Safe and Sound...

Welp, I'm home! I'm in one piece, I made new friends, and I've got some cool stories to tell!

Maybe next time.

Shoes of the Subway

Have you ever noticed how much you can analyze about a person by their shoes?

It’s one of those incredible things that you don’t tend to think about, but once it’s brought to your attention you can never really stop noticing it again and again ever-afterwards. Judging shoes is usually such a subconscious process that once you start taking control of it and breaking down the process, you feel as accomplished as Sherlock Holmes.

You see, I’ve always loved people-watching… but it’s a difficult hobby to do discreetly. I think the idea to judge shoes first came to me while I was in an airport (one of my favorite people-watching arenas), but I immediately knew the process could be applied anywhere. You simply watch the shoes that walk by, try to make some sort of assumption about the wearer (athletic, rich, shallow, relaxed, outdoorsy)… then look up and see if the rest of the person’s clothing or demographic effects the rest of the picture. Or vice versa: how much does a person change in your mind once you look down?

For example, after coming to New York, one day I was sitting on the Subway when a huge man walked in, tattooed and everything. I was worried for a fraction of a second, until I saw his shoes: Doc Marten’s working boots. Suddenly I noticed the traces that this man had been working hard. A blue-collar job, perhaps, but a solid and respectable job nonetheless.

I immediately liked him after that. I didn’t think to start this photography series until days later, but I wish I’d gotten a picture of his shoes. Call me crazy, but only people who earn a decent living can afford Doc Martens… and only people who work hard would ever want to wear them.

And so, during my time here in New York, I spent not a few subway rides trying to take subtle pictures of the floor with my iPhone and prepare this short amateur photography series, entitled “Shoes of the Subway.”

(Thanks to Blogspot's less-than-stellar photo-posting abilities, I'm only showing a small number of the full series.)

Guess which teen the little boy belonged to!

What if I told you this was a teenage girl?
Now what if I said fifty-year-old man?
Funny how it works...

Fast asleep after a long work day.

     

These two women in the above pictures came into the same subway car from two different stops while wearing the exact same shoes, within three feet of each other, and didn't notice.

One of these three came from Wall
Street after a work day.

Somebody wasn't traveling alone...

What if I told you that girl in the flats was two feet shorter than the guy in sneakers?
Now what if I told you she was at least six feet tall?

He asked me for directions.

He wore a turban, and was traveling with his family.

Straight from the parade.

Drunk as a skunk.

Reading Magic Tree House out loud!

I overheard him telling someone that he was high.
Not what I expected from someone with such a put-together outfit.

"He loves me...
He loves me not..."

Two little brothers speaking French. There are a TON of French-speakers in NYC...

Guess what makes these girls particularly different -- besides their awesome fashion sense?

We actually got into a great conversation about her boots.

These were probably my personal favorite pair that I saw the whole trip.

And the best contrast goes to...

Fun fact: my own feet are somewhere in this series.

Movie Reviews: Guardians of the Galaxy

Whoever’s in charge of quality-control over at Marvel Studios is sure doing one heck of a job. The comic-book-based tycoon of a production company has been churning out incredibly complex, touching, humorous action films with an impressive amount of consistency throughout the past decade. Case in point: if any other brand-name studio tried to create a movie featuring classic eighties songs and a talking raccoon, they’d be laughed right into the ground. But not Marvel.

Ever since the first trailers to sci-fi adventure Guardians of the Galaxy came out with “Hooked On A Feeling” playing in the background, half of the current adolescent population suddenly bought the Blue Swede single on iTunes or dusted off their parents’ old Jackson 5 albums. Director James Gunn has created what many are calling a rip-roaring ‘space western,’ the like of which hasn’t been seen since Joss Whedon’s vastly underrated television series Firefly was canceled.

But the truth is, when I finally sat down to see Guardians I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect, because hearing people sing the praises of a Marvel movie is pretty much par for the course by now. In fact, many Marvel productions that are considered ‘great’ compared to non-Marvel films can be merely ‘okay’ when compared to other Marvel projects. This studio has almost created a league of their own in the cinema world. Their work is always witty, complex, and often makes fun of archetypal cliches that audiences have grown accustomed to seeing in superhero plot lines. They’re not perfect, of course, but they’re not a waste of money by any stretch of the imagination.

So the question in my mind when the projector rolled was, “Will this be a great movie? Or a great Marvel movie?” Because I’d honestly been led to believe the latter. 

(And by the way, while I always do my best to produce spoiler-free reviews, in this case I may include some footnotes for those of you who don’t mind some minor reveals).

