Give and Take

When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.

I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.

It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.

A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.

Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.

My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.

---

As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.

Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.

---

I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?

I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.

But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.

Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.

So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.

And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.

As for Why I Use an Ekans

I think I owe the Waichowsky brothers a good deal of money for their movie Speed Racer. Not that I pirated it or anything—just that I never saw it in theatres and, well, I’ve watched the DVD more times than a DVD probably should be watched. I like to keep some sort of track of how often I’ve seen my favorite films. For the shock value, I guess, when I tell my friends. It’s not as if I sit around all day and watch movies though. It’s just that I, instead of going to theatres, renting other movies, or buying new ones, am often quite content to see the same four or five films over and over again.

I’ve seen Serenity over twenty times (my estimate is twenty-one), Batman Begins around fifteen, and Speed Racer, well, I must be nearing fifteen with that film as well.

There’s a common theme here. Take Serenity: space cowboy Malcolm Reynolds, while harboring fugitives from the oppressive Alliance, stumbles on a truth so earthshattering that it threatens to topple the entire regime. He—although a bandit, smuggler, and thief by day—risks life, limb, and crew in the service of broadcasting this revelation. At any time he could have sold out Simon and River, the two fugitives, but he does not. In the face of all that feels right, he does instead what is right. (Not to moralize the film for you. The film does that for itself.) Batman Begins is the story of vigilante justice, as is Speed Racer to some degree. They’re all about overcoming. Perseverance. Integrity.

Lofty words that operate on a much smaller scale here in the real world.

---

Me: you know, I've still never been to a college party

John: heh, you're gonna haveta fix that someday
it's something one should experience, even if one doesn't enjoy it

Me: wtf are you saying

John: what I mean? (and meaning what I say?)

Me: I don't understand
wait, do poker parties count?
there was on occasion loud music and alcohol

John: >_>

Me: what do you want/expect from me?

John: dancing, alcohol, girls
poker is allowed if you have to drink after losing a hand

Me: but the only drink I like is whisky
and nobody keeps that laying around

John: haha, you're like an old english gentleman
don't get me wrong, beer sucks ass. Don't think I'll ever enjoy that drink.

Me: anyway, I'm in no position to even be invited to parties
I have no community through which I might access such things

John: you'd be surprised

Me: and all this before the consideration of whether or not I'd want to

John: yup
simply acknowledging the possibility

Me: I find possibility to be irrelevant of late

John: of late?

Me: yeah
I am here
stuff is there:
irrelevant

John: huh?

Me: I have enough to worry about without chasing the shadows of ghosts of constructs that I’m not interested in to start with

John: ghosts? Constructs? Dude, I know you're a creative writing major but seriously?

Me: I'm speaking about the relativity of existence

---

At its heart, Speed Racer is a movie about three things; doing what you love, doing what’s right, and never giving up. Bright colors, quirky editing, and dramatic lighting, in defiance of convention, come standard.

---

When I was younger, I wanted to be a computer programmer. To my child’s mind, it sounded like the ultimate job—computers were at that time already integral components of pretty much everything, so the job market would be easy to slide into. Plus, I was pretty sure that programming computers paid well.

I wrote an exploratory paper about the work of a programmer in a paper for my eighth grade English paper. I discovered why computer programmers are paid so well. Their job is boring and tedious, and I would never make it.

Mr. Jones introduced me, effectively, to the world of science. Seemingly more amenable than computer programming, it held my interest until the first quarter of college, where a difficult calculus class showed me that I would never be happy there either.

---

John: I'm still a bit confused as to your reasons. You want to experience college, yeah?

Me: beats me
what's college?

John: good question
only one way to find out though
and it's not second hand

Me: that's a fallacy
x exists
let's experience x, it must be fun

John: yeah, I know, I know
how about this then, writers draw from experience

Me: but not specific experience

John: nope

Me: if that were the case, all writing would be the same
would you like me to write a vampire novel too?

John: YES!

Me: why would I write about something I have nothing to say about?

John: oh, vampires are simply an embellishment of many human things
lust, sin, using people
...bats
all of which can be found at any good party =P

Me: but they are not the only embellishment of human things
they are only one

John: but you're avoiding my main point

Me: you're discarding my retort

John: I mean, if you honestly don't want the experience, far be it from me to say you should have it

Me: what is the experience? I'm not trying to be existential
i mean, let's define what I'm passing up on

John: why, the quintessential college party!

