Path of Years

The path of years is wide and cold, unclear
No light or tracks to guide you on your way.
And all dark caves that come to instill fear
Approach closer with every lasting day.

But through these hardships blindly do I go
For there is light in all the blackest caves.
Where others stumble, I have stars to show
And passed the rocks and tricks their guiding saves.

My aide comes in the way of hearts of gold
That comfort, nurture, laugh and gaze the skies
And in the face of danger they are bold,
While in their company time’s passage flies.

Without these hints and comforts all light lends
Where would I be were it not for my friends?

The “Path of Years,” is, obviously, the first line of my sonnet. Although it may seem generic to include such an apparent and blunt title, it seemed to me the most fitting. The “Path of Years,” could be thought of as a synonym for the “Journey of Life,” or it could be put into a different perspective: The “Journey of Life” implies the decisions and lessons learned as one goes through life. By the “Path of Years,” I meant to touch not on the choices and lessons learned throughout life, but more toward seeing life as it goes by. It could be described as someone looking back at all past hardships and reflecting. That is not the intent of my poem, but the point of view would best be characterized this way; it is a detached view of someone traveling along a pathway. There are rocks on this path, tricky areas, and shadows. However, these things are what make it a path. Time passes transparently through us all, to turn it into a Path of Years.

The path of years is wide and cold, unclear
No light or tracks to guide you on your way.
And all dark caves that come to instill fear
Approach closer with every lasting day.

Lines one and two are simple descriptions. The words I use- “wide”, “cold”, and “unclear”- would be easily applicable to a literal path, and I mean them in quite the same way metaphorically. Being wide, the path allows flexibility. It isn’t straight cut, without leaving room for missteps or maneuvering. This path is cold; in a harsh, unforgiving way. There isn’t any turning back or erasing mistakes. “Unclear” refers to how the path is unpredictable. The image I’m trying to portray is something unfathomable, not unlike that of fog in the distance, just like the future is. We are going through our lives blindly, in a sense. There’s nothing there lighting the way or leaving behind a “trail” for us to follow.
The dark cave that I refer to in line three shouldn’t be taken as imagery for the whole sonnet. The “dark cave” merely refers to a looming challenge or difficulty. You watch it approach, closer and closer, day by day. This anticipation is one of the many haunting aspects of life. But when the time comes that “it” finally arrives, we often realize that “it” isn’t so scary as we anticipated.

But through these hardships blindly do I go
For there is light in all the blackest caves.
Where others stumble, I have stars to show
And passed the rocks and tricks their guiding saves.

The second stanza summarizes vaguely the true topic of my sonnet. The first two lines here reveal that in the hardest of times, the blackest caves, I have help; I have light. I don’t notice the difficulties I pass through; I am blind to the roughest parts of my path. Without this light, many stumble- rocks on the path are often difficult to avoid. My hardships are eased, however, because I have “stars” to lead me past them. That is the general gist of this verse. Another sense that a person could obtain from it is that of innocence, or oblivion. Specifically in the first line, I state that I am “blind.” Despite the many good aspects of my guiding light, it also hinders me in the way that I am unaware of what hardship or struggle is and therefore make up my own interpretations of life that may or may not be accurate. This is a much more dark interpretation of this stanza. Although it is not the main idea I was trying to communicate, it’s one of the important ones that give more diversity to the sonnet as a whole.

My aide comes in the way of hearts of gold
That comfort, nurture, laugh and gaze the skies
And in the face of danger they are bold,
While in their company time’s passage flies.

The third stanza is a description. I comment on the characteristics of my “guiding light” and how it helps me and affects my life. The very first line of this stanza includes a pun; I use the word “aide” as instead of “aid,” which would be expected in this context. This little change in spelling is a small hint as to what my savior/s actually is/are. An ”aide” is an actual person or assistant who helps, while “aid” is the noun for “help” or “assistance.” The descriptions here are pretty cut-and-dry. Line two might amount to confusion at this point in the sonnet, but this will be resolved later. Line two mentions some of the many simple things that I appreciate and hold dear; what makes my savior/s important to me. Line three is my acknowledgment of the hero within, because every hero needs to have courage. I owe much of the courage I get in life to the subjects of this poem, and it would not be doing justice to neglect the great strength that they give me in the worst of times. “While in their company time’s passage flies,” is a baffling line, before the subject is figured out. However, it is the easiest to understand once the poem is revealed, and leads the most into the final stanza.

Without these hints and comforts all light lends
Where would I be were it not for my friends?