The movie begins in the 80s, where we see just how the human main character, Peter Quill, ended up hanging with aliens in the first place. In the wake of a family tragedy where none of his relatives think to comfort him (or even keep an eye on the young boy, for that matter), he bursts into tears and runs off, unnoticed, to grieve. At that point, he’s suddenly abducted by a mysterious spaceship, and the childhood trauma likely reaches maximum capacity. Surely whoever he grows up to be, this kid is going to have some serious psychological issues.

But the next time we see Quill, fully grown on the surface of an alien planet, he doesn’t look that much worse for the wear. A little grungy, perhaps, but he’s still grooving to his childhood walkman like nobody’s business. And as it turns out, his kidnappers also happened to be mercenary thieves, so Quill has adapted accordingly: he’s out on his own, performing wild shenanigans and committing double-crosses that inevitably lead to the audience howling with laughter… and to his meeting a pretty motley crew of abrasive misfits. Each of them brings a new form of comedy to the screen, and each has a story: a personal injustice that led them to their current criminal lifestyle. But as time progresses, they up discovering a common cause to believe in, and they decide that it’s worth putting aside their grudges against society (and each other) in order to save the galaxy. What follows is both a side-splitting comedy, a pretty satisfying adventure, and a great movie... perhaps even a great Marvel movie, but that's debatable (though I may be alone in thinking that).

Guardians boasted a largely non-human character list, so it threw around alien names and cultures and terms until I had thoroughly lost track of who planned to hunt down/destroy/avenge/kidnap/double-cross/brainwash/conquer who… and this is coming from someone who can name all thirteen of the dwarves in The Hobbit without breaking a sweat. But even with all of my cognitive powers processing the storyline, I still got turned around a lot. That’s not to say that a second or third viewing won’t clear things up, but generally the reason one watches a movie a second time is to enjoy it, not to catch the jokes that were muttered too quietly to hear, or to figure out the politics that didn’t fully make sense the first time around.

Still, it’s not as if I’m going to have to be dragged into the second screening! I had a great time laughing at the band of delinquents, and was rather proud of them as they tried to trample all over the audience’s concept of what a superhero should look like. There were elements of that where they succeeded (case in point: a psychopathic raccoon who still saved more civilian lives and city buildings than Superman did in Man of Steel), but there were equally as many moments where they disappointed, too: like the required female character who must be tough but still attractive, so they just give her incredible fighting skills and then stick her in leather from head to toe. Or the heart-of-gold mercenary creature who can’t really speak English but is still understood and translated by his partner (can anyone say, Chewbacca?). And of course there were a few cliché moments, too, like when the heartbroken child Quill is somehow ignored by his entire extended family at a moment of peak trauma, or when someone gives a moving speech to his peers about what it truly means to be a hero, or when the villain hesitates in the middle of completing his evil scheme because he gets temporarily distracted by something petty, and so on.**

So on the whole, Guardians of the Galaxy may not really be anything new in the realm of space adventures as it claimed to be. I went in expecting a few more stereotypes to get shattered than actually did (though maybe Firefly just spoiled me when it comes to space westerns). But that’s no reason to consider Guardians a sub-par creation, perhaps even by Marvel standards — it's a perfect Friday night blockbuster for the whole family, and it's one hilarious roller-coaster ride that I can’t wait to get back in line for, many times to come.

**SPOILER BELOW**

…or when Groot has the classic moment of “actual” speech at the climax (seriously, had he just been holding it in for his entire life, or what? It’s not as if saying his usual three-word catchphrase would have made the moment any less emotional, especially if Rocket could translate it)… not to mention his not-so-heartbreaking death that we all knew wouldn’t last, since he’s a comic book character and has a history of re-growing broken limbs. I wonder if all those other twigs will become a little forest of Groots.

SONNETS (On Life and Adjustments)

[You may notice that they're numbered. I've just been numbering my sonnets instead of giving them titles. Trying to emulate Shakespeare a bit, I guess...]

4.

For any man to become truly wise

Before he dare accept something as true

He ought to look through several other eyes

And foster a more timeless point of view.

It’s easy to stand out in one’s own time

Or blend in, one lone letter on pages

But if you look beyond your printed line

And dare to gaze across the many ages

If you should read the book from end to end

To recognize what man has been, can be

You may lose your ability to blend

Into your current day and century

It seems that only history will tell

Whether a man adjusted truly well.

6.

Without any forces to beat us back

Or voices to answer questions we raise,

We’ve no way of knowing a worthwhile task

Or knowing when work ought to merit praise.

From itself a mind has little to learn,

But others are different, reborn each day:

New facets of laughter and trust to earn

That knock you off-course towards a new way

For souls always change and you must re-learn

What guides their decisions and surprises;

If nothing has value or needs be earned

And you had anything that entices,

You'd still find living is simply no fun

Unless you’ve something to do with someone.

