It is a great mortification to the vanity of man, that his utmost art and industry can never equal the meanest of nature's productions, either for beauty or value. Art is only the under-workman, and is employed to give a few strokes of embellishment to those pieces which come from the hand of the master. Some of the drapery may be of his drawing, but he is not allowed to touch the principle figure. Art may make a suit of clothes, but nature must produce a man.
Hume
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Things Fall Apart
My mom is the type of person who makes no apology. I've come to live with it and generally I don't need one to forgive. But in sounding more human and less holy, I should say that I've come to not really want to hear apologies at all, even if that is all a person has for me.
A few mornings ago the conversation was simple and filled with years of nuance:
Listen Jam, I want you to know, you know that bottle?
Huh?
You had a bottle of cologne.
Yea?
In your soccer bag.
Yea, okay?
The bottle tun ova.
What do you mean?
The bottle tun ova an' it break.
My bottle of Dolce is broken! - is it in the garbage?
Yes, mi threw it out, yuh cyaant smell it!? The whole room smell up suh!
(I, then take a deep therapy-intentioned breath in with my eyes closed and my lips firmly pinched.)
Whaapin, was it an expensive bottle?
Yes it was, and extremely sentimental.
Well... it tun ova
By itself?
Of course not, nuttin' nah tun ova itself unless a Duppy do it so.
I wouldn't think so.
The back of di vacuum chord catch the bag, and the bag tun ova wit di cologne...
Personally, I don't think a bottle of cologne stacks up in price against hundreds of thousands of dollars over 28 years. Also, as I walked out of the house, expecting and receiving no apology, and made my way to my cousin's house to watch her take care of her 3-month old bundle of joy, I didn't think the sentiment of a bottled scent stacks up against a mother who can hear if you're smiling or hungry from the other room. When I lifted my nose to the sky, it was sort of a phenomenal breath: The bottle of Dolce, now broken, fell into the universal scheme of things. In my mind it turned into broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor. I felt myself holding on to it, trying to rebuild it, trying to piece the bottle together with my idea of universal fairness. Not like this, I can't lose it like this, so suddenly, with so much left inside, so many experiences yet.
I realized at this point that piecing the bottle together in my mind would be harder than piecing it together in real life, and so all I really could do was sit there. I sat there and took some more breaths in. I realized that I only had a few minutes left with it. With Lana Del Rey's Born to Die playing in the background, I took a breath in and realized that it did indeed fill the room, gently. I lived in its aura. For the first time, I experienced what others may have, when the room unexpectedly became filled with my aura, for this time it was not on my body, and it was not attached to my agenda.
I think sensory adaptation is one of the most poetic analogies of nature - we forget what our own scent smells like, what others feel when they experience us, even though we so purposefully try to have people experience us in a very specific way. Most people don't know my funk, the air that comes from my dark places, and most people won't. I don't mind that, in fact for the most part I hide my funk not out of shame but out of public consideration. But sitting there, on that bar stool in my basement, it became evident that if I'm not able to smell my own richness, then nobody will ever come to know the whole story of me. All they will come to know is what I have come to know, my dark places. Just as much as you probably should introduce the people you love to your dark places, you have to introduce yourself to your own light. It doesn't happen naturally, your mind's eye is very curious about the external, you have to remind it of how unfamiliar it is with the internal. Those of us who are blessed change every day, which is why there is so much going on inside that we don't understand. It's either an arrogant statement, or a demisingly true statement, when someone says that they know themselves completely. Doubtless you are the best judge of yourself, but any self-respecting judge knows not every day's case has precedence.
This post and its metaphors for my daily experiences is not one to describe sadness or anger. This is a description of something recently that fell apart for me. Things fall apart for a reason; today's reason was not to make way for something new, but to allow me to embrace something old. I realize that I had a lot of emotion tied up in that bottle, a lot of feelings about myself that I would only let out in doses each morning. It was my mom who, just as mother's do, broke apart the glass that encased me and forced me to take myself in. Better her than me, I never myself had the courage to break myself free from yesterday to face tomorrow.
It was nice, my yesterday's scent. And now, tomorrow, I suppose can smell like anything I put my mind and my money to. Chances are, it'll still be a type of Dolce.
A few mornings ago the conversation was simple and filled with years of nuance:
Listen Jam, I want you to know, you know that bottle?
Huh?
You had a bottle of cologne.
Yea?
In your soccer bag.
Yea, okay?
The bottle tun ova.
What do you mean?
The bottle tun ova an' it break.
My bottle of Dolce is broken! - is it in the garbage?
Yes, mi threw it out, yuh cyaant smell it!? The whole room smell up suh!
(I, then take a deep therapy-intentioned breath in with my eyes closed and my lips firmly pinched.)
Whaapin, was it an expensive bottle?
Yes it was, and extremely sentimental.
Well... it tun ova
By itself?
Of course not, nuttin' nah tun ova itself unless a Duppy do it so.
I wouldn't think so.
