There used to be a little grove of trees by the physician's parking lot at Dominican Hospital where my father would leave my little brother and me while he would see his patients. The idea of leaving elementary school aged children alone in a landscaped parking lot seems ill-advised now, but I remember feeling safe. Dad would go over the passcode procedure, if he needed to send someone to pick us up or, and I won't repeat the code in public to this day.

He would sling his stethoscope around his shoulders and stroll into the hospital, and my brother and I would dash into the grove of young redwood trees. The whole area was surrounded by thick feathery bushes that obscured a view of the adjacent street. We would dig our way through it and peer at the approaching ambulances and service vehicles. The grove itself was heavily shaded and the dirt was soft and bouncy. My brother would leap over the plastic sprinkler heads that were scattered to water the shrubs. We were completely oblivious to the kind of work my father was doing inside the hospital. As far as we were concerned he could have been a banker or a lawyer, we were just waiting out the time while he was gone.

I can't remember the games we played, but I can say that they involved a lot of running. We must have had some inclination I no longer have when I see a nice, well-shaded area. We grew up in the dense Santa Cruz Mountains forests, where the ability to sprint was hampered by long fallen branches and dense bunches of poison oak and prickly bushes. This kind of space was a relief from that.

The hospital itself was a series of tall white concrete buildings with sharp, modern angles and large glass windows covered by heavy steel shutters. All of the doors slid open with a gust of air conditioned breeze. When we would follow my father in, I would expect everyone to know who he was, and to some extent I'm pretty sure all the staff did. If we were lucky our waiting spot would be in the cafeteria or the doctor's lounge. There would be newspapers and magazines, and if there was a scrap of free food we were on it. Anyone who knows me knows I love food for all occasions. Dad would often return to the car with a bagel, lox and tomato slice wrapped in a paper napkin or maybe a bran muffin. If we had been waiting around after school, which was most often the case we would find a vending machine to stare at.

You see some pretty disturbing things if you sit in a hospital hallway for too long. Fully grown adults bursting into tears and moans, hospitalized patients collapsing in seizures, and those really eery gift shops I was afraid to step into, even though I wanted to look at their stock. Maybe these are the sorts of memories that discouraged us from wanting to becomes doctors when we were young. We rarely saw my dad providing care, but we often saw highly unstable adults doing things usually reserved for children- like crying.

I wonder what will come of these memories. I don't think there's anything advantageous about recollecting the plots we concocted involving those doors that open with button push and the floors that were perfect for sliding. But what about my kids someday? Will they come to the hospital with me?

Again it's been a cold snap of non-writing lately. Even tonight I didn't really feel like signing on, it was either this, write some emails to people that deserve them, or watch a movie. So this is somewhere in the middle. They really deserve those emails though. Correspondence is probably one those matters of civility that is losing it's spot in my generation, so not only do I owe to those 4 people that have helped me out tremendously the last six months, but I kinda owe to the good of us.

I'm still working at my father's office, and the last few months have fallen pretty much into the regimen that I expected earlier this year. It really wasn't much of a prediction, since I was just modeling it on what was happening then. That's not to say not much has changed!

I have a few more weeks to get the last scraps of my work done before I can fully immerse myself in post-bacdom. I've been wondering how my writing will have changed since I'm no longer a grad student. I'm a little pleased to have realized that my troubles in graduate school are not unique. I don't want to say vindicated, but something along the lines of having a better vision of what kind of people function well in that type of environment, and what kind of people they become if they choose to remain. Of course, without much modesty, I don't consider myself wholly one of them, but the phrase of I have my mind is more "phew" than "ah-hah!".

Things that get started get finished, so hopefully in the next few weeks I'll be writing about slow but sure progress.

My mom and I have been having a running dialogue about family/ancestry/genetics and why my brothers and I are the way we are. Everything from my tendency to leave things them a mess and then frantically clean up to my struggles with gout has been commented on. There's something in a family with three boys that is the material of adventures or at least novels. None of us can be the same, and we'll all live our own lives at wherever we end up. Our differences are probably as interesting as our sameness. It's the kind of thing I see myself tearing up over when I'm rigidly old and stiff.