Me: what is it?
beyond names
beyond categories
what am I missing out on?

John: hard to say in words

---

Sometimes when I fantasize about having children, I wonder if it’s not just because I want to be around people who understand me.

---

In biblical times, the transformation from boy to man took place quickly, culminating in five quick social steps that facilitated the transformation. In modern times, capitalist media has encouraged if not created a stage of life in between—we call this stage adolescence. In it, we have been convinced that we are defined (passive voice) by what we consume as opposed to what we produce. I consume the heroes of movies and produce none of my own heroics.

But at the same time, I consume food and produce something decidedly less than foodlike.

---

Me: dude, fuck zubat, seriously

John: fuckin' zubat.
can't do shit

Me: tell that to my ekans
he's the one getting destroyed by a zubat less than half his level
Christ

John: why would you use an ekans?

Me: for fun

John: even arbok isn't so good

Me: you'd never guess it but using unconvential pokemon makes the game much more interesting

John: I see

...If My Brother Goes Before Me

As I write this, my brother is quite well. It is 10:45 in the morning, so he’s almost certainly at his work desk, drafting some building details. Maybe he’d rather be home, working on the flooring in the living room, or cutting back the excess fireplace stone, or setting up the kitchen.
Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.

In a church service I attended last night, the pastor mentioned how in ancient times a man went through five quick transitional steps in order to facilitate the transition from boy to man. It’s funny to think of these five steps as they relate to my brother. In a short span of time, he knocked out four out of five of them—move out, finish vocational education, get a stable job, and start a family. The fifth and only step he has yet to take, according to ancient custom, is to have children.

And as I think about his influence in my own life, it is amazing how these responsibilities of his have changed him in my own eyes. I don’t know how I thought of my brother before all of this happened, but I know how I think of him now—one of the strongest and most dependable role models in my life. His every action is an inspiration. He picked up his goals in life and did work, so to speak.

This isn’t to say that he’s perfect by any means. Of the two of us, he is surely the one lacking in the general effectiveness of communication. Growing up with him, and my parents as well, was at times a nightmare. And I was the mediator of these communicational horrors.

We enjoy each other’s company now, my brother and I, something you’d never have believed in seeing us grow up. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. Get out of my room! I hate you! Why won’t you just leave me alone? But he was as stubborn as I was (if not more) and the rages that I descended into would only fuel the fires of his rebellion. At last, when primal screams were my only remaining channel for expression, bringing the attention of my parents with ambulance speed; was anyone hurt? What was going on? Then, realizing the nature of the dispute (whatever it was) we would be told to get along, that they could hear me screaming from the street.

---

My brother doesn’t call all that often. Even so, he is without a doubt the second most frequent of those on my call list. What he would never admit to, what neither of us would admit to, was that since I had moved out, up to the big world of Seattle, we had missed each other as kindred souls. His wife of a few months will tease him a bit, trying to expose me as his one soft spot. He has the heart to call me anyway, to let simple questions dissolve into conversations and catching up. Most often, he’s calling to invite me to a movie with his friends (which, let’s be honest, are my friends by now too) though I frequently decline due to prior obligations (work, mostly). If for nothing else than to talk for a bit, though, I’ve always appreciated the gesture.

Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.

I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.

He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.

But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.

-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.

Worthy of Prestige

I’m sitting in church (standing, actually), singing along with the music, searching out the harmonies—the tenor line, the bass. I’m not so involved that my eyes are closed, not so emphatic that my hands are waving in the air like so many others, but I am engaged enough, at least with the music, to face the temptation to burst into full out air-guitar. I think most would agree it’s not something you see a lot of people doing. In church. During worship.

I take evasive maneuvers.

Hands are pocketed. Would-be strumming movements are redirected to a shifting of body weight from the left to the right (which is somehow more acceptable). And in an effort to keep from getting too involved, I make my place in the world by bobbing along like everyone else in a subtle form of dance sanctioned in Chalcedon, 451 AD.

If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for my low ambitions; to be unable to express my love of God (or life, or walking down the street in the rain, or anything worth loving) in a form that I enjoy. What that matters in the end is that I’ve sold out. I’ve gone another week with the bobbing and pretending and there’s no going back, it seems.