The back of di vacuum chord catch the bag, and the bag tun ova wit di cologne...
Personally, I don't think a bottle of cologne stacks up in price against hundreds of thousands of dollars over 28 years. Also, as I walked out of the house, expecting and receiving no apology, and made my way to my cousin's house to watch her take care of her 3-month old bundle of joy, I didn't think the sentiment of a bottled scent stacks up against a mother who can hear if you're smiling or hungry from the other room. When I lifted my nose to the sky, it was sort of a phenomenal breath: The bottle of Dolce, now broken, fell into the universal scheme of things. In my mind it turned into broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor. I felt myself holding on to it, trying to rebuild it, trying to piece the bottle together with my idea of universal fairness. Not like this, I can't lose it like this, so suddenly, with so much left inside, so many experiences yet.
I realized at this point that piecing the bottle together in my mind would be harder than piecing it together in real life, and so all I really could do was sit there. I sat there and took some more breaths in. I realized that I only had a few minutes left with it. With Lana Del Rey's Born to Die playing in the background, I took a breath in and realized that it did indeed fill the room, gently. I lived in its aura. For the first time, I experienced what others may have, when the room unexpectedly became filled with my aura, for this time it was not on my body, and it was not attached to my agenda.
I think sensory adaptation is one of the most poetic analogies of nature - we forget what our own scent smells like, what others feel when they experience us, even though we so purposefully try to have people experience us in a very specific way. Most people don't know my funk, the air that comes from my dark places, and most people won't. I don't mind that, in fact for the most part I hide my funk not out of shame but out of public consideration. But sitting there, on that bar stool in my basement, it became evident that if I'm not able to smell my own richness, then nobody will ever come to know the whole story of me. All they will come to know is what I have come to know, my dark places. Just as much as you probably should introduce the people you love to your dark places, you have to introduce yourself to your own light. It doesn't happen naturally, your mind's eye is very curious about the external, you have to remind it of how unfamiliar it is with the internal. Those of us who are blessed change every day, which is why there is so much going on inside that we don't understand. It's either an arrogant statement, or a demisingly true statement, when someone says that they know themselves completely. Doubtless you are the best judge of yourself, but any self-respecting judge knows not every day's case has precedence.
This post and its metaphors for my daily experiences is not one to describe sadness or anger. This is a description of something recently that fell apart for me. Things fall apart for a reason; today's reason was not to make way for something new, but to allow me to embrace something old. I realize that I had a lot of emotion tied up in that bottle, a lot of feelings about myself that I would only let out in doses each morning. It was my mom who, just as mother's do, broke apart the glass that encased me and forced me to take myself in. Better her than me, I never myself had the courage to break myself free from yesterday to face tomorrow.
It was nice, my yesterday's scent. And now, tomorrow, I suppose can smell like anything I put my mind and my money to. Chances are, it'll still be a type of Dolce.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Mockingbird
The alarm clock rang at 6am from yesterday's schedule but today is a holiday. Originally it was intended to simply be a day off, but then it became a holiday.
Three hours later I woke up on my own accord and peered out at my window. Despite not being open I could a Northern Mockingbird outside doing his thing. Then he stopped doing his thing and instead he decided to talk to me, perched just outside my window he began with her song of mockery:
"What are you doing with your life?" he asked.
It's my day off.
"And why do you need a day off? What's so troublesome?"
It's been a tough winter
"You humans, you think you had a tough winter? Do you have any idea where I've been to, just to land right back here? I suppose that's what you're in your bed pondering."
More or less
"Humans. You especially, you're so dreadfully human. Do you know how much of a waste of potential most of you are? You have it so easy that you make it hard."
What do you mean?
"Listen, I don't have much time. This is all you need to know: In my lifetime, I have seen many different lands, I ate and drank as I pleased, fine dining that you all have cast aside or fast food from the drive through when I'm in a rush. I've built more than one home for myself and in fact I'm late to make another. Today I made love to my woman and she will bear my child. We share only songs of joy and necessity. We live according to our means because we innately know that to carry excess only holds us back. The sum of your desires today, love, mediation and success are my daily story. You are so dreadfully human, terribly mammal. You have a brain far more complex than mine but your mind is insufferably simple. You would use all of your advance means of communicating only to complain, only to add weight to the problems you should have lifted yourself from by your hands. What I would do with your hands, let alone your brain. Listen I have to go, you know the rest, or you will."
Wait, what would you do with my means?
No, it couldn't be. My job, my love, my career, my every waking hour, has been devoted to the utterly beastly. I wake up and serve only myself, as the bear in the woods and the hog in his sty. Could it be that this song of mockery was not meant for me in a divine sense but rather a simple reminder from species to species? A reminder that in all of our advancement, we still live to die, and what we achieve is no more noble than our skybound counterparts? Even still, we wish only to follow them and learn to fly. When I asked him what he would do with my means, he paused a bit before flying off. I'm not sure if he had never really bothered to think that far ahead, or whether in his silence he told me something that I just could not understand.
