Starting at the northwest corner of Central Park, I meandered into wide empty spaces of branches jigsawing the dusky New York skyline. The trees bared all they had to me, standing shamelessly against a backdrop of intermittent skyscrapers. Heading southwards, but eventually angling to the southeast, I walked aimlessly about for one and a half hours as the sky melted slowly into a pool of black oil.
As you stroll around, people pop up here and there, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes hand in hand, and once a foot on mouth (I felt for the poor dog just nibbling some grass). Mainly, you don't hear much of what's going on, the sounds being sucked up into the nothingness that New York suddenly evaporates into. Nowhere can you see the clockwork brains and trench-coat conquer-the-worlds marching forth, typing away everyone's lives, one letter at a time. You're swallowed now, churning in this still organic pit of NYC's bowels.
It shit me out on the southeast edge, a stain on the corner of 66th and 5th. Luckily for all of its greenery, I slid out without ado, trotting gracefully across the murderous cars held momentarily by the angry red eyes. I walked by fake piles of discarded facial tissue and reconstructed bones, the stench so graciously calmed by the lingering taste of my generic coffee. Little did I notice the dancing lights as they crissed and crossed the streets and my line of sight.
You went down a deep dark tunnel into the underworld of NYC. You go there to be transported, to be sent back from whence you came! Cast back into your origin, you pop back up into another street, sometimes dense and crowded, mainly just a few pedestrians by the halal cart. The jitterbug home is quick and easy, but the walk was not to forget. The angry and tormented silence sang beautiful tunes through your frost-bitten ears and they rang with you all the way home.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
偉人
人生中，說有機會遇到真偉人很少。當然，家裏人在自己人眼中都有偉大的地方，而我不與此例外。但是踫到過我阿姨的人，我所知道都對他有好感。不幸，阿姨在世未夠五十年之久就先走了。
偉在何處呢？我眼裏，既能職業高升，且不忘卻根源，既可顧家親人，且能謙遜博愛，寥寥數人。其實這些都是外人的立場看到阿姨的。我自己只能說我小時候看到他就只有歡笑時光。大之後，與他談公司事情或人生原理，無不感到他對我輕導寬聼。雖然我們之間不是百分之百都同意，但我無不對他敬仰。
少了一個人，人生仍然長流。但他感到的人不單我一個。說出一大堆，就是想說我沒有不挂念他的時候的。可是，他也是我心裏的一個可以仰慕，可以希望自己能夠模仿到的一個偶像。想到他，我心就放開一點的，胸懷擴張，而嘴唇不得不微微笑一下跟他一起傻的時候。
偉在何處呢？我眼裏，既能職業高升，且不忘卻根源，既可顧家親人，且能謙遜博愛，寥寥數人。其實這些都是外人的立場看到阿姨的。我自己只能說我小時候看到他就只有歡笑時光。大之後，與他談公司事情或人生原理，無不感到他對我輕導寬聼。雖然我們之間不是百分之百都同意，但我無不對他敬仰。
少了一個人，人生仍然長流。但他感到的人不單我一個。說出一大堆，就是想說我沒有不挂念他的時候的。可是，他也是我心裏的一個可以仰慕，可以希望自己能夠模仿到的一個偶像。想到他，我心就放開一點的，胸懷擴張，而嘴唇不得不微微笑一下跟他一起傻的時候。
On Competition
What is left of the left,
That left the people without a jest,
Of care and service or a helping hand,
Instead the hungry mouths that still demand,
To deliver the promises of generations past,
For a pen, a paper, that might just last,
Beyond the note scribbled by hand so quickly,
To pass me down to another he or a she,
Who sends me onwards to another mule,
Who returns my request to the non-governmental,
Because the circle runs around the block,
Connected to all the stumbling blocks,
That back in the day to my great displeasure,
Were used to confound me to any measure,
That those against it could somehow manipulate,
To the wants and needs of the profligate,
And justifications and legalese,
Could somehow to my anguished joints bring some relief,
A respite from the kneeling to which I'm so fully agreed,
To participate, to join in, for this wheel of greed,
And in my children I'll plant this seed,
To lower, to cower, to beg, and to plead,
For only in adversity can anyone succeed,
To gain against my companion thus will I be freed,
From the chains of restriction caused by an oppressor's iron fist,
And thus I'll commit to my grievances list,
To struggle and vie for the fair one's eye,
And crush the others into a deadened cry,
And the winner I'll be at the end of the tunnel,
And into my progeny, this lesson I'll funnel,
Til the wheel completes and they carry it out once again,
Til alone I will stand at the edge of the fen,
And into the boggy mess will I gaze and stare,
At the dark green so subtle and only one more to go,
I'm face to face with the final and last standing foe,
To subjugate her, relegate her, to my sole service,
And know that on that fair skin whose only caress,
Will be the brush, the breath and the kiss,
Of profanities and orders that issue from my lips.
