Touching the sky

Aged alleys
Recall the day you knew just horses
Cobblestone echoes

Tarifa remain
Long enough to roam your streets again
Unchanged still

Soul Mates Quarreling

2009-02-19T21:33:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

Soul mates
walking separately
quarreling

His eyes
trail her down the street
longingly

She walks
far ahead of him
purposely

He'd eyed
that other easy girl
lustfully

Her heart
crashed upon the rocks
crushingly

His mind
travels back in time
regretfully

Her mind
leaps ahead in time
perm'nently

He runs
catching up with her
desperately

She keeps
walking straight ahead
stubbornly

His arms
pull her close to him
tenderly

She turns
questioning his face
searchingly

Shall I
give him one more chance
mercifully?

His face
makes one last appeal
earnestly

Her mouth
whispers "I love you"
quietly

Their lips
pressing once again
finally

Soul mates
strolling down the street
blissfully

17+25=42 (Then and Now)

2009-02-19T15:45:00.001-08:00

by Kintu

(Observations on my 25 year physical decline)

Then...

Caramel-skin god
Age 17
Muscle-bound frame
Sanguine and lean

Swaggering paragon
Five-star machine
Youth indestructible
Like you've never seen

Eat what I want to
No in-between
Still gotta 6-pack
Size 30 jeans

Blemish-free countenance
Hollywood clean
Gimme my close up
On silver screen

Now...

Ashy brown skin
Near-sighted view
When I look down
Can't see my shoes

Flaccid and doughy
Gut all askew
No hair, 'cept ear hair
Eating for two

Blood pressure high
Like a bill overdue
Cholesterol reading?
182

Creakin' and groanin'
Ache through and through
17+25?
Age 42

What's that Sound?

2009-02-18T22:40:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(A poetic polemic arising from my bitter distaste of the ill-fated marriage between the church and politics)

Plick, plackity, plack
It's a Right-wing hijack
of the pulpit in your local town

Crick, crackity, crack
Hear the preacher attack
like a K street political clown

Frip, frippety, frame
Til they all vote the same
for a kingdom of right here and now

Ship, shippety, shame
The church coffers they claim
As the Gospel is turned upside down

Nib, nibbety, nibble
Put your hope in the liberals
Trade true doctrine for false unity

Quib, quibbety, quibble
Philosophical drivel
At the center is humanity

For certain, for sure
The Bride will endure
All the cunning devices of men

But declare a divorce
From your politic course
And be wedded to Christ once again

Neibur Road

2009-02-18T08:47:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(A fond memory of the scenes surrounding the one lane, gravel road of my childhood home.)

Carry me back, fly me away
To the gentle, fair woods of my youth
Settle me there, 'neath evergreen trees
Where I first learned the value of truth

Huckleberry tang, I will taste you again
As I barely escape nettle's sting
I'll dash down the hill and over the bridge
While the Stellar's Jay chidingly sings

Splash in the creek, my old babbling friend
How I've missed your cold hug 'round my toes
Your murky face smiles on this late Summer day
Over hidden crawdads you still flow

Hear Bailey's bray from the back of the barn
A forlorn, tenor voice in high "C"
Beware Lonnie's spittle, stay clear of his cud
Ask my brother how fierce he can be

O, Neibur Road, my haven and home
In your bosom my memories begin
Should I travel to London, or Athens, or Rome
To no sweeter abode I have been

Wonder Anew

2009-02-17T21:13:00.001-08:00

A Song of Praise by Kintu

Wonder my heart
At the goodness of Him
Who not for my virtue
Was stretched limb to limb

Wonder my eyes
in view of such grace
See the God of all glory
hang in my place

'Tis the sin of my doing
the fruit of my choice
That I hear in the plaintive
lament of His voice

Rouse now my heart
in view of that cross
Take notice and tally
the terrible cost

Wonder my soul
such astonishing favor
And flee once again
to the arms of your Saviour

Wonder anew my soul

Suburban Thug

2009-02-17T15:50:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(A candid admonition to those young suburban bruthas who swagger hard without the history to back it up)

Stone face, hard case
What snatched away your smile?
Gold teeth, underneath
Chiseled up thuggish style

Ghetto limp, prison pimp
Side to side you pose
Sagged pants, brutish glance
A walking juxtapose

Suburb dwellin', ain't no tellin'
Why you act this way
Genuflect, revere, respect
Another, yourself betray

Listen, young brutha:

A cat is a cat and never a dog
No matter how hard he tries
If you ain't you, you somebody else
And the truest part of you dies

To Lick or Not to Lick?