I got up, made breakfast, bewildered. Somehow I instinctively decided to crack open my new copy of Primer - finally I'll be able to see it in its entirety. The movie passed. Just as it were the first time I watched it I didn't blink for an hour and a half. It hit me harder today than any other time I've watched it - that we are so bound by our conception of time and we forge our own shackles. What a bird does everyday, we stretch out over years. What we could achieve in one day, a bird could spend his entire year never doing. All you have to do is begin to allow your very complicated brain to let go of its conception of time, let go of what has happened and what will. All you have to remember is that yesterday was neither a waste nor a gain, because it did not cause today. Today caused yesterday just as much as it may cause tomorrow. When you begin to understand this, you will know how to write your own story.
Three hours later I woke up on my own accord and peered out at my window. Despite not being open I could a Northern Mockingbird outside doing his thing. Then he stopped doing his thing and instead he decided to talk to me, perched just outside my window he began with her song of mockery:
"What are you doing with your life?" he asked.
It's my day off.
"And why do you need a day off? What's so troublesome?"
It's been a tough winter
"You humans, you think you had a tough winter? Do you have any idea where I've been to, just to land right back here? I suppose that's what you're in your bed pondering."
More or less
"Humans. You especially, you're so dreadfully human. Do you know how much of a waste of potential most of you are? You have it so easy that you make it hard."
What do you mean?
"Listen, I don't have much time. This is all you need to know: In my lifetime, I have seen many different lands, I ate and drank as I pleased, fine dining that you all have cast aside or fast food from the drive through when I'm in a rush. I've built more than one home for myself and in fact I'm late to make another. Today I made love to my woman and she will bear my child. We share only songs of joy and necessity. We live according to our means because we innately know that to carry excess only holds us back. The sum of your desires today, love, mediation and success are my daily story. You are so dreadfully human, terribly mammal. You have a brain far more complex than mine but your mind is insufferably simple. You would use all of your advance means of communicating only to complain, only to add weight to the problems you should have lifted yourself from by your hands. What I would do with your hands, let alone your brain. Listen I have to go, you know the rest, or you will."
Wait, what would you do with my means?
No, it couldn't be. My job, my love, my career, my every waking hour, has been devoted to the utterly beastly. I wake up and serve only myself, as the bear in the woods and the hog in his sty. Could it be that this song of mockery was not meant for me in a divine sense but rather a simple reminder from species to species? A reminder that in all of our advancement, we still live to die, and what we achieve is no more noble than our skybound counterparts? Even still, we wish only to follow them and learn to fly. When I asked him what he would do with my means, he paused a bit before flying off. I'm not sure if he had never really bothered to think that far ahead, or whether in his silence he told me something that I just could not understand.
I got up, made breakfast, bewildered. Somehow I instinctively decided to crack open my new copy of Primer - finally I'll be able to see it in its entirety. The movie passed. Just as it were the first time I watched it I didn't blink for an hour and a half. It hit me harder today than any other time I've watched it - that we are so bound by our conception of time and we forge our own shackles. What a bird does everyday, we stretch out over years. What we could achieve in one day, a bird could spend his entire year never doing. All you have to do is begin to allow your very complicated brain to let go of its conception of time, let go of what has happened and what will. All you have to remember is that yesterday was neither a waste nor a gain, because it did not cause today. Today caused yesterday just as much as it may cause tomorrow. When you begin to understand this, you will know how to write your own story.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Eye of the beholder
It's not. It's there even when you're not looking. Just as the sound of a fallen tree does not depend our ears, when I close my eyes to beauty it makes a sound.
Have you ever looked into the fog, unable to see a single object on the ground, but if you cast your eyes upwards, not trying to see the mere ground objects but rather trying to behold the majesty, you find that the sky is now a piercingly bright white. Back there behind all of the mist of today either this afternoon or tomorrow morning's sun. Which still leaves a valid question - have we passed noon, or shall we mourn tomorrow? Which leaves open a contradiction - will the sun shine kindly or intensely for me when the fog has lifted? On the one hand, the stronger your sunlight the quicker the fog will dissipate, but perhaps then I will sear and scorch in your rays if I beg further for them to touch me now. On the other hand, perhaps at its current rate, when the fog passes night will have fallen. And is there any hope for me in the dark? Are you there with Bruno, on the other side of the moon, casting light upon it so that I can navigate this ocean? Or am I left to keep guessing with the dim and distant north star?
When you walk with your chin up, you realize there are so many questions floating up there in the sky. When you walk, rather, in a sulken matter, there is only this step, and next step, this step, then one after. Less questions but less answers. Not the kind of atmosphere that brings peace to a philosopher. And what joy is there watching the sidewalk squares pass along, anticipating their end. No, the beauty is out there whether I have the courage to look for it or not. If I want to see it I need to remember that the eye of the beholder is filled with fire not water.