On Worship and Imagination

For a long time growing up, I may have enjoyed corporate worship but I still felt a strange sort of awkwardness or dragging to it, on those days when I couldn’t somehow connect to the rippling force of joy that I’ve experienced on other days. I never liked to raise my hands or clap along, but half the time I felt obligated to since everyone else was, or since the songs were talking about raising hands. All I knew was that it didn't feel right. I didn't like being forced to do something just to conform, but I also didn't want to do something that no one else was doing and then get judged for it. No matter what the majority was doing —  kneeling, standing, sitting, with their eyes shut, eyes open, feet tapping, feet still, hands signing, fingers snapping… I just couldn’t find any particular thing that worked for me every time.

Then one day I figured out: that’s kind of the point. No single song or choreographed action is going to work for you every time you try to worship. Some days you’ll be too tired to do anything but sit and read your Bible. Other days, you’ll be dancing and belting out every note until you go hoarse. But often times, the thing that will distract you from worshipping freely is the self-consciousness that comes from being in a big crowd. If no one else is standing, should I really be standing? Raising my hands? Kneeling?

Ask yourself this: if you were either all by yourself in a room where nobody could see you, or else in a huge crowd where everyone was doing something completely different and not paying attention to you, what would you do?

Hopefully, when we come to worship, that’s what’s supposed to happen - whatever ‘it’ is to you, on whatever particular day you come to do it. We’re supposed to enjoy God and tell him how much we love him, with whatever language or actions we want. Dancers should go to the back and dance; singers should sing; shouters should shout; weepers should weep; spinners should spin around! Nobody should bother to pay attention to what anyone else is doing.

So me? Well, I used to just stick to singing. I didn’t like the whole raising-hands thing, because to me it just felt insincere. Sometimes I would have the instinct to sway, like there's a habit or force that's deep in my spine that has to glide along to the music. And even if I didn’t consider myself a dancer, when I shut my eyes and let my voice run free, for years I would still imagine angel dancers. Their feet would stomp with every beat and their hands would writhe into a sort of sign language that confirms every word being sung. They’re all choreographed and glorious, faces painted with great and terrible symbols and robes flowing like ribbons. I loved the beauty of it all, the joyful fury, and I would long to one day join the painted dancers… blending in and swooping about and swinging my arms in wide arches to illustrate just how great God is. But you can’t really do that in a church sanctuary without getting some weird looks.

Then one day, I was in a worship service, but had lost my voice more severely than I ever had before. I knew I would be perfectly fine in a day or two, but I wanted to worship God right then, and for once I couldn’t let my tongue do the work for me. I couldn’t sway back and forth and just listen… I had to do. But what to do?

Since I couldn’t sing, I used my hands: gesturing and signing whatever few words I knew… funny how “signing” need only switch two letters to become “singing.” And even though my body was signing, it was indeed my soul that finally started singing. Without my own voice or the notes to concentrate on, my energies went into finding new ways to express the old words I’d heard so many times. And I’ve found that at least in my case, it’s near impossible to make wide gestures without feeling something. I (and many other human beings) talk with gestures and hand movements all the time… but for some reason when worship starts we either put our hands down or occupy them with a few basic motions. Sometimes our hands are meant to swoop and point and spread out! Sometimes our fists are meant to pound along with the drums! If no one cared, then stomp I would! My hands would do their own interpretive dance, my voice would roam free, and sometimes I would bellow other words beside the chosen lyrics in the current song.

So that’s what I do. When I worship, I ignore everyone else. I join those dancers that my mind invented, and I don’t give a fig for what others might think of my interpretive choreography. Don’t get me wrong, though: often times I stand still for God, simply to check my heart and make sure I’m not dancing or signing to get noticed by anyone else. Better an insincere statue than an insincere dancer… but if you just so much as put your hands in front of you, palms up, something will happen. You’ll feel the need to move them and gesture, as if you’ve received something. At least I do. I barely move in worship if my arms are crossed, but after I open my hands and hold them out for just a few moments, I feel the need to use them just like when I talk. So I talk to God, and when I can’t contain myself, I dance.

Not everyone need imagine the dancers that I imagine.

For some of you, you see lines like soldiers: straight, tall, rapt at attention. Faces held high and hands at salute while music pumps their blood. So stand at attention and salute your King.

For others, you see an empty room where you're the only one, in the dim warm light of ancient candles. And there you can kneel to the floor and whisper. You can write on the walls what you’re afraid to say in broad daylight.

You may be sitting in the home you never had, merely breathing in.

Or strolling back and forth through a garden, belting out each note.

I imagine that Place where thousands have gathered, in a wide empty field where the dawn has just begun and the sun is before us. There is room for all, not just to dance but to kneel, to sit, stand, to move, to spin, to run, to leap, to fly, to lie sprawled out in the tall grass, to slowly change from stance to stance with measured precision, to spin until they collapse without hitting a single bystander… and all the while, the music courses through our veins.

