I did it. I became a baker at Flatbread Company.
My mission, should I choose to accept it - fire maintenance and flatbread perfection, golden bottoms and golden brown crusts with a slight crispiness to the edges. A thorough evenness of bake through the crust, sauce, cheese and toppings.
I've wanted to become a baker for awhile and I smile now that I have. I smile for the accomplishment (I wrote down in March that I wanted to acquire this specific position), but more so because I can apply past skills that have been tucked away like childhood clothes in the recesses of my memory.
The more obvious skills I draw upon range from building a fire in my camping experiences to baking fresh hearty loaves of bread and knowing when to take them out of the oven by feel, smell and science. And the less obvious skills range from playing lacrosse goalie to drawing mazes and playing video games.
The way the baker maneuvers the peel from the assembly station into the oven, all the while servers, hostesses and guests walk by, fitting up to 10 flatbreads at a time in the large and tightly packed oven, requires a deftness of hand and concentration. The oven on a busy night will average between 800 and 1000 degrees fareinheit. The "pressure" to rotate each flatbread with the right timing to get an even bake while not losing track of the others, all while weilding and spinning the peel brings me back to playing lacrosse. I envision the motion of saving a ball aimed for the lower left corner of the goal, and I would swing the head of my goalie stick perched above my right shoulder across my body, lifting my left hand towards the sky and the right hand attacking the projection of the ball. There is a cause and effect too, to the timing of the flatbreads and spinning them not too early and not too late depending on the temperature of the oven to attain the perfect bake, or make the save.
Sliding the flatbreads around to the hotspots and rotating the ones in the back to the front is very videogame like. I have a feeling I'm going to be playing this level for a while until I master it. Not to mention I'm sweating from the heat of the oven and trying not to singe my eyelashes and forearms. The oven and open kitchen are in full view of the guests so they can watch their doughs being stretched, pizzas being assembled and then baked for 6-8 minutes.
I very much enjoy the marriage of science and intuition with baking. The fire maintenance is the most important aspect of the job, and if the airflow is good, and the log cabin is strong, it is easier to maintain and pile new wood on top in twos as the base burns to hot coals and ashes. If the fire is just right, the bottoms and tops will cook evenly and beautifully throughout the night. There is a sixth sense to knowing the oven, and that can be tapped into when you get into the rhythm of the baking. When you know the one and two spot can be taken out, the three can be turned and the four can be rotated for another 25 seconds before done. I've only baked a handful of times, but finding this rhythm is what allowed me to succeed in this first week. Just as in assembly that extra pepperoni can make the flatbread, so can those extra 15 seconds of leaving it in the oven.
I've written down some other possible futures that I'd like to manifest, and with the confidence in myself and the magic of this island, I believe I'll be able to achieve the goals I wish to. An alaskan fishing boat, a trip to europe, buying land on the mainland and building on it. This writing acts like planting seeds. If the conditions and the season is right, these ideas will germinate and when they form their first leaves, I will wake up and see and feel their tangible presence right in front of me. Another reason to be patient with Mother Time.
Waking up and spending a few hours in the garden or going for a walk/jog on the beach, sweating in front of the oven and eating natural foods from the health food/grocery store have given life a nice boost lately. Taking the time to cook my meals again at home and not just mix together fruit and granola is making me more aware and I can get myself going, but when things externally are clicking, it sure helps me figure things out. I've been in and out of myself the last six months, distracted by decisions, economy, and that which isn't very relevant to myself or the present. I've been in dazes and have misplaced my sense of self in the mix of solitude, broken down cars, helplessness, women, and society. I don't want to say I handled this time period wrongly, but I've learned and grew and find myself here, now. And as a baker at flatbread and par-time farmer, with enough money to pay for rent and good eataing for the time being on Maui, and a trip to Alaska planned in the next year, I've sorted through this clutter that is essential to life and hope to continue on in a positive path. I haven't learned many lessons as important as to trust in yourself. Trust who you are and who you will become.
And trust that the carne and veggie specials this week were mouth-watering delicious.