Have you ever looked into the fog, unable to see a single object on the ground, but if you cast your eyes upwards, not trying to see the mere ground objects but rather trying to behold the majesty, you find that the sky is now a piercingly bright white. Back there behind all of the mist of today either this afternoon or tomorrow morning's sun. Which still leaves a valid question - have we passed noon, or shall we mourn tomorrow? Which leaves open a contradiction - will the sun shine kindly or intensely for me when the fog has lifted? On the one hand, the stronger your sunlight the quicker the fog will dissipate, but perhaps then I will sear and scorch in your rays if I beg further for them to touch me now. On the other hand, perhaps at its current rate, when the fog passes night will have fallen. And is there any hope for me in the dark? Are you there with Bruno, on the other side of the moon, casting light upon it so that I can navigate this ocean? Or am I left to keep guessing with the dim and distant north star?
When you walk with your chin up, you realize there are so many questions floating up there in the sky. When you walk, rather, in a sulken matter, there is only this step, and next step, this step, then one after. Less questions but less answers. Not the kind of atmosphere that brings peace to a philosopher. And what joy is there watching the sidewalk squares pass along, anticipating their end. No, the beauty is out there whether I have the courage to look for it or not. If I want to see it I need to remember that the eye of the beholder is filled with fire not water.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Heart of a Dreamer
Today while my dad was describing his adaptation to living without access to a car he went on about how when I'm home this week he's going to want to replace the ancient exercise bike that sits in our basement, moaning for euthanasia due to our lack of desire to use it or even acknowledge it. He asked me if I remember the store he purchased it from, Consumer's Distributing.
Consumer's Distributing was like many stores in developing suburban town centres - lacking in pizazz, so much so that even their store names were shockingly literal. Consumer's Distributing was just that, a distribution outlet for a hodgepodge of manufacturers' overstock of consumer goods, that could not be profitably sold from a major reseller. An artifact of North American over-consumption: corporations squeezing a few more cents into their top line at the expense of the lower-middle class' increasing desire to live materialistically and beyond their fiscal means. But that's what I think about C.D. now, after my fancy undergraduate degree and having worked both ends of 2 of the world's largest supply chains. Before I learned how to turn my back on happiness C.D. was a field of dreams.
When you grow up in the hood the strangest phenomenon occurs: While otherwise forced to face so many other harsh realities of existence, you learn to make dreams out of the everyday. When I was a kid, C.D. was my wishlist to Santa Claus. I would pull out my crayon's and a fulls-cap sheet of paper and say "Dear Santa, once again I've been a good boy and so if I can have some of these gifts I would want them in this order..." Then, because for some reason my dad used to tell me that Santa can't read my mind and he needs pictures to understand 'what kinda of toys you boys want,' we would take the yearly catalog that C.D. would "give out" and my dad would tell me that Santa will buy us our favourite things from this book. A safe bet for my dad; he would buy us either our "Top 3" or maybe even up to 6 items from this book, depending on how expensive they were (he left himself that flexibility), while giving me and my brother over a hundred pages of dreams to choose from. It also meant that he could be absolutely assured that no matter what dreams may come he would be getting the cheapest possible prices on them with no reseller markup. The dreams evolved from hot wheels, to batmobiles, to a Sega Genesis console, until eventually we couldn't find our dreams in that catalog, they had become too large for its pages.
Sometimes I feel as though that's why my dad kept the bike around for so many years after it ceased to be functional - and I mean it is bad, like I'm sure somebody else could put it to good use, but we actually just put a really large nail into the seat adjuster to balance the seat neck, and for a stationary bike to have found a way to throw me off of it twice and cut my foot open 3 times is quite impeccable. But I think my dad remembers the looks on his two boys' faces when they knew that now they were getting what was owed to them by the world, after another year of impressive grades, moral stature, commitment to kindness and above all, filial piety. If you're good to the world, each man and woman deserves a chance to cut out whatever dreams they found in their book and paste it on their wish list. The commitment your loved ones make to you is to be there for you when it's time to ante up, and remind you that all of your dreaming was worthwhile. Maybe my brother and I will get the new bike for my dad, but spare him the task of addressing Santa.
When I was younger and my dreams were smaller they were all tangible. As I get older, and on nights like tonight, my dreams extend further and further from the glossy paper with prices written all over it, and I start to realize that the best dreams are intangible. In fact those very dreams were gifts, gifts my father gave to me to teach me the value of dreaming. For a long time since, I had forgotten the value of dreaming because of the pain of not being able to touch the intangible. But these days are different. Earlier today, driving up the DVP with the windows on low and Paganini on high, looking at the new marvel of human construction cascaded by the perennial natural constructions of spring, I feel as though things can only develop upwards from here. And as my car veered east on the 401 and the mauve sunset could only catch my rearview mirror, I touched one of life's analogies, proving that the intangible can be felt: I'm moving away from sunsets, it brings me no joy to describe the end of things when there is a world of new beginnings. I have the heart of a dreamer, and whether dreadful or blissful, dreams for me are a blessing, I am thankful to know how to dream again. Seven hundred and fifty dreams later, I ought to be thankful for being taught how to dream all over again. Yes, I counted.