2009-02-16T15:50:00.000-08:00

A Polemic by Kintu

This won't be the most profound thought I've entertained in my head, but I was wondering what you might think of it. So I'll unwrap the thought and present it to you as a question. "Is it not good for me to let my dog lick my face?"

Now hold on...don't be hasty in your answer. Paws for consideration. Your brash and visceral response may be coolly launched from the foundations of science and health. Your chief concern constrained by the obvious violation of long-held sanitation rules between dog and master. And, with a tender regard for my well being, but absent the proper emotional context, you'll issue a speedy prohibition of all licking henceforth.

To you, my hygienic friend, I offer this one defense:

Have you seen Louie? Have you studied his earnest face; an irresistible mix of Doxie and Chihuahua that even the hardest heart could not turn aside. And more, imagine before you the slight turn of his curious head, tilting up as if to say, "Daddy, I really love you and I think you better just bring your face down here for a lick."

So, my dispassionate and rational friend, contemplate his round and eager eyes, framed by floppy ears before you render your judgment.

Other friends may be far more concerned about the social implications. "What is this teaching your sons, Tim? For you to indulge in this kind of crass behavior is but a self inflicted horror. But visit not such a rude and base display upon your children; enticing them to the same. Think of your kids, good man!"

To you, my civil and paternal companion, I can only offer this sensate reply:

Have you seen Louie? His round little belly barely clears the kitchen floor as he gallops toward you, shivering with reckless joy. Haloed in cherub innocence, he demands nothing but the offering of a kiss. Feel his padded paws attached to stubby legs land upon your knees in begging bliss. Wonder at the speed of his whirring, wagging tail before you deny him!

Still others may appeal to the tenets of natural law that govern such exchanges between man and beast. "Is it proper, Tim, for a man of higher station to consort with a canine in this way?", you indignantly ask.

To you, my moral benefactor, I can only offer this one rejoinder:

Have you seen Louie? No, not his exterior, as previously and passionately described. No, friend, have you seen his heart? Study its tablet and take note of his pure and virtuous intentions. The very thought of sullying his master's honor brings the hair of his back to battle-readiness and an instant snarl to his lips. On the contrary friend, without a thought of peril, he will fly at the throat of a giant to keep me from ill repute.

But nonetheless, I seek your finest counsel in this matter. For my own troubled heart, twisted up in the game, cannot be trusted.

Hello

2009-02-15T13:41:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

How do I say goodbye?
Does it require a laugh or cry?
Should I feel low or way up high?
How do I say goodbye?

I hate to say goodbye
There's twenty million reasons why
Enough to stretch from Earth to sky
I hate to say goodbye

Without you near I can't conceive
I'll stay right here and never leave
That way I'll never have to grieve
I'll hold you fast and tightly cleave

Or are my thoughts somehow naive?
Fearing the cost my heart deceive?
The future gently tugs my sleeve
A new horizon to perceive

If I should stay and never go
A richer life I may not know
A deeper soul I may not grow
Goodbyes are in the natural flow

I hate to say goodbye

Hello

Ode to Trudi

2009-02-14T14:31:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

(Lyrics to my lover Valentine's Day)

Eighteen with flaxen hair
Smooth and silky soft
Round hips, red lips
Send my heart aloft

Twenty one with firstborn son
Your eyes both green and brown
By my side through thick and thin
Our life swings up and down

Twenty five and ravishing
Your eyes still make me pause
Overlook insanity
You keep me without cause

Thirty two and radiant
With wisdom I have not
A fragile flower, a budding rose
A pearl that can't be bought

Thirty eight and beautiful
Your face still sings my song
Round hips, red lips
To you I still belong

Eighty four and elegant
One day far off you'll be
Silver hair, silky soft
I just can't wait to see

Love's Motley Mural

2009-02-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

By Kintu

Is Love so blind to color of skin
seeing only that which lies within?
Or does Love love both night and day
each rainbow's hue in full array?