The last two lines of my sonnet sum everything up. Throughout the entire poem, I intentionally kept it a mystery what the object of my description was, although it’s meaning has been getting clearer and clearer with the hints in the third stanza. Finally,my subjects are exposed! To any reader of any age, the characterizations I placed with my “saviors” will be accurate depictions of one of the world’s most important beauties: friendship.

Path of Years

The path of years is wide and cold, unclear
No light or tracks to guide you on your way.
When there seems a dark cave approaching near
It turns to fade into the coming day.

But through these hardships blindly do I go
For there is light in all the blackest caves.
Where others stumble I have stars to show
And passed the rocks and tricks their guiding saves.

My aide comes in the way of hearts of gold
That comfort, nurture, laugh and gaze the skies
And in the face of danger they are bold,
While in their company time’s passage flies.

Without these hints and comforts all light lends
Where would I be were it not for my friends?

Haunting Melody

I couldn’t help laughing again as I watched the short video clip on YouTube of the two of them trying to crush their empty cans against their foreheads. Bryan, the older one, succeeded in flattening his Island Iced Tea with a crunching noise; Clayton’s Coke made brief contact with his head before flying out of his hand and onto the ground. In the clip, we were on the Kauai Tour for the Hawaii Youth Symphony, eating Subways before the looming three and a half hour rehearsal. The filmer was Tia, a violist in the Youth Symphony. Watching the video, I remembered all the times I’d laughed along with everyone else until my throat hurt; I thought of the pictures taken at midnight with JJ, my roommate, and playing cards in the lobby at the hotel. Smiling, I gathered my things for the afternoon’s rehearsal.
~
“Hey, Jerrold,” I greeted my stand partner. I sat down and began to set up for the usual Sunday Youth Symphony practice.
“Hey,” he said. I roughly set the music on the stand and threw a pencil on it. “Did you practice?”
“Practice? Haha, that’s a good one,” I answered sarcastically.
“Oh good, me too,” he agreed. “Next week. For sure.” I laughed.
“Riiight...” The conversations around the room quickly faded as our conductor began the tuning.
Rehearsal began with a flick of a baton. A rapid drum roll. Dramatic tremolos from the cellos. The enchanting oboe solo. Then it came, spilling from the heart of the music. The ghost was there again, ringing throughout the room. It invaded my mind, soul and heart. I could feel my spirit soar with the high, sweet violins and hum with the rhythmic line of the viola. The ghost, silvery and sleek in some parts, shape-shifted into ripples of calm and thunderclaps of energy. It haunted everyone in the room, even our small audience bound merely by sight and sound. Playing its final notes, I felt the concentration radiating from each person in the room. There was a cut off from the same baton. Our ghost retreated to its cave of silence.
“Clarinets, I need to hear more from you at 313; Trumpets, you can go back a little. First violins, you have the melody, so come out...” Our conductor issued his demands and we began again from the top.
~
“Cole, go away!” I snapped harshly. It had been a long day so far, and it wasn’t over yet. The rehearsal had been productive, yet had seemed extraordinarily long and rigorous. As usual, our conductor had kept us 15 minutes late to polish the end of the program. Back at home, I had a thesis paper to finish and a math test to study for, plus an audition to practice for the following day. My little brother sticking his feet in my face while I sat at the computer was not something I was ready to tolerate.
He slumped down and crawled away groaning, “I’m bored...” and I threw him a disgusted glance. Opening up iTunes, I selected my playlist. It was a five hour long mix of Rock, Classical, Hawaiian, Country, Pop, and Jazz. As I heard the opening notes of “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” by the Beatles, the hours slipped off and I turned back to face the dreaded thesis paper.
~
Whether solo or as part of a group, I cannot remember a time when music has not been a part of my life. It is impossible to imagine my life without the ghost that is my cause of stress and my relaxant; my challenge and triumph; my work and pleasure. Being a musician means being a part of something that is bigger and more magnificent than any one person involved. The magic of making music as part of a group is something that cannot be created any other way; to be able to share it with others is part of what makes the practicing and rehearsals all worthwhile, like the amazing friends and memories made along the way. Alone, I can stretch the ghost to any dimensions I interpret. The music follows my own path of emotions that I set free.
~
“Ready?”
I nodded to my pianist, my heart pounding. Clamminess spread from my palms to the tips of my fingers until it was an effort to recall the movements I had practice hundreds of times. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, trying to block out the audience in the small auditorium. My heart hammered as if I had sprinted four blocks. I raised my bow to the string and began to play.
And the ghost appeared. It whisped from the core of the sound, the point where bow meets string; where mind meets heart. I could feel its presence overwhelmingly, as could everyone else in the room, and its beauty raised my spirits. My shoulders relaxed and my heart calmed down to fit the beat. I smiled and let go.
Soon- after a stretched ten minutes- it’s over. The clamminess and incoordination are` gone, replaced by relief and...triumph? The ghost, once its haunting had stopped piercing throughout the hall, invaded my mind. It looped through, recreating a thread of melodies that did not end. Slowly, its presence in my mind fades as I leave the dimension of music, leaving a haunting melody in its wake.