Consumer's Distributing was like many stores in developing suburban town centres - lacking in pizazz, so much so that even their store names were shockingly literal. Consumer's Distributing was just that, a distribution outlet for a hodgepodge of manufacturers' overstock of consumer goods, that could not be profitably sold from a major reseller. An artifact of North American over-consumption: corporations squeezing a few more cents into their top line at the expense of the lower-middle class' increasing desire to live materialistically and beyond their fiscal means. But that's what I think about C.D. now, after my fancy undergraduate degree and having worked both ends of 2 of the world's largest supply chains. Before I learned how to turn my back on happiness C.D. was a field of dreams.
When you grow up in the hood the strangest phenomenon occurs: While otherwise forced to face so many other harsh realities of existence, you learn to make dreams out of the everyday. When I was a kid, C.D. was my wishlist to Santa Claus. I would pull out my crayon's and a fulls-cap sheet of paper and say "Dear Santa, once again I've been a good boy and so if I can have some of these gifts I would want them in this order..." Then, because for some reason my dad used to tell me that Santa can't read my mind and he needs pictures to understand 'what kinda of toys you boys want,' we would take the yearly catalog that C.D. would "give out" and my dad would tell me that Santa will buy us our favourite things from this book. A safe bet for my dad; he would buy us either our "Top 3" or maybe even up to 6 items from this book, depending on how expensive they were (he left himself that flexibility), while giving me and my brother over a hundred pages of dreams to choose from. It also meant that he could be absolutely assured that no matter what dreams may come he would be getting the cheapest possible prices on them with no reseller markup. The dreams evolved from hot wheels, to batmobiles, to a Sega Genesis console, until eventually we couldn't find our dreams in that catalog, they had become too large for its pages.
Sometimes I feel as though that's why my dad kept the bike around for so many years after it ceased to be functional - and I mean it is bad, like I'm sure somebody else could put it to good use, but we actually just put a really large nail into the seat adjuster to balance the seat neck, and for a stationary bike to have found a way to throw me off of it twice and cut my foot open 3 times is quite impeccable. But I think my dad remembers the looks on his two boys' faces when they knew that now they were getting what was owed to them by the world, after another year of impressive grades, moral stature, commitment to kindness and above all, filial piety. If you're good to the world, each man and woman deserves a chance to cut out whatever dreams they found in their book and paste it on their wish list. The commitment your loved ones make to you is to be there for you when it's time to ante up, and remind you that all of your dreaming was worthwhile. Maybe my brother and I will get the new bike for my dad, but spare him the task of addressing Santa.
When I was younger and my dreams were smaller they were all tangible. As I get older, and on nights like tonight, my dreams extend further and further from the glossy paper with prices written all over it, and I start to realize that the best dreams are intangible. In fact those very dreams were gifts, gifts my father gave to me to teach me the value of dreaming. For a long time since, I had forgotten the value of dreaming because of the pain of not being able to touch the intangible. But these days are different. Earlier today, driving up the DVP with the windows on low and Paganini on high, looking at the new marvel of human construction cascaded by the perennial natural constructions of spring, I feel as though things can only develop upwards from here. And as my car veered east on the 401 and the mauve sunset could only catch my rearview mirror, I touched one of life's analogies, proving that the intangible can be felt: I'm moving away from sunsets, it brings me no joy to describe the end of things when there is a world of new beginnings. I have the heart of a dreamer, and whether dreadful or blissful, dreams for me are a blessing, I am thankful to know how to dream again. Seven hundred and fifty dreams later, I ought to be thankful for being taught how to dream all over again. Yes, I counted.
Friday, March 16, 2012
The whole world blind
What good are words? Specifically what good are mine? I was born to describe mountains and valleys, a world full of life and light. But I am in the dark. I am speaking from a dark place. I don't have the gift of the light of your eyes, here, in my room, at this hour. When you cast your light upon my world the words I have are the beauty you have blessed me to see. But here in the darkness, words can only frighten, agitate and disturb. They attack from unseen angles and cause a swarm of bats. Words are no use in the dark, loud or soft.
While I am in the dark I will take my own idol's advice and be a light unto myself. I will not describe this cave, I will not describe the cold wind I've become acquainted with, for it jars me awake from the nightmares. In this cave my words echo with increasing intensity, farther into the distance, farther from my intent. I understand now that this will only cause you to close your eyes from either fear or disgust. What light then will there be?
I will not speak of darkness. Will you open your eyes?
That was always an ask, not a declaration.
While I am in the dark I will take my own idol's advice and be a light unto myself. I will not describe this cave, I will not describe the cold wind I've become acquainted with, for it jars me awake from the nightmares. In this cave my words echo with increasing intensity, farther into the distance, farther from my intent. I understand now that this will only cause you to close your eyes from either fear or disgust. What light then will there be?