Does Love love some and others hate
still others politely tolerate?
Or does Love love to love them all
with equal care and same enthrall?

Love, fussing not o'er different shades
takes great delight in all displayed.
With Master touch He paints each one
a motley mural portraying the Son.

The Joy of Gutter Cleaning

2009-02-13T13:57:00.000-08:00

A medium story by Kintu

I grew up on a small gentlemen's farm just outside Oregon City about six miles from the nearest street light. Our house was nestled in the middle of a gorgeous valley, carpeted with gentle maples, regal cottonwoods, and every conifer indigenious to the Northwest. A bubbling creek splashed happily as it wound its way along the valley floor and right through our backyard. From the creek’s edge rose a hill thick with trees and underbrush that sprouted trilliums in the spring. I used to run like a wild man through those woods like George in that classic tale, Swift Arrow.

The house was the classic split level popularly built in the late 60s and 70s. But it was bigger than the average split-level because my dad had built an addition to the living room and master suite with Uncle Orley sometime back. So, it was a good 3,000 square feet or more. It wore dark Hershey brown paint with egg shell white trim; quite the fetching combination in those days. Aside from the faint, but obligatory speckles of green algae growing here and there in mostly unseen places, my dad kept up the place with all the care and zeal of so many men of his generation.

Did I say my dad kept up the place? What I meant to say was my dad kept up the place through the forced labor of five strapping sons. Now, that's not really fair. My dad was and is the hardest working man I've ever known. But oddly, I seem to most vividly remember my own contributions to the family labor pool. And boy, did we work! We had chickens and turkeys, pheasants and geese, and couple of South American rheas. There were sheep and goats, dogs and cats, parrots and parakeets, and the illogical addition of one lama and one donkey.

A massive garden sat kitty corner from the northwest side of the house, stretching out between the chicken coop and gravel road. We always cultivated the soil in the early spring in order to get a jump on the planting. There were green beans, corn, summer squash, zucchini, radishes, and several varieties of onions. Watermelons were raised on hotbeds and blueberries competed with mom’s dahlias and chrysanthemums for first prize in beauty. I won’t even mention the garden across the road behind the mailbox.

Working alongside 4 brothers would have been fine, had we all been the around the same age. This would have allowed for a just and prudent distribution of labor; leaving me with a fair 1/5 allotment of the overall burden. But, as providence would have it, my three older brothers peeled off one by one to college, leaving me and my younger brother, Peter, behind to bare the brunt of five. And of course Peter was three years younger than me and at the time of this telling I was 11 or 12. So, those three years might as well have been three decades in the difference they made in the division of labor between us.

Now, you know what happens when there's a workforce layoff, right? Management doesn't lower productivity goals to correspond with the reduction in workforce. Oh, no! That wise recalculation is never considered and the Proletariat sweats all the more like Hebrews in the hands of Pharaoh. And such was the mile-high expectations of my dad for us two remaining sons.

He'd say things like, "Just because David, Kevin and Steven are off to college doesn't mean the animals don’t want to eat anymore, now does it Tim?" or "Do you think the weeds in the flower beds are just going to suddenly surrender so you won't have to pull them?" Nope, "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise!”, my dad would proclaim like it was straight out of Proverbs. And for him, it was just as good a mantra for two boys as it was for five.

Now, there were some chores that I didn't like and other chores I hated. Much to my father's chagrin, my genetic disposition did not incline toward manual labor. But then again, I was adopted, so there was a ready explanation. Apparently, a love for pulling weeds needs some sort of hereditary vehicle to be passed from father to son. But, not all chores were bad. Some chores left a ray of hope that I'd still be able to get in a good-sized play day in before the summer sun winked goodnight over the evergreens in the western sky.

Take weeding for example. Most of the time, I could slay that chore in an hour or two and be over to Eric Spencer's house before lunch; inventing some new way to tease the Chamber girls (I was partial to Brenda). The ease of this chore was mostly owing to the fact that our flower beds were never allowed an outright rebellion, so it was easy to handle the few remaining rogue weeds and thistles.

Chopping and hauling wood wasn't bad, either. As long as it didn't involve felling a tree somewhere up Redland road. That was an all-dayer. But if the wood was harvested from a tree somewhere on the 3 acres out behind the creek, I could wheel barrow a hundred or so sticks off the hill in less than half a day. That left me plenty of time to explore the woods behind the Crocker's house, or build another addition to the "on again, off again" fort construction project I had going on across the road in the Laurel trees.

