Real Letter. That I'm Really Sending. Tomorrow.

I may be crazy, but it's worth a try. This letter will be sent to BMW's North American headquarters in New Jersey. The squeaky wheel gets the grease!

To Whom it may Concern:

My name is Matthew Jung, and I am a twenty year old student at Eastern Washington University. I am currently studying English and History, hoping to travel after school before beginning a career in firefigting. As I am sure you know from personal experience, being a student also entails not having much money.
As something of a car enthusiast, I have fallen in love with BMW's entire line of vehicles. From the classic 6-series to the 850 to Team Polizei's M5 - with their provacative styling and promise of superb performance the BMW badge never fails to capture my attention. My first real exposure to BMW has been my good friend's 1984 633Csi. The "first class" lines and smooth performance of this 6-series gem never fail to thrill when driving, riding passenger, or just admiring it on the road. Although I have some hope of acquiring this car, I currently drive a 1990 Honda Accord. The Honda has been good to me, but at 230,000 miles things are wearing out. Of course, as an economical family sedan, it could never fully deliver the performance I crave.
The purpose of my writing you is to ask a favor. Once out of school, I hope to begin a car collection ranging from classic American muscle cars to the most exotic offerings from Europe. I cannot tell you how thrilled I would be to begin that journey with BMW. It may sound incredibly presumptuous of me to ask for a car - especially one of the most advanced vehicles in the world today, but it is worth a shot. Not everyone can afford the premium price demanded at showrooms - many of whom have more enthusiasm for this benchmark company and its cars then a great deal who already own them. If you don't find it possible to donate a vehicle to my cause, a pair of driving gloves would also be spectacular. Please help this student starving for a true driver's car and the Ultimate Driving Machine.
Thank You.

Respectfully,

Songs of the week:

Hurt - Johnny Cash
Swallowed in the Sea - Coldplay
Don't Stop Believin' - Journey

Setting Sun

From September, during Hurricane Katrina. I posted it for a day, and then took it down...I didn't like it for some reason, but now I've forgotten why.




The tattered newspaper slipped from its perch atop her head and fell into the gutter, accompanied by three drops of sweat from the ends of her weathered, wrinkled fingertips. It was hot. Very hot. The air was thick with the perfume of rotting trash but even that was overpowered by the scent of suffering humanity. Fumes from raw sewage and sweat from bodies that could not afford to lose it swirled through the streets.

A small child, maybe six years old stumbled down the middle of the street half naked and completely alone, blurred in the lazy vapors of summer. A few flies buzzed around the old woman's face but she did not swat them away. Somewhere in the block a gunshot sounded a violent stacatto - but the old woman did not flinch. Above them, a woman had been screaming for help from a rooftop balcony for a quarter of an hour. Some eyed the building uneasily, but noone helped. The strong must survive. Finally the screaming stopped and a shirtless man climbed over the pile of bricks that blocked the building's doorway. He looked up the street at the crowds before stuffing his hands in his pockets and disappearing amidst the chaos.

Overhead, a helicopter with a man in a tie and a camera buzzed and thumped low, whipping up palm branches and scattering debris including a few pebbles and a handful of grit that lodged themselves in the old woman's pitted, wrinkled face, but she didn't look up to investigate or turn away for protection. Thwock. Thwock. A few in the crowd shouted at the chopper, held signs or screamed in frustration. The old woman did nothing. Across the street two gangmembers, five single mothers, and a policeman shattered the window of a convenience store in their search for uncontaminated water. For a second the shards of glass tinkled and sang through the air with the song of a windchime in a May breeze - but just for a second as they crashed chaotically to the asphalt. The store yielded only a few gallons which were commandeered by the policeman - who had a gun. A mile away, a family of five is arrested by three other officers of the law for looting water from a Wal*Mart. They've had nothing for four days and are now in handcuffs, too dazed and exhausted to cry out against the injustice.

The old woman sat in her chair and stared down her street, stared at the shadows of her city, stared unblinklingly into the setting sun. She will continue to stare until someone - maybe her son, maybe a stranger - pulls a sheet over her lifeless eyes.



please help.

please.

Trails

Begins

Suddenly, driving home from the gym, I feel happy with everything. Like everything is where it is supposed to be - and that's okay.

Some people like beginnings, but I usually prefer ends. Maybe it's because endings often hurt that I like them - such an intenisty of feeling that it forces me to remember vividly.

Beginnings are kind of scary and awkward - like the first day of a new job. You stand around, not sure what to do and feeling as if you are just in the way of everyone else. You don't really know anything, and aren't much use besides spraying windex or lifting heavy objects. But this beginning - this one I like. I like it even though I've been here many, many times over the past two years. Does it still qualify as a beginning if you've been there before? Yes. I've already written about it, talked about it, thought about it, analyzed it...And I suppose I should be ashamed for being here again, but I'm not. I'm too excited and happy that I'm here at all.

It's a place of redemption and a place of peace.
I use that word a lot - peace.

Run On

Pane sits on the window and looks out to the sky, where dark clouds roll freely from the edge of the world to the opposite horizon and rays of stray sunlight beam down - creating the illusion of inspiration.

Pane sits on the window and looks to the ground, where green grass shirks under the shadow of sullen skies and the pits of fallen plums plot their next move.

Pane sits on the window and looks inside. There he finds me in a blur, hunching over books and papers - or else over my own knees begging half-heartedly for understanding.

Pane sits and takes a breath, swinging and dangling his legs in the way only he can. Watching the world from a window, he smiles and sobs in turn - perhaps knowing much more about life then those fortunate fools who claim to live it.

A deep pain crawls just to the edge of perceptibility, raises its hand and begins scratching a cracked nail on my eyes. A small wound is formed, he doesn't gouge - it's almost gentle the way he works. Blood threads a path from my pupils to the gathering pools in the corners of my eyelids. Once he has scratched to where there is no blood left, pain's hand lowers and tears visible only in complete darkness seep to the surface and run down my face. Now I feel it. Now it is almost foremost in my consciousness. Strange to be sad, but I want to hold onto it. To taste it. To somehow savor its presence.

I lie in darkness and pray that tears only angels can see will bring quiet peace.