I will not speak of darkness. Will you open your eyes?
That was always an ask, not a declaration.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Tetherball
I never knew about the sport until I was a teenager. I was a Parks and Rec leader wondering exactly what it is I was to do with this heavy over-sized pole. When I finally figured out which end goes in the ground I placed it there and the kids knew exactly what to do with it. Oh the looks of absolute joy on their faces as they would fight to bring the ball as close to them as possible just so they could hit it away from them as hard as their bodies would allow. An interesting sport I thought to myself. There's something naturally destructively pleasing about putting all your effort into tying up this ball and leaving it with nowhere to go.
Now I am that tether ball, and I find the sport far less pleasing. Oh, with what joy they bring me close, just to smack me in the face with fingers of reality. The reality that I am hanging, that this is all a game, that I was not brought close into their embrace for comfort. The plan was always to slap me. Then they would go home and smile about memories of when we were close and how proud they felt that they were the ones who left me bound. Now I hang here in the heat of the afternoon sun, fearful of nightfall.
At least I still have a long pole.
Now I am that tether ball, and I find the sport far less pleasing. Oh, with what joy they bring me close, just to smack me in the face with fingers of reality. The reality that I am hanging, that this is all a game, that I was not brought close into their embrace for comfort. The plan was always to slap me. Then they would go home and smile about memories of when we were close and how proud they felt that they were the ones who left me bound. Now I hang here in the heat of the afternoon sun, fearful of nightfall.
At least I still have a long pole.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Cielito Lindo
De la Sierra Morena,
Cielito lindo, vienen bajando,
Un par de ojitos negros,
Cielito lindo, de contrabando.
Estribillo
Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Canta y no llores,
Porque cantando se alegran,
Cielito lindo, los corazones.
Pájaro que abandona,
Cielito lindo, su primer nido,
Si lo encuentra ocupado,
Cielito lindo, bien merecido.
(Estribillo)
Ese lunar que tienes,
Cielito lindo, junto a la boca,
No se lo des a nadie,
Cielito lindo, que a mí me toca.
(Estribillo)
Si tu boquita morena,
Fuera de azúcar, fuera de azúcar,
Yo me lo pasaría,
Cielito lindo, chupa que chupa.
(Estribillo)
De tu casa a la mía,
Cielito lindo, no hay más que un paso,
Antes que venga tu madre,
Cielito lindo, dame un abrazo.
(Estribillo)
Una flecha en el aire,
Cielito lindo, lanzó Cupido,
y como fue jugando,
Cielito lindo, yo fui el herido.
(Estribillo)
Cielito lindo, vienen bajando,
Un par de ojitos negros,
Cielito lindo, de contrabando.
Estribillo
Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Canta y no llores,
Porque cantando se alegran,
Cielito lindo, los corazones.
Pájaro que abandona,
Cielito lindo, su primer nido,
Si lo encuentra ocupado,
Cielito lindo, bien merecido.
(Estribillo)
Ese lunar que tienes,
Cielito lindo, junto a la boca,
No se lo des a nadie,
Cielito lindo, que a mí me toca.
(Estribillo)
Si tu boquita morena,
Fuera de azúcar, fuera de azúcar,
Yo me lo pasaría,
Cielito lindo, chupa que chupa.
(Estribillo)
De tu casa a la mía,
Cielito lindo, no hay más que un paso,
Antes que venga tu madre,
Cielito lindo, dame un abrazo.
(Estribillo)
Una flecha en el aire,
Cielito lindo, lanzó Cupido,
y como fue jugando,
Cielito lindo, yo fui el herido.
(Estribillo)
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Is this spring?
The thermostat setting has been moved from Heat to Off, and the backdoor is wide open. Only the screen is closed to prevent the inflow of bugs, whom come to think of it are likely not to appear above surface yet. It's been a tricky winter to say the least, and I imagine the bugs are still waiting for a cue that there will arrive a blossom.
So what of my thoughts. As custom, I go for my first sit down on my parents' deck to listen to nature's call. With eyes closed I hear all of Vivaldi's Spring and other stereotypes of the season: A child in the distance, far west down my street, giggles with glee at a newfound outside adventure. A gull makes a declaration of found food. From the open back door of another suburban house who neighbours our backyard from another street, a father helps his son get dressed and speaks to him with that common parental voice inclination. All of this takes only a few seconds to recognize as the beginning of nature's dialogue with me, whereas in years past it would take nearly an hour to hear her voice. In part I owe this to having attended an info session and presentation of Vivaldi on Friday.
So I asked her politely and merely out of curiosity, not anguish or exasperation, if this is spring. It smells and certainly now sounds like spring. I'm standing now, and able to feel a breeze that does not chase me inside as it did in December, and I feel pain that doesn't cripple me as it did in late November. Everything seems to be changing for the better and yet nothing has. There is still much to be cautious and weary of. Tomorrow does not promise the absence of sleet. Tomorrow only promises what my favourite fortune cookie did many yesterdays ago: Good things come to those who wait, great things come to those who hustle. There is much work to be done between now and April, which is why I appreciate that on this day she has only given me a glimmer of what is to come. If Spring arrives this year, I promise not to kill it with rain.