I'll tell you what, cleaning out the dog run out by the chicken coop wasn't half bad, either. Hey, a dog is a man's best friend, right? So, plenty of natural motivation there. And, if you could survive the smell, the job only ran an hour or so.

But, gutters? Even the thought of gutter cleaning struck a day-ending fear in my chest; sending icy shivers up and down the base of my neck for a good two minutes, easy. Suddenly, I'd feel like a Chinese political prisoner with a life sentence, and only the bitter slog of Concentration Camp to look forward to for the rest of the day. Gutters were the thorn in the side of my childhood existence. Here's the deal most people don't know: Gutters were invented by the Devil in a distant cauldron of hell to torment 12 year olds on hot summer days. Yep, the Devil does contract work on the side.

And why was it that just about every time the sun was shining at its brightest and the gleeful promise of summer fun was at its peak, I'd hear my Dad's voice boom out from somewhere in the garden, "Hey Tim, get the ladder!". I mean, I'd literally be just mounting my bike - you know, the purple one with little metallic flakes glinting in the paint, huge white banana seat and 10 inch tassels streaming from the handle bars? Anyway, just as I'd be swinging my leg over the banana seat like a drunken flamingo, eager to speed down the open road to Eric's house to see if he could play, the dreaded call to the gutters would come. I'm positive my dad would wickedly wait until I got my first foot on the pedal before he'd thunder out the joy-ending decree, "Welp...guess it's time to clean up those gutters!".

After the initial shock wore off, I'd mournfully guide my bike back to the carport, apologizing the whole way for the fun it would miss. And, at the pace of funeral procession, I'd trduge to my bedroom, slip on some work clothes and grab a pair of tattered work gloves from the garage. Wasn't there anyone who could save me from the outrageous abuse I was about to suffer? Would the entire universe remain so deaf and dumb to my lonesome affliction? The universe always took the fifth.

I'd slip into my usual evasive maneuvers (that every kid knows) in a futile attempt to forestall the inevitable. "Huh, you know what? I suddenly have to go to the bathroom. Real baaad. And not just number one, number two! A constipated number two!" Or, I'd suddenly have the rare desire to have a deep philosophical conversation with my mom. About anything, really. And, after every well executed tactic failed, I'd work up the bronze to go out there and negotiate with dad.

"Hey, Dad! Man, the garden looks great! I mean, have you ever seen green bean tendrils that thick before? You oughta write a gardening book, or something! You know, I should probably hang out here with you and soak this stuff up. We can't let this precious tribal knowledge die with your generation. IT MUST LIVE ON! Hand me a rake."

After a few minutes, when my hollow attempts at manipulation pathetically petered off, he'd reply without even looking up from cleaning the tiller blades or unrolling the chicken wire, "So, Tim, how's it coming with the gutters?"

For the love of all that's good and holy dads are good! But, like a delusional tanning bed salesman on a black man's doorstep, I'd convince myself that I had him right where I wanted him. "Uh, yeah, Dad. That's, ah...that's exactly what I was gonna talk to you about. The gutters. You know, I don't want to make it seem like...like...I don't appreciate the beauty and...ah...and the virtue of cleaning a good gutter. But the truth is Dad, I feel like I'm not really...you know...being fair to Peter about this whole thing. You know? You know what I mean?"

I'd pause for even the faintest encouragement to continue. A thoughtful "hmph", or even a pursed lip would have given me the green light to plow ahead. Nothing.

"I'm trying to think back, Dad. Isn't Peter old enough to be doing the gutters by now? I mean, c'mon, I was like...6 when I started?"

It was then that my day would deliver the death blow with all the serenity of a Catholic saint, "You know, Tim. The sooner you get started, the sooner you'll finish." Now, would somebody please tell me how id is that parents always have a nicely packaged little comeback that either outright rhymes or has some poetic symmetry?

I'd study his face one last time for signs that negotiations might still be open. But, eventually I'd slowly back away in complete surrender to the inevitable. While I'd tramp my way to the carport to grab the extension ladder, a medium-sized flathead screw driver, and 5 gallon bucket; I'd go over what broke down in the negotiations in preparation for next time.