Canned Salmon

One opened can of salmon sat in the middle of the kitchen table. Cole grabbed the can opener and cranked open the second can while I dumped the contents of the first onto a serving plate. He did the same with the second and we used chopsticks to cut and flatten it. Pale pink salmon meat and the crushed edible bones mixed together into an entirely unappetizing meal in front of our eyes. Yet, as my dad poured on the unbeatable sauce of hot oil and shoyu and garnished the platter with chinese parsley, the tantalizing feast took shape on our kitchen table. My mom came to the table with paper plates and a serving spoon.
“You know, your father and I used to eat this all the time in-” she began, setting it all down.
“Yes, Mom, we know,” Cole said exasperatedly. “You and Daddy used to live off of this. You tell us every single time we eat canned salmon.”
“She does?” I asked vaguely.
“Yes, Ming,” he said.
“See, Cole, I do not!” My mom argued, laughing.
“Yes you do...” he insisted.
“Fine then, we used to live off of this all the time where?” she asked.
“When you lived in New York,” he answered.
“Oh...”
“Ha, owned!” he exclaimed. “Ok sorry...”

Over a table of hot dinner; helping out with housework on the weekends; listening to the radio on the way to school; these were the times when my mom liked to break the silence with a memory. When the occasion arose, my brother and I often learned of my parents’ lives in New York, before we were born. I know Mom worked at a small radio station as my dad went through school at Columbia University. In the pictures I see of them in New York, my dad is wearing enormous square glasses and my mom’s hair is shoulder length. Yet all the small details- the ones that shaped their everyday lives- remain a mystery. How did they go through their everyday lives back then? Did they wake up every morning in a small apartment, walk to a café for morning coffee, and catch subways in opposite directions for their day? Maybe they met at Sbarro’s for lunch, bought slices of pizza and walked through the busy streets, eating it folded in half, New Yorker style. I came into their lives not until the last year and a half of their stay in the City, and the stories my mom tells my brother and I are the only clues I have to their past.
Perhaps, all those years ago, Mom had a proper studio and enough time to paint to her heart’s desire. Waking up on her days off, she could look forward to time just to herself. On the walls of the apartment she shared with my dad hung her artwork; oil paintings of lotus flowers and abstract masterpieces. On blustery autumn days, she could go down to the corner restaurant in a sweater and jacket and order a falafel and hummus with pita; eating it slowly and watching busy people rush by through the large glass windows. Back in the apartment, in the studio which was her own, she mixed colors to the vibrance of dragon fruit and the calmness of dry leaves in the wind. She made emotions fly onto canvas to the melody of a Beethoven Symphony playing on NPR’s Evening Concert. And outside, in the brisk New York air, days closed with the swift, invisible setting of the sun.
Maybe, for my father, days began early. Coffee was 50 cents at the small café just before the subway station. Days always began with a tall house and a seeded bagel. On weekends, maybe a trip to the New York public library was the excursion, or to Central Park. Walking for hours through the city, discovering detours and getting lost; that’s what Daddy liked to do. For lunch, there was hot seafood chowder in a bread bowl waiting at the bistro. Taking off his heavy, warm, leather jacket and sitting down to enjoy, he’d watch the squirrels dash around in the park. On the way back to the apartment, maybe he’d stop at an old bookstore and find a book of poetry for my mom. Sometime early in the evening, he’d climb the stairs up to the apartment. Walking through the kitchen to my mother’s studio, he’d admire all the artwork on the walls. Seeing him, my mom would put down her paints and turn off the radio.
Perhaps, some words were exchanged then; Maybe jackets and sweaters were hung up, paint brushes were washed and tables were cleared.
And then, perhaps, concealed from the New York life, the two of them would sit down to share a plate of canned salmon.

Blackbird

This is a picture of the Beatles; Paul, Ringo, George and John- the greatest rock band of all time. One of their best songs is Across the Universe, in case anyone was wondering where I got that title.