I wonder if I'll ever make it to that point, or if I'll die young. I've had doubts the last few days about how long my body will hold out, no matter how well I take care of it. I recall in High School not being able to imagine what I would look like if I grow old. Even when I think of my mother's father the only picture I can remember clearly is one of him in a college portrait for his university's debate team, he was my age. I'd like to grow old, I love this world more everyday.

I can count the last few days as the beginning of my work towards becoming a physician. My decision to become a doctor was solidified over the Christmas break. It’s something that’s always been in my thoughts to a varying extent—ranging from, “I’m pretty sure I would have made a good doctor,” to “Maybe I can still sign up for classes.” Though, there was a moment when it clicked. My mom and I were on the phone talking about some difficulty with my unemployment or living situation, and she asked why I didn’t think about going to med school. I knew while I was formulating a response that it was that moment would be a catalyst for a lot of change in my life. Since then the whole idea has taken on a stronger constitution. It’s the sort of endeavor I can really be proud of. It will involve an extremely difficult body of work; I will have to dig deep into a field that hasn’t been my expertise since 8th grade. I have to admit my ambition is satisfied for having a lofty goal again. I could go on, but one thing that does strike me as notable is the hint of recklessness in the choice. I feel like an adventurer who has suddenly got it in his mind to climb K2 or sail across the Pacific. Law school would have been a difficult stretch, but I wouldn’t have been nearly as vulnerable as I will be in the coming years. Very soon I could be in over my head and struggling to make it through, and that’s when I’ll know I’m in the right place.

I’m working in the same office and doing pretty much the same work I’ve done since I was in middle schools—pulling charts and making minor notes in files. But now everything is just a whole lot more interesting. For the first time I’m taking ownership of this body of knowledge, and every little thing I can catch will help me. I’m excited to find out how things work and what things mean. I’m trying to think how long this sense of wonder will last, if it at some point will I be pouring though an anatomy or pharmacology book and just not care, but I’d rather just be content with the way it feels be to so new to something. I do hope it lingers.

Having a goal makes such a vast difference in the way I engage my surroundings. I imagine I would be miserable if I was in this same spot without my present aspirations. I would just be typing in a room that doesn’t belong to me, overhearing a conversation through walls that are too thin, in a town where I don’t belong. But Instead I can think—here I am, doing what it takes to become who I want to be.

I just woke up from a dream. I was walking across a suspension bridge that spanned a body of dark water. It was foggy, the bridge looked somewhat like the Golden Gate bridge, but the color was a grey more like the Bay Bridge. I saw someone jump from a level above me, and land in the water where a few others were swimming. The boy sprung up to the surface with a laughing roar, his only injury was the sting from the water slapping the bottom of his feet. From my height on the bridge, the jump didn't look too far so I hopped over the side, and landed in between the leaper and his friend.

Once in the water I asked how he got so far up the bridge, since it didn't look like there was an easy access. He told me that I just have to look hard enough as he splashed playfully about the dark water. My gaze followed the support beams from the surface of the water, I saw that there was a series of guide wires and metal bars that could act like a ladder. I turned to him, and said that it probably wouldn't hurt as much if one wore socks. I swam over to a support beam, and started climbing.

The people down below were shouting encouragement by the time I reached the top. To my surprise, I saw a pair of working boots when I grasped the last rung of the ladder. I looked up and saw Clint Eastwood's face. It spooked me, but I tossed myself onto the top of the platform. He was wearing a dark blue jumpsuit, and was eating his lunch as if he were a steel worker. I determined that this must be his private getaway. He greeted me with a hoot and a hello. In my mind I thought his greeting was so friendly because were related somehow, as if only by last name, but not really.

I noticed when I looked over the edge that I was much higher up than I expected. (After reflecting on this height after I woke up, there's no way I would have survived this kind of jump). Eastwood asked me what was the name of the place I was planning to land, as if every spot that was deep enough and free of debris had a name. I got the sensation that he had done this before. I gestured to the spot where the boy had landed (again way too far down). He nodded, and told me to take a load off and forget about this for a minute, as if he knew that I wanted to get this done as soon as possible to avoid the fear and doubt that would creep into my mind. He wanted to draw it all out for me.