Our house faced north, overlooking a large asymmetrical front yard that elbowed and sloped its way down toward the creek out back. I'm sure that lawn just missed being the 8th wonder of the world. Every blade of the grass stood at attention in vivid kelly green and the edges tighter than Steve Harvey's fro. Except the year we played frisbee football on it with all the cousins until it looked like Lambeau Field after a Superbowl. Now, how my dad kept that lawn a manicured green all year round I'll never know? Oh wait...except I was the one who made the yearly trip with him up Redland road to load down the truck with enough horse manure to spread from sea to shining sea.

Flanking every side of the lawn were healthy-sized flower beds filled with everything from the Japanese vine maple, to the dominating Rhododendrons with deep red pedals, to the pint-sized annuals my mother tucked in between them. Two towering cedar trees, stood stoically like Buckingham Palace guards in front of the kitchen bay window, providing countless birds and squirrels a safe haven. They also filled the gutters with horrify amounts of leaves and needles.

An old, rusted cast iron bell rested silently between the bases of the two cedars; until it was roused from its daily slumber to ring proudly that it was dinner time. A deck wrapped itself around the second floor of the house, hugging first the East and then the South side. One of my dad's greatest "love projects" for my mom was building a majestic, glass greenhouse on the North side of the deck. She happily filled it with all kinds of exotic plants. But somehow, that greenhouse eventually it became home for both the kitty litter box and the family parrot. Ask the bird what he thought of that arrangement.

Back outside, along the deck railing, was an ever-present pattern of bird dung and flower petals from the potted geraniums carefully place every 5 or 6 feet. The small, quaint gazebo that joined the deck's East and South sides was the favorite destination of so many of our late summer suppers. After a long day's work and play, we'd satisfy ourselves with veggie hotdogs, fresh potato or fruit salad, and a gigantic slice of watermelon. By right now, I hated it all. I hated the greenhouse and I hated the gazebo. And those irritating geraniums mocked me with their "do nothing" existence.

Have you ever noticed that when you're working on a summer day, everyone in the whole neighborhood is playing? And not just playing with the normal, everyday intensity. No, they're riding vigorously up and down the road on their bikes, carefree grins plastered across their faces. Laughing big, throaty laughs. Our house was on a gravel road at least a couple of miles long. But on gutter cleaning day, everyone had to play right in front of my house. Why is it that ALL your friends are out playing on gutter cleaning day?

I'd mutter to myself, "Man, yesterday, I knocked on every door from here to Mississippi and no one was home!"

I hate extension ladders. I don't mind their extendability, it's the collapsability that bothers me. Climbing up an extension ladder is fine, until you get somewhere near the middle. And either because of poor engineering or the fact that extension ladders are an obvious violation of natural law, as soon as you hit the middle, your gut leaps into your neck.

But, there I was, halfway up the ladder with a five gallon bucket in one hand and a screwdriver death-gripped in the other; wondering why God had forsaken me. Looking down through the rungs at the deck below, my inner voice began to wonder what people would say at my funeral after I plunged to my certain death. "That Tim was a nice boy and an excellent bike rider, but a horrible gutter cleaner."

But, somehow, I'd swallow back my innards and tremble up the ladder toward the gutter. Once there, I'd semi-lay my body forward to anchor and begin the slow and awful task of scraping out the choked debris.

"Now, no need to get to picky.", I'd instruct myelf. "What's the harm in leaving a few needles and leaves behind? After all, what else is a gutter for, but to hold things? I know my gut never feels good empty. Just hurry up and remove everything you can see from the bottom of the ladder and quick as a jack rabbit you're back on your bike."

I'm sure you can guess by now that this was an foolishly unadvisable policy. You're right. The first couple of years cleaning the gutter always involved the double injury of -- rework. My dad was the tightest gutter inspector on the West coast. And after a failed inspection, he'd serenely deliver yet another one of those poetic parental witticisms. "You know, Tim, if you do things right the first time, you don't have to do them a second time." Argggh. Under my dad's obnoxiously fastidious supervision, I must have scraped and clawed enough pine cones, needles and leaves from those troughs of death to make a beaver smile.