That left the people without a jest,
Of care and service or a helping hand,
Instead the hungry mouths that still demand,
To deliver the promises of generations past,
For a pen, a paper, that might just last,
Beyond the note scribbled by hand so quickly,
To pass me down to another he or a she,
Who sends me onwards to another mule,
Who returns my request to the non-governmental,
Because the circle runs around the block,
Connected to all the stumbling blocks,
That back in the day to my great displeasure,
Were used to confound me to any measure,
That those against it could somehow manipulate,
To the wants and needs of the profligate,
And justifications and legalese,
Could somehow to my anguished joints bring some relief,
A respite from the kneeling to which I'm so fully agreed,
To participate, to join in, for this wheel of greed,
And in my children I'll plant this seed,
To lower, to cower, to beg, and to plead,
For only in adversity can anyone succeed,
To gain against my companion thus will I be freed,
From the chains of restriction caused by an oppressor's iron fist,
And thus I'll commit to my grievances list,
To struggle and vie for the fair one's eye,
And crush the others into a deadened cry,
And the winner I'll be at the end of the tunnel,
And into my progeny, this lesson I'll funnel,
Til the wheel completes and they carry it out once again,
Til alone I will stand at the edge of the fen,
And into the boggy mess will I gaze and stare,
At the dark green so subtle and only one more to go,
I'm face to face with the final and last standing foe,
To subjugate her, relegate her, to my sole service,
And know that on that fair skin whose only caress,
Will be the brush, the breath and the kiss,
Of profanities and orders that issue from my lips.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Bleeding Eyes
I open my eyes briefly, blinking at the incoming rays of sunshine, and all is dark for that second. Upon opening my eyes, my left eyeball bursts open and blood rushes out of the socket that now contains a deflating eyeball, membrane, fluid, blood, all soaking my face and black t-shirt. The slit that burst the bubble was caused by a razor sharp slice, almost like a paper cut. Strangely, it is painless except for a psychic reverberation that throbs in my temples, but physically there is no noticeable pain. The only recognizable trauma is the realization that it no longer exists, my vision.
Mixed with the psychological pain that I know I should be feeling down to the marrow in my bones but is not registering properly is also a gladness. A happiness that grows from the relief of never having to see the world again, never having to see the pain that happens all around me. Though I'd be missing the joy and wonder around me as well, the misery that grows from happiness seems to far outweigh the pleasures I will be missing.
As the last bits of juice trickle down my cheek like big drops of oozy, sticky tears, my right eye stares briefly out at the sun setting beyond the trees and grows hazy slowly. An inner cloud floats across my field of vision and all is darkened from gray, to dark gray, to charcoal, to the absence of light. I cry slowly, not knowing anymore whether these are tears or internal fluids, knowing only that the first tears of sadness are overtaken by a gush of rejoicing tears, because the difference between the two are intensely different.
I raise my head slightly to stop the tears and drift off to a mental darkness as all signals cease. The sounds quiet down, the feelings in my heart are deadened, and the scents are all neutralized. It's a slowly approaching sleep that voids the world for those precious nighttime hours. Whether this is my nightly rest I can't say since every night, I give up the struggle to keep a hold of consciousness as now.
[Memories of a haunting dream that has appeared to me of late.]
Mixed with the psychological pain that I know I should be feeling down to the marrow in my bones but is not registering properly is also a gladness. A happiness that grows from the relief of never having to see the world again, never having to see the pain that happens all around me. Though I'd be missing the joy and wonder around me as well, the misery that grows from happiness seems to far outweigh the pleasures I will be missing.
As the last bits of juice trickle down my cheek like big drops of oozy, sticky tears, my right eye stares briefly out at the sun setting beyond the trees and grows hazy slowly. An inner cloud floats across my field of vision and all is darkened from gray, to dark gray, to charcoal, to the absence of light. I cry slowly, not knowing anymore whether these are tears or internal fluids, knowing only that the first tears of sadness are overtaken by a gush of rejoicing tears, because the difference between the two are intensely different.
I raise my head slightly to stop the tears and drift off to a mental darkness as all signals cease. The sounds quiet down, the feelings in my heart are deadened, and the scents are all neutralized. It's a slowly approaching sleep that voids the world for those precious nighttime hours. Whether this is my nightly rest I can't say since every night, I give up the struggle to keep a hold of consciousness as now.
[Memories of a haunting dream that has appeared to me of late.]
