Chris Hull

@chrishull14

Love living in small-town Iowa. Go Cyclones!

Joined March 2011

2.5K Following

370 Followers

3.2K Posts

chrishull14 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

about 16 hours ago

“Take care!” The words were spoken by the American host as I departed his dwelling. Simple, concise, yet they resonated with an unexpected gravitas. Not a mere farewell, nor a blessing for safe passage, but a command for self-preservation. A directive to 'take care' of myself. In my tradition, parting words are often a formal exchange of well wishes, a hope for future reunion, or an acknowledgment of the bond shared. But this 'take care' felt different. It placed the onus of well-being squarely upon my own shoulders, a final charge before I re-entered the perilous world beyond his gate. “I will take care,” I replied, the phrase feeling like a vow. It was more than a polite acknowledgment;it was an acceptance of a sacred responsibility. He had not merely wished me good fortune; he had entrusted me with my own welfare. My host, noticing my intensity, chuckled. “No worries, man. Just drive safe.” But I understood the deeper meaning. The American 'take care' is a profound act of individual empowerment. It recognizes the inherent risks of existence and, rather than offering platitudes, charges the individual with the duty of vigilance. It is a statement of faith in one's own capacity to navigate the unpredictable currents of life. It acknowledges the autonomy of the departing soul. To dismiss 'take care' as a casual phrase would be to ignore its underlying philosophy of self-reliance. To accept it wholeheartedly is to embrace the American spirit of personal accountability. It is a quiet, yet powerful, declaration of trust in the departing individual's strength. A man does not ask for the journey to be easy. He only becomes a man who can truly 'take care' of himself, honoring the trust placed in him. I will internalize the profound responsibility of 'take care'. I will master the art of perpetual self-vigilance, as commanded by the 'take care' declaration.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. “Take care!”

The words were spoken by the American host as I departed his dwelling.

Simple, concise, yet they resonated with an unexpected gravitas.

Not a mere farewell, nor a blessing for safe passage, but a command for self-preservation.

A directive to 'take care' of myself.

In my tradition, parting words are often a formal exchange of well wishes, a hope for future reunion, or an acknowledgment of the bond shared.

But this 'take care' felt different.
It placed the onus of well-being squarely upon my own shoulders, a final charge before I re-entered the perilous world beyond his gate.

“I will take care,” I replied, the phrase feeling like a vow.

It was more than a polite acknowledgment;it was an acceptance of a sacred responsibility.

He had not merely wished me good fortune; he had entrusted me with my own welfare.

My host, noticing my intensity, chuckled. “No worries, man. Just drive safe.”

But I understood the deeper meaning. The American 'take care' is a profound act of individual empowerment.

It recognizes the inherent risks of existence and, rather than offering platitudes, charges the individual with the duty of vigilance.

It is a statement of faith in one's own capacity to navigate the unpredictable currents of life. It acknowledges the autonomy of the departing soul.

To dismiss 'take care' as a casual phrase would be to ignore its underlying philosophy of self-reliance.

To accept it wholeheartedly is to embrace the American spirit of personal accountability.

It is a quiet, yet powerful, declaration of trust in the departing individual's strength.

A man does not ask for the journey to be easy.

He only becomes a man who can truly 'take care' of himself, honoring the trust placed in him.

I will internalize the profound responsibility of 'take care'.

I will master the art of perpetual self-vigilance, as commanded by the 'take care' declaration.

314

chrishull14 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

1 day ago

In the vast marketplace outside the food hall, a small wheeled carriage appeared to be abandoned, yet no one pursued it. Understand what this place is. The store lends you a cart. Steel. Four wheels. No deposit. No guard. And across the lot, a small open pen where the carts are meant to return. No one checks. No one punishes. The rain does not care. The law does not mention it. Whether the cart goes home is decided by one thing only: the soul of the person holding the handle. In Japan, we would manage this with signage, apology, and overwhelming social pressure. America did something braver. America built a test of character and left it in a parking lot. I walked my cart back. Forty paces. Uphill, slightly. A man loading his truck watched me. "You returning that?" "With my life." "...okay, man." Then the old man. He nodded at the corral, then at me. "You're one of the good ones." I gripped the handle. Eight hundred years of my family asking what honor is, and a stranger in a parking lot answered it between his car and mine. I will be honest. One night it was raining. The corral was far. The car was near. I stood between them, and I learned that I am weaker than I knew. I returned the cart. But I stood there first. I do not wish to discuss it. A man does not return the cart because he is watched. He returns it because he is not. A woman saw me bow to the corral last week. "It's a cart corral, man," she said. It is not. It is the smallest shrine in America, and everyone who visits it leaves slightly better. I have begun returning my neighbors' carts as well. They have asked me to stop. I will not.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. In the vast marketplace outside the food hall, a small wheeled carriage appeared to be abandoned, yet no one pursued it.