If you were to watch gutter cleaning as an art form, I suppose it might qualify as a weird sort of hillbilly dance. Up the ladder, down the ladder, rock the ladder to the left, jig the ladder to the right, and one and two, and three and four. And as you go, the dance gets just a little smoother and just a little faster; only interruptioned by the occasional walk to the compost pile to dump the debris.

Now, I will say this about gutter cleaning; it is a miraculous tool in the hands of a father in shaping a 12 year old son. Seriously. There are things I learned cleaning gutters that I haven't quite run across anywhere else in life. You see, some lessons can only be learned when your fingernails are chucked full of dirt and your knees are buckling at the top of a shaky ladder.

I learned the value of hard work. I learned that large amounts of moaning and sputtering cannot transfer a single leaf into a 5 gallon bucket. That the joy of a bike ride delayed for the sake of what needs to be done is mysteriously more joyous indeed. I also learned that cramped hands and an aching back at the end of the day are signs of a sturdy and steady life.

That night we ate watermelon in the gazebo as the creek babbled its approval below. All the kids had gone home and the road yielded silently to the twilight. With tired legs, aching backs and dirty fingernails we loooked up at the gutters gleaming with the last red rays of the setting sun.

"Well done, Tim.", my dad smiled.

Filled with contentment, I replied, “I'll ride bikes tomorrow.”

Letter to a Weary Parent

2009-02-12T10:56:00.000-08:00

An Essay by Kintu

Weary parent, consider the towering transcendence of your power. It is that sober and majestic dominion, vested in you, by the assignment of both God and Nature. In its unblemished orthodoxy, your parental power must be unchallenged by any mortal foe or Earthly force. This includes the offspring over which you exercise your care. Remember that your just and rightful authority is only subject to the Divine. The slightest deviation from this orthodoxy will do violence to the very nature of your parenting and sadly consign it to the cheaper seats of peer to peer relationship. And in so doing, your relationship with your child will bend upon itself in the most cruel and ruinous ways.

Your parenting must remain an uncomplicated land. A land whose rulers savagely laugh at the democratic ideals of consensus and dissent. Dear parent, have you forgotten that you owe your progeny shelter, safety and the promise of love, but not a single vote in the advancing of your mission. On the contrary, gently, if not ruthlessly repress all rebellion without so much as a pinch of shame. Do this mindfully, humbly, gracefully and lovingly. But, pay no attention fellow parent, to today’s bourgeois therapist and voguish philosopher with their naive calls toward hyper-tolerance. No, steady now, under the heavy mantle of your calling to raise real men and women.

You must have the constant carriage of a benevolent dictator, absent the capricious whims of oppression. No, not aloof and detached, but present, caring and near. Be a ready servant of your child's needs with a life-laying down love. But, let there be no doubt about pant wearing. Remind yourself that anything with two heads is a monster and your family has room for but one. Know this. Napoleon Bonaparte with all of his extravagant might and Genghis Khan with all his merciless advances can only beg at the feet of one who can silence all comers by the simple utterance of four smooth words, "Because I said so...”.

O, the sweet deliciousness of the true parent.

Your parenting must possess all of the jurisdictional potency of the legislative, executive and judicial branches of democratic government, all rolled up into a two person totalitarian regime. For the happiness of your offspring, dear parent, lodge yourself firmly in the habitat of lordship, unwilling to relinquish a scintilla of your power. And what is the foundation from which this habitat arises? It can only be the very Word of God; which imbues you with more honor than kings.

Making your dwelling upon the Word will purchase undisturbed peace and joy for both you and your child. Oh, troubled waters will always rise against you. But, once rooted in this natural habitat, your command will not be weaken by the foot-stomping tantrum of the toddler, nor the bitter gall of unrequited teenage angst. No, to these and a thousand other contenders, the ascendancy of your parentage will not give way. You will have the quiet and deadly purr of the lioness over her pride.

Now, in the event you may become misguidedly bellicose toward your child with all this talk of power and call to arms; remember that it is for your child and not against her that you are strong. Make certain that the aim of your parental weaponry is forever arrayed not to the harm of your child, but against whatsoever or whomsoever should seek to harm him.

Above all, remember that you are first an Earthly child of a Heavenly parent, then an Earthly parent of a Heaven-sent child. To that end, weary parent, will grace and mercy strengthen you.