Friday, January 22, 2010
New Eyes
As a new day opens with my eyes in a close 30th place, clear vision without aide becomes more commonplace. And yet, even at full vision, with the information pouring in at every waking moment, the amount that escapes notice saddens. The brief glances at the distant sign that elude comprehension because of a skewed wrinkle and the passing train carrying blurs through the tunnels are all beyond reach.
The multitude of strangers that I pass quickly rush on by as I reciprocate happily in my delusion of clarity. Bright sunrays squint my eyes, and floating debris wink my lids. The old man pulling tunes of sadness in off-key squeaks is applauded by the crowds of the exotic-seeking who are too poor of heart and mind to venture beyond comfortable confines. An overused sentence structure is written in hopes of confounding more discerning eyes beyond what is actually taking place, as crisply sad notes are remembered in an electronic void.
The flowing traffic awaits, the walk to the hospital checks its watch, and the cold lunch stirs itself in loneliness, hoping for consumption. I can take care of these needs, I can attend to their desires. I can do for it, what it cannot similarly provide me, but only in those random moments. Afterwards, they, too, are left to wallow, but grief and pity are not so much what they feel. I can sense how they feel, for they know they've provided me what I cannot similarly provide for them. Is it an economical exchange for the satisfaction based on we all get what we want? Or is it settling for that which we can get?
The multitude of strangers that I pass quickly rush on by as I reciprocate happily in my delusion of clarity. Bright sunrays squint my eyes, and floating debris wink my lids. The old man pulling tunes of sadness in off-key squeaks is applauded by the crowds of the exotic-seeking who are too poor of heart and mind to venture beyond comfortable confines. An overused sentence structure is written in hopes of confounding more discerning eyes beyond what is actually taking place, as crisply sad notes are remembered in an electronic void.
The flowing traffic awaits, the walk to the hospital checks its watch, and the cold lunch stirs itself in loneliness, hoping for consumption. I can take care of these needs, I can attend to their desires. I can do for it, what it cannot similarly provide me, but only in those random moments. Afterwards, they, too, are left to wallow, but grief and pity are not so much what they feel. I can sense how they feel, for they know they've provided me what I cannot similarly provide for them. Is it an economical exchange for the satisfaction based on we all get what we want? Or is it settling for that which we can get?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Choleric Love
Tonight I drained the last few drops of an incredibly romantic love story penned by Marquez of a similar title to what I have named this post. It's made me reflective of what one looks for in love, and what can prove the veracity of a true love that lasts forever. I have to admit to my own insipid and hopelessly romantic notions of what love could or should mean. To the point that it's a pointless dialogue between me, myself, and I, it occupies my thoughts too much, and yet, every time I settle to trash such vapid musings, it creeps back in the flash of a ray of sunshine or a drifting snowflake.
I then wonder whether experience is what quenches the mind's thirst to further explore foreign notions, with the result that the draw of past experience to rediscover what I've already known proves that experience does not satisfy perfectly. Some might call this perfectionism in completing the experience fully, but whatever the semantics, I'll subject it to my terms in the end, in which discovery of something that's worth it will only lead to a subsequent insatiable thirst to dive further into its abyss.
As the New Fidelity travels back and forth on the Magdalena til the rivers run different courses, the lifetime that it took to accomplish the momentous union is a hopeful signal to the hopeless. Of course, the day that it comes will very likely also be the hour at which I remember the same sourness in my mouth that has embittered me before. Evincing this clearly is the ironic pursuit of someone who was so beyond honesty with themself that a lifetime was wasted in coming to terms with what was tapped only upon the dusk of life's greatest years. Or perhaps the message is that if it was meant to be, then the sun will once again rise from the east. Or maybe time wasted is actually a lesson learned in the details of what it need not be, a.k.a. the peripheral facts of life that do not pertain to its existence.
It's a beautiful story, you should read it no matter what your take on the issue.
I then wonder whether experience is what quenches the mind's thirst to further explore foreign notions, with the result that the draw of past experience to rediscover what I've already known proves that experience does not satisfy perfectly. Some might call this perfectionism in completing the experience fully, but whatever the semantics, I'll subject it to my terms in the end, in which discovery of something that's worth it will only lead to a subsequent insatiable thirst to dive further into its abyss.
As the New Fidelity travels back and forth on the Magdalena til the rivers run different courses, the lifetime that it took to accomplish the momentous union is a hopeful signal to the hopeless. Of course, the day that it comes will very likely also be the hour at which I remember the same sourness in my mouth that has embittered me before. Evincing this clearly is the ironic pursuit of someone who was so beyond honesty with themself that a lifetime was wasted in coming to terms with what was tapped only upon the dusk of life's greatest years. Or perhaps the message is that if it was meant to be, then the sun will once again rise from the east. Or maybe time wasted is actually a lesson learned in the details of what it need not be, a.k.a. the peripheral facts of life that do not pertain to its existence.