Carne Special:
Mediterranean marinated chicken, artichoke hearts and diced tomatoes base. Mozzarella and feta cheese melted above, with red onions and pepperoncini garnishing the top with flavor and color. Parmesan cheese and herbs sprinkled.
Veggie Special:
Rosemary cream sauce with spinach and potatoes. Mozzarella, gruyere and roasted garlic. Parmesan cheese and herbs sprinkled on top.
And at home I cooked grass-fed local beef in coconut oil with rosemary, spike, garlic and tobasco sauce. And added that to a stir-fry of onions, tomatoes, zucchini, okinawa spinach and Moloka'i purple sweet potatoes.
Going to get back into baking breads soon, and the more time I spend in the garden the better I feel. I found out recently that Aina is not literally translated to 'land,' but instead, 'that which feeds us.' I'm happy to work in a restaurant that harvests local organic ingredients, both vegetables and meats and uses kiave wood, a sustainable resource, to cook our food instead of gas or electric burners. The way of the future.
- Matthew
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Like a Complete Unknown, Like a Rolling Dice.
Life should not be forced. If you're dealt a good hand, you run with it take your chances get caught up make mistakes and do it all over again. If you're dealt a poor hand, you don't discard everything, you play with what you've got. There is strategy, and behind those doors lies a dreaming giant. Some dub this giant fate.
It is 5:30 am and the birds share their liveliest conversation in the humid pink purple morning sky. I listen. Because what else is there to do at 5:30 am? We find ourselves in such a hurry to be productive and measure our productivity in a tangible form. As I've stated before on wealth, listening is building, and lightening your attachments is flying.
That is the setting, and here is the subject. Backgammon. A game I played briefly in my single digit years has recently been brought back into my life on my return trips to Hana. I've been playing on a 30+ year old game, and learning not just the rules again and how to win, but how to properly play the game. I've learned the ettiquette, the betting, and have considered how the universe unfolds similar to a game of backgammon, with a combination of both strategy and fate. Doing what you can and acknowledging what is out of your control. This is easier to recognize when playing backgammon in the jungle in between papaya and coconut trees, where the rainfall is so immense that nature provides food with no human touch necessary except broadcasting some seeds, or in this case, rolling the dice.
Backgammon has been studied by computer scientists and in the adjacent room, a priest and a rabbi duel it out. From ancient mesopotamia to the elizabethan era to 20th century new york city, we play.
Life should not be forced. I've relearned the game and have found new players, new strategies, met people who learned to play in Iran, Israel and Mexico. And now, moved into my new house in Paia, I discover the landlord also has a 30+ year old set. It is my belief that when the frequency you are exposed to of something rises, it is not an accident. So I write.
Like chess, there are many openings and strategies, more aggressive and defensive strategies, and the more you play, the more apparent they become. But no matter the experience you have playing this game, if you roll the dice well, get doubles and 5-3 and 6-4 or 3-2 just when you need them, you can be at a major advantage. I was playing for money, low stakes, and was neck and neck with my opponent. He had a one roll advantage over me and we were matching each other, each not missing an opportunity to take our pieces out. Because he was one roll ahead, it appeared he was going to win with his two remaining pieces sitting on the white triangle, two away from the exit. The only possible combination of dice he could roll to not win was a 1-2, a 1 out of 36 chance, or less than 3%, and that was the precise combination which showed up. Was that fate's gentle nudge, the backgammon gods sweet vengeance, good karma, or a guardian angel smiling? These are not times to gloat, just to accept and smile because it could very well have happened the other way around.
All games, not just the oldest two player board game, "one dark, one light," add a balance to your life. It may assist you in shedding a layer, adding a new one, or just put the rest of your day into perspective. To conclude, a quote from a book called "The Passion" and keeping with the theme All Pursuits Worthwhile,
You play, you win, you play you lose. You play.
It is 5:30 am and the birds share their liveliest conversation in the humid pink purple morning sky. I listen. Because what else is there to do at 5:30 am? We find ourselves in such a hurry to be productive and measure our productivity in a tangible form. As I've stated before on wealth, listening is building, and lightening your attachments is flying.