So what of my thoughts. As custom, I go for my first sit down on my parents' deck to listen to nature's call. With eyes closed I hear all of Vivaldi's Spring and other stereotypes of the season: A child in the distance, far west down my street, giggles with glee at a newfound outside adventure. A gull makes a declaration of found food. From the open back door of another suburban house who neighbours our backyard from another street, a father helps his son get dressed and speaks to him with that common parental voice inclination. All of this takes only a few seconds to recognize as the beginning of nature's dialogue with me, whereas in years past it would take nearly an hour to hear her voice. In part I owe this to having attended an info session and presentation of Vivaldi on Friday.
So I asked her politely and merely out of curiosity, not anguish or exasperation, if this is spring. It smells and certainly now sounds like spring. I'm standing now, and able to feel a breeze that does not chase me inside as it did in December, and I feel pain that doesn't cripple me as it did in late November. Everything seems to be changing for the better and yet nothing has. There is still much to be cautious and weary of. Tomorrow does not promise the absence of sleet. Tomorrow only promises what my favourite fortune cookie did many yesterdays ago: Good things come to those who wait, great things come to those who hustle. There is much work to be done between now and April, which is why I appreciate that on this day she has only given me a glimmer of what is to come. If Spring arrives this year, I promise not to kill it with rain.
Friday, March 09, 2012
Green
What do colours mean? What is green? Green is newness, vitality, the.existence of life, and also of disease. In both cases green represents activity, biological. Does green represent movement or the desire to do so? What things are green? Money, envy, marijuana. What are all those things? Ambition. The ambition to own more, the ambition to possess what you don't have, the ambition to escape to somewhere new, out there or within yourself. Green means go after all, movement indeed. Green is impure, not simply as a result of these examples, green is by nature a combination, a mixture (or contamination) of the pure. Perhaps envy is the contamination of pure sadness. When do we use green? Why does it represent failure so often? Failure to barter, failure to achieve what we wish, failure to remain healthy. Yet green means go, green means it's on. Perhaps green is the contamination of pure sadness which is why it means perseverence. To continue on, to let you know there is still charge to your battery. Green means correct, keep going, you're closer to perfection. But now we're back to ambition. So does green stand between mankind and love - just as ambition does? No less envy and money. Marijuana is debatable.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
A Spade
We look for meaning. We relate things to other things to understand the former things. We search outside for an explanation of the inside. I'm doing this as we speak. I'm asking why society displays a pattern to try to explain why I act a certain way. Let me attempt to search for meaning the right way:
I want it all. I don't know or care what I deserve. I don't mind living a life of fulfilment at the expense of jusice. I think that is justice. When it's all over He will ask me what I learned and whether I spent the time to persue my dreams or rather wasted the gift of life he offered me. Purgatory is for those who decide they'll wait until the next life to live. Wait indeed they shall.
This pain is not justice. It was not doled out this suffering for a reason, only a purpose. Trancendemce isn't a state of being but rather a description of being. Do I transcend? Or am I a slave to peaks and troughs - am I obsessed with the idea that I must ascend from this pit? I will light ablaze all of this mud and mudslingers alike and when my ashes pass the mountaintops take note and remember who lit up your night sky. I brought about the morning before your sunrise and perished within my own flames of desire. The hottest fire burns blue.
I want it all. I don't know or care what I deserve. I don't mind living a life of fulfilment at the expense of jusice. I think that is justice. When it's all over He will ask me what I learned and whether I spent the time to persue my dreams or rather wasted the gift of life he offered me. Purgatory is for those who decide they'll wait until the next life to live. Wait indeed they shall.
This pain is not justice. It was not doled out this suffering for a reason, only a purpose. Trancendemce isn't a state of being but rather a description of being. Do I transcend? Or am I a slave to peaks and troughs - am I obsessed with the idea that I must ascend from this pit? I will light ablaze all of this mud and mudslingers alike and when my ashes pass the mountaintops take note and remember who lit up your night sky. I brought about the morning before your sunrise and perished within my own flames of desire. The hottest fire burns blue.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Ella Fitzgerald in the cafeteria a year ago
Somethings gotta give,
Somethings gotta give
Somethings gotta give
When an irresistible force such as you
Meets and old immovable object like me
You can bet as sure as you live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
When an irrepressible smile such as yours
Warms an old implacable heart such as mine
Don't say no because I insist.
Somewhere, somehow,
Someone's gonna be kissed.
So en garde who knows what the fates have in store
From their vast mysterious sky?
I'll try hard ignoring those lips I adore
But how long can anyone try?
Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight it with all of our might,
Chances are some heavenly star spangled night
We'll find out as sure as we live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
Fight, fight, fight it with all of our might,
Chances are some heavenly star spangled night
We'll find out as sure as we live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
Something's gotta , something's gotta give
...