He wanted to ask me a question about his last movie, and he fumbled with the title. I guessed Gran Torino, and he acknowledged. He asked what I thought about a paradox, and I can't be clear quite on what it was, except for I seemed to know what he was talking. I said, "About how, at some, point people can't be friends and lovers?" This doesn't make sense, since this was definitely not a topic in Gran Torino, but Eastwood wanted my opinion on it. He was worried about some paradox on love and sacrifice (and that sounds closer to outcome of the movie) I told him that I don't think it works that way, and that friendship and love are bound up together, you can't be friends without expressing real love, and you can't be lovers without real friendship. He seemed to be satisfied with the answer, and he nodded his head again.

He tried to stall me again with more questions, but I was set on jumping off the edge. I realized that it might be harder getting over because I was wearing socks, and I might slip off the rounded guardrail that now looked like it was made of smooth wood, a dark mahogany. I started for the railing, and when he saw that I was making a break for it he shouted, "Hold on a bit! Wait till I get to the bottom!" This made me proud, he really believed I was going to do it, and wanted to greet my success. He opened a door that apparently led to some service stairs that I hadn't noticed. I heard a crash and some struggling. He was trying to fend off some workers that were scrambling to keep me from jumping. He cried, "It's Pojman!" and I turned and rushed towards the railing. As soon as I looked down at the water, my dream ended.

I won't go too far into what I think about the dream, except for when I woke up I was immediately making connections about finding work in a creative industry like writing or more currently video game design. This seems like a leap since I won't have any real measure of security like I would if I just went to Law school. Pojman was the editor of my textbook for Environmental Philosophy, and was also a professor at West Point. I got the sense that he symbolized my previous work and ambitions.

He will look at the city which is within him, and take heed that no disorder occur in it, such as might arise either from superfluity or from want; and upon this principle he will regulate his property and gain or spend according to his means.

Very true.

And, for the same reason, he will gladly accept and enjoy such honours as he deems likely to make him a better man; but those, whether private or public, which are likely to disorder his life, he will avoid?

Then, if that is his motive, he will not be a statesman.

By the dog of Egypt, he will! in the city which 's his own he certainly will, though in the land of his birth perhaps not, unless he have a divine call.

I understand; you mean that he will be a ruler in the city of which we are the founders, and which exists in idea only; for I do not believe that there is such an one anywhere on earth?

In heaven, I replied, there is laid up a pattern of it, methinks, which he who desires may behold, and beholding, may set his own house in order. But whether such an one exists, or ever will exist in fact, is no matter; for he will live after the manner of that city, having nothing to do with any other.

I think so, he said.

-Book IX, The Republic

Matt, Derek, and I watched a movie at Derek's place last night, so again my nose is stuffed up from cat allergies. I only have three more days of work at the School of Education, and then I'll have two weeks off to relax and look for work. That'll be nice.

I just got a t-shirt that I ordered from my the author of my favorite comic strip. I was worried because it took awhile to come in the mail, and I thought it had been lost. The author just quit is day job to work on his web comic full time, so I wanted to be supportive. I hope he does well.

Speaking of clothing, my good pair of jeans ripped yesterday. I'm waiting to buy new clothes until I know what kind of job I'll have this year. It's not so much that I dislike buying clothes, I just know that probably only half of the pants I buy make it into the daily use category of my closet. I'm still wearing shirts from high school, though my chest, back, and stomach are all bigger now so they don't fit all that well. But at least they are comfortable. The problem with maintaining a wardrobe is that you have to actually maintain it. And by maintain it, I mean you have to constantly shop to fill in gaps. I'm more of a binge shopper, once every year or so. My mom used to take us school shopping once the summer was ending, that was fun. I guess she'd throw in some clothes for Christmas as well.

Since I'm not working I can walk to work more comfortably without worrying about being late, and that's great. I should be getting healthier these next few weeks. I'm not even going to think about moving my stuff.

I was just reading over my post from March 16th. I was feeling ill after working with dusty files. It's almost two months later, and I'm just now getting over that sickness. I recently starting taking vitamins, which has been helping. Since I've working in the gradbary, I haven't been eating or sleeping well. But in the end, it's been worth it just to finally get some work out of myself. I'm sitting in the Escondido library. I came last night after my commencement ceremony so I could spend more time with Katyana. That's the other thing that has taken a shot while I've been working. I haven't been able to stay in touch as much as I should; there's only a few places where my mind doesn't churn lately. It's sort of a weird sensation, even when I set time apart to talk, I can't wrap my attention around her like I should. But that's just one of the costs of putting myself in that kind of bind-- having to do that much work in a short amount of time. I'm on the way out of it though, just a little bit more to go.