That is the setting, and here is the subject. Backgammon. A game I played briefly in my single digit years has recently been brought back into my life on my return trips to Hana. I've been playing on a 30+ year old game, and learning not just the rules again and how to win, but how to properly play the game. I've learned the ettiquette, the betting, and have considered how the universe unfolds similar to a game of backgammon, with a combination of both strategy and fate. Doing what you can and acknowledging what is out of your control. This is easier to recognize when playing backgammon in the jungle in between papaya and coconut trees, where the rainfall is so immense that nature provides food with no human touch necessary except broadcasting some seeds, or in this case, rolling the dice.
Backgammon has been studied by computer scientists and in the adjacent room, a priest and a rabbi duel it out. From ancient mesopotamia to the elizabethan era to 20th century new york city, we play.
Life should not be forced. I've relearned the game and have found new players, new strategies, met people who learned to play in Iran, Israel and Mexico. And now, moved into my new house in Paia, I discover the landlord also has a 30+ year old set. It is my belief that when the frequency you are exposed to of something rises, it is not an accident. So I write.
Like chess, there are many openings and strategies, more aggressive and defensive strategies, and the more you play, the more apparent they become. But no matter the experience you have playing this game, if you roll the dice well, get doubles and 5-3 and 6-4 or 3-2 just when you need them, you can be at a major advantage. I was playing for money, low stakes, and was neck and neck with my opponent. He had a one roll advantage over me and we were matching each other, each not missing an opportunity to take our pieces out. Because he was one roll ahead, it appeared he was going to win with his two remaining pieces sitting on the white triangle, two away from the exit. The only possible combination of dice he could roll to not win was a 1-2, a 1 out of 36 chance, or less than 3%, and that was the precise combination which showed up. Was that fate's gentle nudge, the backgammon gods sweet vengeance, good karma, or a guardian angel smiling? These are not times to gloat, just to accept and smile because it could very well have happened the other way around.
All games, not just the oldest two player board game, "one dark, one light," add a balance to your life. It may assist you in shedding a layer, adding a new one, or just put the rest of your day into perspective. To conclude, a quote from a book called "The Passion" and keeping with the theme All Pursuits Worthwhile,
You play, you win, you play you lose. You play.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Searching for Inspiration, the Train and the Station
How does an individual become inspired to begin something new? I've found myself stuck, unable to write, unable to create new actions or break habits I wanted to get out of. There are external reasons that attracted me towards this lull, but nothing too strong that I would not be able to combat this internally if I were with a stronger self, one I know I'm capable of becoming. It begins with simple steps, and you'll now witness me examine writing as a way to begin something new.
I had this thought in my head and now I want to transcribe it onto the page. The thought was simple - This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. This repeated itself and I wanted to meditate further on it. This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. It is quiet. The ocean is immense. The wind is consistent. The sun always sets. There is a light rain which makes its way northwest. The hills behind and to the side are green and vast. They shift the wind around the mountain.
The idea of home intrigues me and leads me to questions. When does a new place become or feel like home? Or is home where you sleep at night steadily? Why is a bum considered homeless if he sleeps under the same bridge each night? Is home a roof and walls? Is it a return trip back to one's own country? Is it on a warm beach under the stars or in the deep thick woods or on top of a snowy summit? I don't know these answers, but I have feelings of certainty about some aspects of what Home is, or part of what Home is to me.