It's a beautiful story, you should read it no matter what your take on the issue.
"Intellectual" Language
It's a Seattle vibe cafe, complete with birch decorations all over, reminiscent of the Scandinavian ancestors of so many of Seattle's European settlers (dare I say colonizers?). With a coffee in hand, I imagined that I would be able to settle my afternoon slump and ravage Marquez in a flurry of eye movements. Unfortunately, through a combination of the coffee's ineffectiveness (as tasty as it was) and the conversation that happened upon me, I was unable to concentrate.
I was drawn to the way that she described "Sanskrit" and how it was an intellectual language. I thought about that in my semi-dreamy state while continuing to listen to how these liberals were bringing something green and sustainable for mass consumption. The commodification of language at its best, I even deigned to take notes on the conversation. What I liked most about the beefing up of her skills was the strategic use of appropriation's approbation by the "originators" of the medium. As intriguing as it was, drowsiness kept me fanning back and forth between mild disinterest and trying to understand the words on the page.
There was no surprise ending apart from my contentment upon their departure. At which point I continued to be unable to concentrate until I wrote briefly about it and rebooted my system. In some way, I must thank them for their help in restarting my brain, at which point I actually made it through a few pages before I had to pack up and depart. Another successful venture to the hamster mill completed a rather fulfilling day.
So wherein lies the impetus for today's adventure? The fact that we have become so good at being good that we can talk without shame of cheap exploits. While not an amazing tale to be told, the sunny day merited some reminiscence of a lazy Tuesday out around town. If for nothing at all, the fact that the uneventfulness of the day leading to fortuitous announcements in the evening proves that every so often, a pinch of happiness is plotted on the line, even if it is mired in mainly among palustrine shrubbery.
I was drawn to the way that she described "Sanskrit" and how it was an intellectual language. I thought about that in my semi-dreamy state while continuing to listen to how these liberals were bringing something green and sustainable for mass consumption. The commodification of language at its best, I even deigned to take notes on the conversation. What I liked most about the beefing up of her skills was the strategic use of appropriation's approbation by the "originators" of the medium. As intriguing as it was, drowsiness kept me fanning back and forth between mild disinterest and trying to understand the words on the page.
There was no surprise ending apart from my contentment upon their departure. At which point I continued to be unable to concentrate until I wrote briefly about it and rebooted my system. In some way, I must thank them for their help in restarting my brain, at which point I actually made it through a few pages before I had to pack up and depart. Another successful venture to the hamster mill completed a rather fulfilling day.
So wherein lies the impetus for today's adventure? The fact that we have become so good at being good that we can talk without shame of cheap exploits. While not an amazing tale to be told, the sunny day merited some reminiscence of a lazy Tuesday out around town. If for nothing at all, the fact that the uneventfulness of the day leading to fortuitous announcements in the evening proves that every so often, a pinch of happiness is plotted on the line, even if it is mired in mainly among palustrine shrubbery.
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Year's Day
During the hustle and bustle of the first day of the New Year, I'm sure I don't differ from many others when I decide to spend it relaxed and reclining at home, enjoying the silence and stillness of the day. I suppose the feeling that you should be getting as the clock strikes 12 is that of renewal, when the clock is wound back again so that things can start anew. In part that's true, but it's also the ending of an old year, the passing of a time that doesn't come back. The mortuary aspect of the new year may also sit well with those of us that have had a bad year, so passing need not be especially mourned.
Lazy days are best spent looking out the window and wondering what could be happening, but taking comfort in the embrace of a warm blanket, senses slightly buoyed by a cup of dark tea. As the fumes rise gently and swirl around the sinking leaves, I sip the scalding liquid gently. The bitterness in the extra strong brew that I have prepared makes all other pending sorrows as sweet as honey. It's the wake-up to the new year that's ideal, so that all surprises and unexpected circumstances will be tinted rosy with a drop of sweet milk. And as the departing heat leaves the fumes of my tea as did the last breath of last year's winter winds in the early morning, the mind drifts to happy musings of what can only be a better year.
Lazy days are best spent looking out the window and wondering what could be happening, but taking comfort in the embrace of a warm blanket, senses slightly buoyed by a cup of dark tea. As the fumes rise gently and swirl around the sinking leaves, I sip the scalding liquid gently. The bitterness in the extra strong brew that I have prepared makes all other pending sorrows as sweet as honey. It's the wake-up to the new year that's ideal, so that all surprises and unexpected circumstances will be tinted rosy with a drop of sweet milk. And as the departing heat leaves the fumes of my tea as did the last breath of last year's winter winds in the early morning, the mind drifts to happy musings of what can only be a better year.
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