For some of you, you're right in front of the crowd, close enough to touch the sunlight in the center.

For others, you’re standing in the back, to soak in the view of so many others joining together in this Place. Or because if they all have their backs to you, you can feel like a part of them but still do what you wish because they can’t see and judge you.

For me, I'm in the middle. Just another figure in the masses, to move and blend in as I choose. Because nobody cares; all they see and all they wish to do is to soak their souls in the sun. When you come to worship, first put your mind right and go to a place where it doesn’t matter what anyone else is doing, nor do they care what you’re doing. But we’re all doing. Any action is welcome: just focus on the sun.

Even if my body stands still, in my mind I always see at the head the audience those figures dancing incredible dances.  The thunder of the kettle drums pounds into my heart and down to my toes until I beat out the pleas of my spirit with the soles of my feet.

Some days I kneel, some days I sing, many days I dance along. But all days, I can finally worship.

When you close your eyes to imagine the Kingdom, keep mind of which people you choose to watch there. Just maybe that's the section that you really want to join. And you are welcome to run to them without fear of judgement from anybody else.

Homeward Bound

As I’ve often said before, one of the coolest things about New York is that you can find just about anything here. Acupuncture, Norwegian cuisine, pizza for a dollar a slice… in fact, after I moved here, I started to get the feeling that if you can’t find something in New York, you probably won’t find it anywhere.

But let’s hope that “a job” doesn’t fall under that category.

It was incredible while it lasted. I got to experience incredible, wise people and breathtaking cultural encounters and impressive tributes to mankind. But now I’ve got a plane ticket booked for home and I’m trying to come to terms with why God might have led me out here, if only briefly. Obviously there were a lot of lessons to learn, about job-hunting and working hard and city life and what I really want for my future.

For a while, I wanted to stay. I was looking for any reason to. Especially once a lot of real friendships finally started to take root… but I think half of my desire to stay was just stemming from my fear of failure. I mean, I worked at the Olympics as a college student and then I went on to living in the very heart of New York. I never would have expected the next logical step in that progression to be, “move back in with parents.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to get home and see my family and spend time with them while I regroup. But my older sister had a paying job and a shared apartment when she graduated from college: I’ve normally never really envied her accomplishments or felt any pressure to mimic her abilities, but in this case I honestly didn’t expect anything less from myself, either. There’s a strange stigma, as a graduate, to saying that you’re living with your parents again (though to be fair, most of my accomplishments in the past have occurred largely at the generosity of family, anyway).

Still, now that I look back, if I was going to pick a place to really start gaining ground and stability, I’m not sure I would want it to be New York. I just can’t relax here: not fully. There’s too much pressure at all times, to succeed and to rise and to accomplish independence in one fell swoop (I’m sure part of that pressure is merely general adulthood, but I’ve had almost more of that than I can swallow for a while). I just want to get my feet on the ground, and to build a stronger foundation than the one I moved out here on (which, to recap, was basically financial savings, a few distant contacts, and the inflated head that comes from being a college graduate named Rica). Even if it means building from the ground up for a couple of years, at least I’ll understand what I’m doing a little better.

If nothing else, this trip has instilled in me the great fear of unemployment, which I didn’t take too seriously when I first departed from the dormitories. But now, on Day One of realizing that a one-way ticket has turned into a round-trip, I’ve already started shooting off job applications to media companies close to home. And I’ve already gotten much friendlier responses from them than from any studio here in the Big Apple, I might add.

And who knows? Maybe we booked too soon and God still has a job opportunity waiting in this city for me before that plane takes off next week. But if not, I don’t think I’ll shed any tears over it.

New York was a sort of crucible experience for me: the like of which I haven’t experienced since we moved to Kentucky right before my junior year of high school. Even after living in Kentucky for six years, I still refused to call the state “home”: I just called it “where my family currently lives” or “where my college was located”. But to be honest, I never would have even made it to the Olympics or to New York if we hadn’t moved to Kentucky in the first place.

Neither crucible was a picnic, and neither made a lot of sense for my future (at the time), but I still learned a lot. I’m sure in the years to come, I’ll look back on this experience and see how it brought me to a lot of places I never would have dreamed of.

At least I already know what that first place is: a state called Kentucky.

A place called home.

At the Gates of Lystra

[I'm trying to start compiling a collection of my own sonnets and a collection of Biblical poems, this one just gave me goosebumps all morning so I had to share it. What a story, when you think about it.]

O Stephen, how did you still love

when I stood by to hate you?

When I chose to close up my mind,

not honorably debate you?

For now I face a crowd with stones

to finally end and break me—

The very way that I took you

now God shall justly take me…

...

O Stephen, Stephen, thee I slew

and yet God had me live…

I must rise and do right by you,

go back in, and forgive.