Home is
A curving wind brings us a tale
of a breeze that pushed one towards the edge
and a mouse that crawled through it
Under this hole we lift a canvas
spread like unraveled yarn across the sky
depicting a heart at its core
with curved blankets guarding its secular soul
belonging to the blind infant
free to see what matters
While a wild breeze beckons the gopher
to fly towards the sky from the fertile earth
to fill an unused unnurtured potential
The universe awaits us halfway
Hungry is the wolf after months without prety
Hungry is the lion when the gazzelles migrate
Thirsty is the bedouine when the well dries up
Forthright is the soul when destiny awaits
Passionate is the heart who wields the body
Home is where man lives with the land
A writer is meant to speak their thoughts onto the page, uninterrupted, unedited. To write the mind and the welfare of society and the state of the human race. To write of immigrants and nationalists and abandoned youths and wars and enslavement. He is supposed to write what he sees and how he feels about it, unconcerned with everything else. A writer must write and architect must design, and a man must pursue his dreams. And when his dreams are unknown, he must pursue life with faith, or else he will cease. Something must keep him ticking. He thinks too much about Time. Not just now, but the past and the future and how they operate. He does this more when he is alone, but he does it too, when he is around people and animals. He connects with animals as they understand much and care too. He is happier when he cares. He is scared to disappoint so he lets himself appear a mystery to most, even himself.
The Writer
he marvels at the human race
its childlike war influenced comic book imagination
and its conviction
to kill a fellow man and plant a garden
to swim alongside a dolphin
and fly through the mountains in a 747
to hunt meat and prepare it for a family
and then argue about the mundane
to sleep or not sleep for days straight
and more than anything
he marvels at the races ability
to love
and to not love
Quick update of my life:
Moving to walking distance from a town with a population over 1000 for the first time in a few years, will hopefully be able to write about this change, as I find myself more alive and inspired to write when in the state of transition. Reread Kafka on the Shore by Murakami and read All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy for the first time. I'd like to be recommended a living American author who writes better than Cormac McCarthy. Relieved to have sold my Subaru and might be buying a truck soon. Working at Flatbread still and am excited that I'm training to bake this week. Sierra Nevada's Bigfoot Ale and a ginger beer mixed with 10 Cane Rum are both very delicious. So was the Carne special last week, Bleu Cheese cream sauce with bacon, tomatoes, spinach and mushrooms. Am finding myself closer to commiting to spend summer 2012 in Alaska on a fishing boat (unlikely to be crab). Stoked to have an oven at my new place and will be getting back into baking, bagels and challahs and cinnamon raisin breads here I come. Still on the lookout for mainland job opportunities in Oregon/New Mexico/Colorado. Until then, getting back into the aloha spirit that I misplaced for a minute. Congratulations to my friends who just graduated and I wish you all luck on your journey which begins now.
Summertime, and the livin' is.
- Matthew
And an excerpt from All The Pretty Horses on "fate"My father had a great sense of the connectedness of things. I'm not sure I share it. He claimed that the responsibilty for a decision could never be abandoned to a blind agency but could only be relegated to human decisions more and more remote from their consequences. The example he gave was of a tossed coin that was at one time a slug in a mint and of the coiner who took that slug from the tray and placed it in the die in one of two ways and from whose act all followed, cara y cruz. No matter through whatever turnings nor how many of them. Till our turn comes at last and our turn passes.
She smiled. Thinly. Briefly.
(A few pages later)
It's not so much that I dont believe in it. I dont subscribe it its nomination. If fate is the law then is it also subject to that law? At some point we cannot escape naming responsibility. It's in our nature. Sometimes I think we are all like that myopic coiner at his press, taking the blind slugs one by one from the tray, all of us bent so jealously at our work, determined that not even chaos be outside of our making.
I had this thought in my head and now I want to transcribe it onto the page. The thought was simple - This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. This repeated itself and I wanted to meditate further on it. This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. It is quiet. The ocean is immense. The wind is consistent. The sun always sets. There is a light rain which makes its way northwest. The hills behind and to the side are green and vast. They shift the wind around the mountain.
The idea of home intrigues me and leads me to questions. When does a new place become or feel like home? Or is home where you sleep at night steadily? Why is a bum considered homeless if he sleeps under the same bridge each night? Is home a roof and walls? Is it a return trip back to one's own country? Is it on a warm beach under the stars or in the deep thick woods or on top of a snowy summit? I don't know these answers, but I have feelings of certainty about some aspects of what Home is, or part of what Home is to me.