But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then air guitar is worship. It’s one of those things that I have a covert passion for—not on the surface, not completely understood, though it’s likely as simple as a reaching out for celebrity.

---

I feel compelled to strum along whenever I can. 7 7 5 5 4 4 … 6^ 6 4. This song is in drop D tuning, but that’s the other thing about air guitar. It’s always in tune.

I want to reassure you by saying that yes, I do play the guitar. The real guitar. And to tell you that people who play a real guitar are in a somewhat better position to play a less real one. But that rings defensively, even to me, as if I must defend the practice of air guitar, when really I think the merits speak for themselves.

By merits I mean the actual enhancement of listening. Proper air guitarring is preceded by a close listening, wherein you hear all the parts you didn’t know were there before. It’s that “whoa” moment, when you realize that the rhythm guitar’s been arpegioing in the background the whole time, and even though you’ve heard the song a million times there’s something new about it.

A complicated rhythm is like a puzzle—where to palm mute? Where to strum? With some experience in guitar, I can echo familiar parts even if I have no idea exactly what notes are being played. It’s “oh, I see, this bit here is not so unlike the verse in ‘My Poor Brain,’” followed by an adaptable riff that is, most importantly, consistent. These points of reference provide valuable context to the eventual—and now more or less accurate—air guitar performance.

---

It would be fair to say that if air guitarring has a bad name, it only has itself to blame. Much of this can be attributed to the searching out of “good” air guitarists, through contests and championships and the like. As if air guitarring is A) a measureable skill and B) worthy of prestige.

Ochi Dainoji, the world champion from Japan, manages to imbue a lot of energy into his performance, and I might be impressed if it wasn’t just that—a performance. He goes through all of the motions of a successful rock and roll superstar, strapping the guitar over his shoulders, doing sound checks for a soundless instrument, talking to air managers off stage. It’s an impressive mime show. He even holds the guitar at the proper angles. But what he doesn’t have is any semblance of emotion for the music. Instead of the song, his performance is his god.

Because of this you see over exaggerations; windmill strumming made famous by Presley used to play a song by The Offspring at ten times a Blues tempo. Anachronism at its finest. And what better way to end an air guitar performance than to smash your air guitar on stage?

Maybe it’s just the bands I follow, or specifically the music I listen to that dictates “realistic” guitar playing, but I haven’t seen a musician seriously jump into the air, legs flying wide, while strumming rapid fire power chords in, well, ever. Kickdowns aside, my musical heroes keep their feet on the ground. But what do I know—I’m neither a rock star or an air guitar world champion.

Now, I’m not one to advocate too strongly that we lay aside our good humor and our search for fun in new and creative ways, but national air guitar tournaments seem a bit contrived. And maybe I don’t get it because I actually play the guitar. Because a lot of the time when I’m air guitarring it’s to a song that I can actually play, so when I move from fret to fret and strum to specific rhythm, it actually looks like I know what I’m doing instead of putting on a show. Maybe that’s why I can do it in public, shamelessly. Or at least, less shamefully. Regardless, even I have to agree that air guitar is not the best way to participate in church music.

The phenomena may be, as I’ve said, a reach for celebrity. A way to identify with our musical heroes. And when you get down to it, when I’m standing at a bus station with my headphones in, strumming away, I’m not doing it so that you’ll give me any attention. I’m not hoping that you’ll toss me a sideways glance and evaluate my technical prowess (if there’s any to be had). I’m doing it because deep down, I know that somewhere out there people are making music. And I want to be out there with them.

The Hand Speaks (adapted from Time and Motion...)

If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire.
-Matthew 18:8

I am fascinated by symbols. In a way, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.

Of course this is merely gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. More likely, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.

We’ve all heard the argument that time is a construct, and not something that inherently exists. When we try to quantify time, we are really only approximating locations. It’s not that we show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00, no--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.

In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect.

An example: in my younger years, I aspired to become a computer programmer. I thought, computers are fun, they’re hip, and I’ll probably make a lot of money working with them. Then I researched what a computer programmer actually does. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the task is repulsive in any way. I think I was disillusioned with the idea of playing with code in front of a computer all day long, but I couldn’t tell you for sure.

Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting, a cause to partner with the effect of me bailing on one dream and searching out another. There were components of my identity, symbols of what I was, that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.

I told my brother my discovery. I told him that all of the things that build up who we are can be reduced to symbols. I told him that even thinking this was a reflection of a symbol.

“These are my symbols.” I said, then thought about the mutability of time. “Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols.”

“You see?” I said. He blinked at me.

---

The more I thought about symbols the more I thought about objects, and which came first, and which meant what. How does a handgun symbolize both violence and self-defense? Somewhere along the line somebody created the handgun for one reason or the other. Maybe they had both offense and defense on the mind, though what I know of history i.e. people killing other people suggests that self-defense wasn’t on the mind of the first firearm inventors.

A handgun is only one of these weapons. But the handgun means nothing until it is held. Until it is used, until it is experienced through the ultimate interactive technology known to man: the hand.

We are what we do, what is done by our hands; creators, destroyers, artists and artisans all. All by the same mold, all by the same hands, all different for any reason at all.

The hand is us, and we are the hand.

It is a palm, a touch, a caress, a slap, a giver equally of pleasure and pain, a comforter and a deliverer of offensive commands too shocking to vocalize. The hand is as indeterminate and versatile as is our own person, and as such we are defined by our use of it. Does the hand hold a pen? A guitar? A baseball bat? A knife?

Does your knife cut tomatoes or flesh?

It makes a difference.

---

I cannot type with my mind. Not yet, at least. Everything you see here passed from synapse to nerve ending to Hand to nerve ending to synapse. The telepathy of language facilitated by finger movements on a piece of plastic with differently lettered keys. Can you hear me inside your head? That’s my hand speaking to you through the accumulation of letters. Is that natural?

Wrong question, maybe.

Perhaps we should ask; Is it what’s natural to us that defines us? What feels right as it sits in your palm? The machete from your dead grandfather? The one he probably used in Vietnam? Maybe. What about a tennis racket? Sure.

What these say about me is what they say about anyone else. I exist; I use tools. Without them I am still a man, but maybe not a tennis player. Maybe not a foot soldier. Is the war in my blood?

Is it not in everyone’s?

Curl the fingers inwards, wrap the thumb around, and your instrument of interaction is now a bludgeoning weapon. Or a symbol, yes, symbol of brotherhood, if two fists connect and separate shortly following.

Why is it that a fist feels so natural to me? I, who have never had to use it? Is there a violence somewhere underneath my skin? A self defense? What about my grandfather’s machete? Or his army relief? Both symbols of a militancy that shook out before my time. Both symbols with which I feel an uncanny connection.

In the end we are only what symbols we pick up and pick out; only what we use, and only what the Hand allows.

Time and Motion, Symbols and Semblance

I am fascinated by symbols. In ways, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.

Of course this is merely a gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. In totality, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.

You may have heard the argument for time as a construct, and not something that inherently exists. In some ways this is true--when we try to quantify time we are really only approximating locations. We don't show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.

In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect. I wanted to be a computer programmer, and then I researched computer programming and was disillusioned. Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting. There were components of my identity that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.

These are my symbols. Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols. You see?

It's not a chaos equation--there is some degree to which we appropriate and maintain certain symbols over others. There are priorities that we place in our lives.

The meaning is circular when you approach the beginning of one's existence--from where did certain affinities stem? One might be quick to suggest that parents, both biologically and ethnocentrically, create this foundation upon which we build ourselves. But that's just as circular as your own identification within a group, because the evolutionary chain of characteristics that create your parents come from their parents, and so on and so forth. In this then we must at some base level share a resemblance with one another, or if not, a similar base for experience when traced back and back and farther yet back.

Its always of interest to me, though, which symbols I carry with me at any given time. Sometimes I think, and wish, if I could just get it all down once, it would be so easy to maintain as things come and go. It's not like getting a tattoo which is expensive, uncomfortable for a week, and then potentially more expensive and more uncomfortable if you change your mind far too late. It's just a piece of paper, or a word document, or an excel spreadsheet, or... something. Anything.

How hard could it be? Writers constantly pour themselves out on the page, and I've enough material to fill columns and columns.

Is the work too hard? Too involved? Is laziness a symbol I've yet to purge?

Not if I can help it.