Understand what this place is. The store lends you a cart. Steel. Four wheels. No deposit. No guard. And across the lot, a small open pen where the carts are meant to return.

No one checks. No one punishes. The rain does not care. The law does not mention it. Whether the cart goes home is decided by one thing only: the soul of the person holding the handle.

In Japan, we would manage this with signage, apology, and overwhelming social pressure. America did something braver. America built a test of character and left it in a parking lot.

I walked my cart back. Forty paces. Uphill, slightly.

A man loading his truck watched me. "You returning that?"

"With my life."

"...okay, man."

Then the old man. He nodded at the corral, then at me. "You're one of the good ones."

I gripped the handle. Eight hundred years of my family asking what honor is, and a stranger in a parking lot answered it between his car and mine.

I will be honest. One night it was raining. The corral was far. The car was near. I stood between them, and I learned that I am weaker than I knew. I returned the cart. But I stood there first. I do not wish to discuss it.

A man does not return the cart because he is watched. He returns it because he is not.

A woman saw me bow to the corral last week. "It's a cart corral, man," she said.

It is not. It is the smallest shrine in America, and everyone who visits it leaves slightly better.

I have begun returning my neighbors' carts as well. They have asked me to stop.

I will not.

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11K

chrishull14 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

4 days ago

This country. A driveway. My neighbor Dale owns a truck, and I have discovered who actually defends this nation. Monday, a family down the street moved. Dale's truck. Wednesday, a tree limb fell on Mrs. Carter's fence. Dale's truck. Friday it snowed, and an unspoken signal traveled the block, and Dale appeared with a plow blade like a one-man cavalry. No one pays him. No one drafts him. He is summoned by need alone. "Dale," I asked, "who do you serve?" "What?" "Who commands the truck?" He thought about it. "Whoever's stuck, I guess." WHOEVER IS STUCK. Eight hundred years of military philosophy in my bloodline, and this man in a hoodie has perfected it: a standing army of one, sworn to the realm of Whoever Is Stuck. In my land, a lord keeps soldiers for his own gate. Dale keeps a truck for everyone's gate. I offered him my loyalty. He offered me a beer. We were both confused by the other's gift and accepted anyway. That is diplomacy. I asked what I could do to repay the block's debt to him. He said, "Help me load a couch Saturday." I have never trained harder for anything. The couch was heavy. I was not strong enough. I want to say I was. I was not. Dale carried his end and most of mine and said "good lift" anyway, which is the kindest lie in the language. A man with a truck does not ask who needs him. He has already backed into the driveway. I cannot buy a truck yet. So I have become the man who shows up when the truck does. Every truck needs a vanguard. Dale has not approved this title. Dale does not need to.

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chrishull14 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

4 days ago

In America, a young man at the coffee shop extended his FIST toward me, and I stood before it with no protocol whatsoever. A closed fist. Offered gently. Hanging in the air between us. Patient. Expecting. In my training, a raised fist has a short list of meanings, and none of them end in friendship. But his face was open and pleased — he had just handed me my order — so I understood this was a CEREMONY, and that I was failing it in real time. I did the only correct thing I could think of. I clasped his fist in both hands, as one accepts a precious gift, and bowed over it. He laughed — kindly, I want that on the record — and said, "No man, like this," and guided me: knuckles meeting knuckles. One soft tap. Then his hand sprang OPEN as it withdrew, fingers spreading, with a quiet sound: "Pssshh." THE EXPLOSION. There is an EXPLOSION at the end, America. Completely optional. Completely essential. And not one document in your entire country warns a foreigner about it. In Japan, our greetings have been codified for centuries. Depth of bow, position of hands, duration — written down, teachable, examinable. Your greetings MUTATE FREELY between coffee shops, and every citizen somehow knows all current versions: the fist bump, which is respect; the high five, which is triumph; the handshake, which is a contract — see Kenneth — and the bro hug, which is a handshake that collapses inward into a single back-pat, and which I am told I am not ready for. I agree. I am not ready. The fist bump is the haiku of the set. Minimal. Perfect. Two warriors touching armor. A man does not ask the fist what it wants. He answers knuckles with knuckles, and detonates on schedule. I returned the next day. Same young man. His fist came up immediately, eyebrows raised — a test and a welcome in one. Knuckles. Tap. "Pssshh." Both of us. Full explosion. He turned and announced to the entire kitchen: "HE'S GOT IT NOW." The kitchen CHEERED, America. Three strangers in aprons celebrated my education before the milk steamer finished. I bowed to the room. The young man bowed back. Badly. With enormous heart. Cultural exchange is complete when both men perform the other's ceremony wrong, together, on purpose, every morning at 7:40. We are at that stage now. There is no higher stage.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. In America, a young man at the coffee shop extended his FIST toward me, and I stood before it with no protocol whatsoever.