But what if home is imaginary, false, idol worship. Is home only where we are born? Does it not exist without familiarity? Is a dancing pink purple and orange sky only meant for those born under those colors? Does home haunt those who lose it, and can it be truly lost, or instead temporarily misplaced? Is home a desire or is it innate? A want or a need, can it be wholly neglected?
What I think is most important is home is whatever it means to you and that it is better to be thought of positively for health and peace of mind.
Home is
A curving wind brings us a tale
of a breeze that pushed one towards the edge
and a mouse that crawled through it
Under this hole we lift a canvas
spread like unraveled yarn across the sky
depicting a heart at its core
with curved blankets guarding its secular soul
belonging to the blind infant
free to see what matters
While a wild breeze beckons the gopher
to fly towards the sky from the fertile earth
to fill an unused unnurtured potential
The universe awaits us halfway
Hungry is the wolf after months without prety
Hungry is the lion when the gazzelles migrate
Thirsty is the bedouine when the well dries up
Forthright is the soul when destiny awaits
Passionate is the heart who wields the body
Home is where man lives with the land
A writer is meant to speak their thoughts onto the page, uninterrupted, unedited. To write the mind and the welfare of society and the state of the human race. To write of immigrants and nationalists and abandoned youths and wars and enslavement. He is supposed to write what he sees and how he feels about it, unconcerned with everything else. A writer must write and architect must design, and a man must pursue his dreams. And when his dreams are unknown, he must pursue life with faith, or else he will cease. Something must keep him ticking. He thinks too much about Time. Not just now, but the past and the future and how they operate. He does this more when he is alone, but he does it too, when he is around people and animals. He connects with animals as they understand much and care too. He is happier when he cares. He is scared to disappoint so he lets himself appear a mystery to most, even himself.
The Writer
he marvels at the human race
its childlike war influenced comic book imagination
and its conviction
to kill a fellow man and plant a garden
to swim alongside a dolphin
and fly through the mountains in a 747
to hunt meat and prepare it for a family
and then argue about the mundane
to sleep or not sleep for days straight
and more than anything
he marvels at the races ability
to love
and to not love
Quick update of my life:
Moving to walking distance from a town with a population over 1000 for the first time in a few years, will hopefully be able to write about this change, as I find myself more alive and inspired to write when in the state of transition. Reread Kafka on the Shore by Murakami and read All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy for the first time. I'd like to be recommended a living American author who writes better than Cormac McCarthy. Relieved to have sold my Subaru and might be buying a truck soon. Working at Flatbread still and am excited that I'm training to bake this week. Sierra Nevada's Bigfoot Ale and a ginger beer mixed with 10 Cane Rum are both very delicious. So was the Carne special last week, Bleu Cheese cream sauce with bacon, tomatoes, spinach and mushrooms. Am finding myself closer to commiting to spend summer 2012 in Alaska on a fishing boat (unlikely to be crab). Stoked to have an oven at my new place and will be getting back into baking, bagels and challahs and cinnamon raisin breads here I come. Still on the lookout for mainland job opportunities in Oregon/New Mexico/Colorado. Until then, getting back into the aloha spirit that I misplaced for a minute. Congratulations to my friends who just graduated and I wish you all luck on your journey which begins now.
Summertime, and the livin' is.
- Matthew
And an excerpt from All The Pretty Horses on "fate"My father had a great sense of the connectedness of things. I'm not sure I share it. He claimed that the responsibilty for a decision could never be abandoned to a blind agency but could only be relegated to human decisions more and more remote from their consequences. The example he gave was of a tossed coin that was at one time a slug in a mint and of the coiner who took that slug from the tray and placed it in the die in one of two ways and from whose act all followed, cara y cruz. No matter through whatever turnings nor how many of them. Till our turn comes at last and our turn passes.
She smiled. Thinly. Briefly.