There's a man sitting nearby with a hacking cough. I really hope I wasn't like that the last few weeks in the library. I feel pretty bad for my classmates if I was, cause this guy really shouldn't be in public. His cough is so bad, it's hard to think.

Now that I'm detaching myself with Loyola Marymount, hopefully I'll be able to find work and a place to stay in San Diego. It would be good for Katyana and me. It's hard to believe we've been together for almost 4 1/2 years now. My parents were only married for 7 years. A lot of our time has been spent at a distance, and I think we've paid our dues in that respect.

My friends and I have been talking a lot about marriage lately. It's the kind of thing that's often on the mind of 24+ years olds. While we have different perspectives on where we are in relation to that kind of commitment, I'm glad that we have a similar attitude towards it. It's an issue I think the four of us actually show maturity. When I listen to them I see a form of humility, we recognize how limited we are, and we see how important marriage and family is to the soul's fulfillment.

Lately, we have also been talking about life issues. Everything from abortion to torture. It's been pretty taxing. I know my account for my positions have become stronger and more solidified, but it's hard to remain in thought about these things for extended periods of time. It starts to permeate my consciousness, and it gets to the point that every time I flip through news articles I find some new kind of destruction. I've been charged with not being able to consider the depth of the issue of abortion, because I'm not considering these things on a more emotional level. That was a slap in the face. To be told that, after letting these things weigh on me probably more than I should, was a tough criticism to take. I had a similar experience when talking about marriage. It seems like one side of the debate has a misplaced authority/dominance on the feeling aspect. I constantly hear how my capacity to feel or empathize is limited, and so I can't judge rightly about these situations. It's difficult for two reasons (1) though I recognize that we have to take these sorts of experiences into account when considering the issue, I don't think it's true that my (or the general)capacity to feel inhibits me (2) it seems that those who level the charge of insensitivity against me are just as guilty of the same error. I realize that it's difficult for me to empathize with a raped woman. However, I try. I try as much as I can. Yet, it is so easy to say that this 'try' is just inadequate, especially because I am a man. But it's another thing altogether to return that 'try' with its reciprocate. And that being the case, it's an ugly thing for my voice to be ignored by someone who doesn't try for the unborn. They can hide behind the fact that the unborn doesn't look like us. But if it's just a clump of cells, than what am I? 1.5 million in the United States every year, 42 million worldwide. That dwarfs any holocaust or genocide.

Mary, pray for us sinners.

I haven't written in here in awhile, but at least this time it's because I have been working on my term papers. I don't think I've ever worked harder academically, and I'm very content with the work so far. Something about trying that much, and doing good work has brought my closer to the Holy Spirit. I feel like I am doing what I should be doing, though you might not notice since my room looks like a mess and I'm barely getting enough sleep. I look wretched, but in a good way.

I'm actually writing this post as a reminder for a project I'd like to work on. At some point I'd like to do a poem or translation of Luke. It's kind of an intimidating project, because that Gospel is apparently the most complete Christology. So it would be pretty awful to foul something up, if I got a too loose. But I think if I frame it as a poem, it will be...nicer. I thought of the idea while researching the death penalty for my Aquinas class. I was just struck by the passage (taken from the New American Standard translation):

Luke 23:35-41

35And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One."

36The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine,

37and saying, "If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!"

38Now there was also an inscription above Him, "THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."

39One of the criminals who were hanged there was hurling abuse at Him, saying, "Are You not the Christ? Save Yourself and us!"

40But the other answered, and rebuking him said, "Do you not even fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?

41"And we indeed are suffering justly, for we are receiving what we deserve for our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong."

42And he was saying, "Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom!"

43And He said to him, "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise."

44It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness fell over the whole land until the ninth hour,

45because the sun was obscured; and the veil of the temple was torn in two.

46And Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, "Father, INTO YOUR HANDS I COMMIT MY SPIRIT." Having said this, He breathed His last.