Somethings gotta give
Somethings gotta give
When an irresistible force such as you
Meets and old immovable object like me
You can bet as sure as you live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
When an irrepressible smile such as yours
Warms an old implacable heart such as mine
Don't say no because I insist.
Somewhere, somehow,
Someone's gonna be kissed.
So en garde who knows what the fates have in store
From their vast mysterious sky?
I'll try hard ignoring those lips I adore
But how long can anyone try?
Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight it with all of our might,
Chances are some heavenly star spangled night
We'll find out as sure as we live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
Fight, fight, fight it with all of our might,
Chances are some heavenly star spangled night
We'll find out as sure as we live
Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,
Something's gotta give.
Something's gotta , something's gotta give
...
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Potion
Laid down on his side and transported by air, from a parking lot facing a pond, to the exit only doors of the hospital, to forests he's never seen before and yet roads in distant countries that were oh too familiar to him; finally he is laid back down on the earth. He lay there on his back in his unfinished basement with his niece of only 3 years sitting on his chest and smiling. "Pick me up like a horsie!" And he does it. "Lock your arms around my legs" And he does it. But much more rapidly than expected her weight exhausts his shoulders and wrist and he lays her down, and himself against the cold concrete. Suddenly, he realized, she had grown, perhaps in his arms. He begins to tell her, as he focuses her attention on the series of pencil strokes drawn against the load bearing pillar, that the last time she came over she was "this high," and that each time we measured her she asked if now it was time for the horse ride. So maybe a foot or so higher than the previous strokes, "we put this watch here so you would know that it's always time for a horse ride." He closed his eyes within closed eyes, and thought to himself, "I could be a father."
He rolled on his side as she skipped away and smiled, and again he was lifted, but this time directly upwards, through the floorboards and ended up just outside his mother's room. Unsure if he should be there or what she would say to him for interrupting her few moments if silence she gets in this house, he every gently went from laying to sitting, and then sitting to standing. He dare not take a step forward because the age of this house and subsequent creakiness of its floors surpasses his ninja abilities. He leaned over as far as he could towards her half opened door and caught a glimpse of the mirrors edge. He leaned in as far as he could and saw his mother's reflection. She was standing there shirtless, offering a clear inference that she was completely naked, or perhaps in only undergarments as she was a true lady, but he could only see upwards from just below her shoulders. All he needed to see was that she was smiling. She was clearly gazing upon her own body, aged and filled with stories, and each line of skin and line of verse seemed to add to her smile. She gazed upon her body dipping her left shoulder, or perhaps right - mirrors, forward, and yet her smile remained perfectly still. His mom has lost weight, and immediately he got a sense of the feeling of accomplishment that fueled her smile. Good family, great career, nice home, were all goals that she had for her relationship with others and God. But losing weight, and having this body, the body she wants, was her own goal - it benefited nobody but herself, and that's why she was so happy she succeeded. He realized then that as he becomes a father he must also imbue himself with exactly this sense of satisfaction. He felt once again what he had not felt for so long, as a child, as her child, as someone with much to learn, and hence reason to live.
At this point his mind felt solved, and the spell wore off. He sat up in his sofa in the late PM on a Saturday afternoon and emerged a new man, made anew by the effects of this family potion created from cow parts, vegetable oil and chilli powder and beans.
He rolled on his side as she skipped away and smiled, and again he was lifted, but this time directly upwards, through the floorboards and ended up just outside his mother's room. Unsure if he should be there or what she would say to him for interrupting her few moments if silence she gets in this house, he every gently went from laying to sitting, and then sitting to standing. He dare not take a step forward because the age of this house and subsequent creakiness of its floors surpasses his ninja abilities. He leaned over as far as he could towards her half opened door and caught a glimpse of the mirrors edge. He leaned in as far as he could and saw his mother's reflection. She was standing there shirtless, offering a clear inference that she was completely naked, or perhaps in only undergarments as she was a true lady, but he could only see upwards from just below her shoulders. All he needed to see was that she was smiling. She was clearly gazing upon her own body, aged and filled with stories, and each line of skin and line of verse seemed to add to her smile. She gazed upon her body dipping her left shoulder, or perhaps right - mirrors, forward, and yet her smile remained perfectly still. His mom has lost weight, and immediately he got a sense of the feeling of accomplishment that fueled her smile. Good family, great career, nice home, were all goals that she had for her relationship with others and God. But losing weight, and having this body, the body she wants, was her own goal - it benefited nobody but herself, and that's why she was so happy she succeeded. He realized then that as he becomes a father he must also imbue himself with exactly this sense of satisfaction. He felt once again what he had not felt for so long, as a child, as her child, as someone with much to learn, and hence reason to live.
At this point his mind felt solved, and the spell wore off. He sat up in his sofa in the late PM on a Saturday afternoon and emerged a new man, made anew by the effects of this family potion created from cow parts, vegetable oil and chilli powder and beans.
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