(A few pages later)
It's not so much that I dont believe in it. I dont subscribe it its nomination. If fate is the law then is it also subject to that law? At some point we cannot escape naming responsibility. It's in our nature. Sometimes I think we are all like that myopic coiner at his press, taking the blind slugs one by one from the tray, all of us bent so jealously at our work, determined that not even chaos be outside of our making.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Worthwhile Pursuit: Reading (there are millions of suns left)
Not much beats sitting down outside with a book on my lap, the sun on my bare back, and a cold beverage to sip on, taking in the wind, the smell of the salty breeze and the words and thoughts of a dead genius retelling his or her tale. Reading has become my daily meditation. I'm in the middle of All the Pretty Horses and The Poisonwood Bible. Just finished The Glass Bead Game, Norweigian Wood, Jitterbug Perfume, and Leaves of Grass. I work 50+ hour weeks and these authors have provided my balance.
I'd be a different man without books, without non-fictional and fictional accounts of lives somewhat different and acutely similar to our own. Whether they are set in the future (which might now be the past [1984]), or if they document or satire a time in history, they are all relevant because they reflect the human mind and our constant struggle with our atmosphere. Sometimes the environment consists of its fellow man or fellow animals, others with society, and often it is concerned with seeking its place in this universe.
There is no such book without conflict. Every character, just as every human in this world, is searching. And as these characters struggle, we identify their problems and relate them to our own and we learn. We may not find answers, but we find lessons and stimulation that help nurture our growth.
I don't read self-help books since there is little left to imagination and the authors are generally too confident and self-assured in their approach to writing, therefore not always accepting different approaches and interpretations to their work. I prefer poetry, fiction, magical realism, historical fiction, speculative fiction, science fiction, autobiography, biography, and some non-fiction. I like writing that is interactive and requires more than brief attention from the reader. Just as a good movie should provoke more thought when the screen fades to black and the end credits start to scroll.
I present a list here of some of my favorite writers, a quote from them, and their significance in my life.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.”
I read 100 Years of Solitude when I came to Maui and related the magical realism aspect of life to the island I was living on. He writes the world around him, which may read like fiction to someone from another land, but reality to his. I read the first chapter four times before I continued on to the rest of the novel. His writing style and content opened a world of possibility to me. It exposed to me the sadness that pervades into the lives of old resigned men, and the extraordinary strength that the human mind possesses to impact a seemingly obstinate world. Inventions, Magic, Inevitability. He has great short stories and also reflections on writing. He shares with Bukowski the feeling that if the writing is not pouring out of you, it is not worth forcing the words onto the page.
Ernest Hemingway
"All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”
Blunt honest sentences fill each line of every one of Hemingway's stories. He became unofficial spokesperson of the ex-patriate writers and artists in Paris and filled many pages with his worldly adventures. I respect that he wrote whenever he found time to, in between the wars he fought in, drinking, the big game hunting in Africa, sailing in between small islands of Central America, drinking, watching the bull fighting in Spain, fishing, and more drinking. His books are filled with emotions and often difficult to read because he doesn't skirt around the emotional truths of a messed up world. The arm-wrestling episode in The Old Man and the Sea and the short story A Clean and Well-Lighted Place reflect all the emotions a reader can feel from passion to helplessness and they are written in such a simple form.
Franz Kafka
"Perhaps they are nightbirds, perhaps the first one is armed."
Here is an outline of a Kafka story in a nutshell. A man living an ordinary life wakes up one day and something extraordinary happens to him (he wakes up as a bug, is sentenced to death for a crime he didn't committ). This result is his universe unfolds into a series of unexpected, unfortuitous events and he must react in uncomfortable ways and often not find any resolution within the place or himself. This is an exaggerated aspect of life that doesn't confront us daily, but when something unusual breaches our routine existence, people tend to disregard or ignore such occurence, and Kafka believes these moments are what define us as a race. His writing challenges the reader, not just to think about what if it were me, but emotionally challenges the reader to finish a story that can be very far removed from their own reality.
Jack Kerouac
"The first sip is joy, the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy."