A closed fist. Offered gently. Hanging in the air between us. Patient. Expecting.

In my training, a raised fist has a short list of meanings, and none of them end in friendship. But his face was open and pleased — he had just handed me my order — so I understood this was a CEREMONY, and that I was failing it in real time.

I did the only correct thing I could think of.

I clasped his fist in both hands, as one accepts a precious gift, and bowed over it.

He laughed — kindly, I want that on the record — and said, "No man, like this," and guided me: knuckles meeting knuckles. One soft tap.

Then his hand sprang OPEN as it withdrew, fingers spreading, with a quiet sound:

"Pssshh."

THE EXPLOSION. There is an EXPLOSION at the end, America. Completely optional. Completely essential. And not one document in your entire country warns a foreigner about it.

In Japan, our greetings have been codified for centuries. Depth of bow, position of hands, duration — written down, teachable, examinable. Your greetings MUTATE FREELY between coffee shops, and every citizen somehow knows all current versions: the fist bump, which is respect; the high five, which is triumph; the handshake, which is a contract — see Kenneth — and the bro hug, which is a handshake that collapses inward into a single back-pat, and which I am told I am not ready for. I agree. I am not ready.

The fist bump is the haiku of the set. Minimal. Perfect. Two warriors touching armor.

A man does not ask the fist what it wants. He answers knuckles with knuckles, and detonates on schedule.

I returned the next day. Same young man. His fist came up immediately, eyebrows raised — a test and a welcome in one.

Knuckles. Tap. "Pssshh." Both of us. Full explosion.

He turned and announced to the entire kitchen:

"HE'S GOT IT NOW."

The kitchen CHEERED, America. Three strangers in aprons celebrated my education before the milk steamer finished.

I bowed to the room. The young man bowed back. Badly. With enormous heart.

Cultural exchange is complete when both men perform the other's ceremony wrong, together, on purpose, every morning at 7:40.

We are at that stage now. There is no higher stage.

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Who to follow

Cyclone Mr Brightside

@iowastate2bigt1

Mr. Brightside is by far the best Cyclone celebration song. Go Cyclones!

chrishull14 retweeted

NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依

@japan_nobunaga

4 days ago

Somewhere in America, a movie theater. The boy at the concession counter asked me a question about architecture, and called it butter. "You want that layered?" Layered. I looked at the popcorn. I looked at him. "Explain." "Instead of all the butter on top, I do butter, popcorn, butter, popcorn." He mimed the strata with a flat hand. He had explained this before. He would explain it again. A craftsman, patient with the public. I was not prepared. In my land, what is given is given; you do not direct the distribution of a blessing. Here, the boy stood ready to construct my popcorn in courses, like a stone wall — foundation, mortar, foundation, mortar — so that no kernel, however deep, would live unblessed. "The ones at the bottom," I said slowly, "are usually…" "Dry. Yeah. Not on my watch." NOT ON MY WATCH. The oath of a sentry, sworn over popcorn. This is who they have guarding the snacks. "Then layer it," I commanded, "as your conscience demands." He built it like a man who would be judged by it. Pour, pump, rotate. Pour, pump, rotate. Four stories. A tower of equal blessings. The film was fine. I do not remember it. What I remember is the eightieth minute, deep in the bucket, past the depth where popcorn hope usually dies — and finding the kernels there as golden as the first. The bottom of the bucket. As rich as the top. I confess I held one kernel up in the dark and simply looked at it. Butter on top blesses the surface. Butter in layers blesses the whole nation. I tipped the boy on the way out. He had already forgotten me. The best masons forget the wall, and begin the next one. Layered. Always layered. Some words you only need to learn once.