On the Road changed Bob Dylan's life, along with every other American whose read it. He helped start a movement, The Beats. He did this through pouring out his soul onto the page. Each finger beating on the typewriter, each suffering breath he inhaled, each endless sentence describing exactly how he felt in his soul and what he saw was translated onto the page. He found a freedom to live exactly how he pleased. Reading Jack is a release, a breath of fresh air, to share his view of the world. His poetry, Town and the City, The Subterraneans, everything he put down on the page, every word he spoke in an interview, every drunken syllable uttered is coming from a man who lived for the journey and not the destination.
Ken Kesey
"I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph."
Many words can be said and shared about Ken Kesey as with Kerouac. He came a decade later, influenced by Kerouac, but also taking consciousness to a different level through a more direct drug influence and he became more political and extravagant. His road trips and Kool-Aid Acid tests interest me, Tom Wolfe's book is incredible, but his novel Sometimes A Great Notion stands out as his greatest contribution to this world in my mind. The characters and themes and landscape and writing are all so extraordinarily larger than life that the owner of the mind who conceived this epic must too belong to a man also larger than life. He writes of man and his conflict with nature, love, society, America and destiny, and does so in beautiful and manic prose. The reader is able to identify six different voices in the same paragraph of characters' dialogue or thought processes or song lyrics on a radio station without actually pointing out who is saying what, through his succintness in style and voice. The novel is an epic, and the author is a hero.
JD Salinger
"I never saw such a bunch of apple-eaters."
Catcher in the Rye is great, but I'd rather read the Glass Family. A fictional family filled with seven precocious genius children that became more of a reality to the author than the world he withdrew from. For Esme - With Love and Squalor and Teddy are two incredible short stories that exhibit his range as a writer and his progression and knowledge of eastern thought.
And here is an excerpt from Walt Whitman's poem Song of Myself, an inspiration to a few of the above authors, and myself.
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the
earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Each of these authors is a personal hero of mine. They all had their struggles, their transcendence and their zen. Both the words they wrote and lives they lived inspire me to swim in the waters I am in now. I could write pages on each, but wanted to dedicate at least one post to them as a whole. This is part 1. Hermann Hesse, Haruki Murakami, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan, Kurt Vonnegut, Alan Moore, Jeanette Winterson to come.
(apologies for my uninspired writing on the last few posts, I wanted to keep updating and am trying to discipline myself with deadlines, which is what kept Hunter S Thompson sane, but the quality is in this case compromised.)
I'd be a different man without books, without non-fictional and fictional accounts of lives somewhat different and acutely similar to our own. Whether they are set in the future (which might now be the past [1984]), or if they document or satire a time in history, they are all relevant because they reflect the human mind and our constant struggle with our atmosphere. Sometimes the environment consists of its fellow man or fellow animals, others with society, and often it is concerned with seeking its place in this universe.
There is no such book without conflict. Every character, just as every human in this world, is searching. And as these characters struggle, we identify their problems and relate them to our own and we learn. We may not find answers, but we find lessons and stimulation that help nurture our growth.
I don't read self-help books since there is little left to imagination and the authors are generally too confident and self-assured in their approach to writing, therefore not always accepting different approaches and interpretations to their work. I prefer poetry, fiction, magical realism, historical fiction, speculative fiction, science fiction, autobiography, biography, and some non-fiction. I like writing that is interactive and requires more than brief attention from the reader. Just as a good movie should provoke more thought when the screen fades to black and the end credits start to scroll.
I present a list here of some of my favorite writers, a quote from them, and their significance in my life.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.”
I read 100 Years of Solitude when I came to Maui and related the magical realism aspect of life to the island I was living on. He writes the world around him, which may read like fiction to someone from another land, but reality to his. I read the first chapter four times before I continued on to the rest of the novel. His writing style and content opened a world of possibility to me. It exposed to me the sadness that pervades into the lives of old resigned men, and the extraordinary strength that the human mind possesses to impact a seemingly obstinate world. Inventions, Magic, Inevitability. He has great short stories and also reflections on writing. He shares with Bukowski the feeling that if the writing is not pouring out of you, it is not worth forcing the words onto the page.
Ernest Hemingway
"All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”
Blunt honest sentences fill each line of every one of Hemingway's stories. He became unofficial spokesperson of the ex-patriate writers and artists in Paris and filled many pages with his worldly adventures. I respect that he wrote whenever he found time to, in between the wars he fought in, drinking, the big game hunting in Africa, sailing in between small islands of Central America, drinking, watching the bull fighting in Spain, fishing, and more drinking. His books are filled with emotions and often difficult to read because he doesn't skirt around the emotional truths of a messed up world. The arm-wrestling episode in The Old Man and the Sea and the short story A Clean and Well-Lighted Place reflect all the emotions a reader can feel from passion to helplessness and they are written in such a simple form.
Franz Kafka
"Perhaps they are nightbirds, perhaps the first one is armed."
Here is an outline of a Kafka story in a nutshell. A man living an ordinary life wakes up one day and something extraordinary happens to him (he wakes up as a bug, is sentenced to death for a crime he didn't committ). This result is his universe unfolds into a series of unexpected, unfortuitous events and he must react in uncomfortable ways and often not find any resolution within the place or himself. This is an exaggerated aspect of life that doesn't confront us daily, but when something unusual breaches our routine existence, people tend to disregard or ignore such occurence, and Kafka believes these moments are what define us as a race. His writing challenges the reader, not just to think about what if it were me, but emotionally challenges the reader to finish a story that can be very far removed from their own reality.
Jack Kerouac
"The first sip is joy, the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy."
On the Road changed Bob Dylan's life, along with every other American whose read it. He helped start a movement, The Beats. He did this through pouring out his soul onto the page. Each finger beating on the typewriter, each suffering breath he inhaled, each endless sentence describing exactly how he felt in his soul and what he saw was translated onto the page. He found a freedom to live exactly how he pleased. Reading Jack is a release, a breath of fresh air, to share his view of the world. His poetry, Town and the City, The Subterraneans, everything he put down on the page, every word he spoke in an interview, every drunken syllable uttered is coming from a man who lived for the journey and not the destination.
Ken Kesey
"I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph."
Many words can be said and shared about Ken Kesey as with Kerouac. He came a decade later, influenced by Kerouac, but also taking consciousness to a different level through a more direct drug influence and he became more political and extravagant. His road trips and Kool-Aid Acid tests interest me, Tom Wolfe's book is incredible, but his novel Sometimes A Great Notion stands out as his greatest contribution to this world in my mind. The characters and themes and landscape and writing are all so extraordinarily larger than life that the owner of the mind who conceived this epic must too belong to a man also larger than life. He writes of man and his conflict with nature, love, society, America and destiny, and does so in beautiful and manic prose. The reader is able to identify six different voices in the same paragraph of characters' dialogue or thought processes or song lyrics on a radio station without actually pointing out who is saying what, through his succintness in style and voice. The novel is an epic, and the author is a hero.
JD Salinger
"I never saw such a bunch of apple-eaters."
Catcher in the Rye is great, but I'd rather read the Glass Family. A fictional family filled with seven precocious genius children that became more of a reality to the author than the world he withdrew from. For Esme - With Love and Squalor and Teddy are two incredible short stories that exhibit his range as a writer and his progression and knowledge of eastern thought.
And here is an excerpt from Walt Whitman's poem Song of Myself, an inspiration to a few of the above authors, and myself.
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the
earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Each of these authors is a personal hero of mine. They all had their struggles, their transcendence and their zen. Both the words they wrote and lives they lived inspire me to swim in the waters I am in now. I could write pages on each, but wanted to dedicate at least one post to them as a whole. This is part 1. Hermann Hesse, Haruki Murakami, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan, Kurt Vonnegut, Alan Moore, Jeanette Winterson to come.
(apologies for my uninspired writing on the last few posts, I wanted to keep updating and am trying to discipline myself with deadlines, which is what kept Hunter S Thompson sane, but the quality is in this case compromised.)
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