Disjoint Wisdom

Magic

2011-11-04T19:15:00.001-04:00

The ability

s…t…r…i…n…g

together

piece

thought

With another

That has no connection

To it

On the surface

But when placed

In just the

Right place.

Means

What

the tiny Voice in my head

Wants it to mean.

That is Magic!

A Splatter of Thoughts

2011-11-03T11:08:00.000-04:00

I take the quill from my hand

And drop it in the space

Between the sheet of pristine white paper

And the edge of my desk.

Tiny drops of ink

Splatter

Across the white of the page

Forming a path of thoughts

As they congeal into place.

If words are nothing but splatters of ink

Arranged in a way that we have all

Determined to mean a thing.

Does not this splatter

Define the vision of the thoughts?

Of my thoughts?

Of my frustrations?

And so

With a sweep of my hand

I declare that these will be my words today

This splatter of ink

Across the page.

When the devil’s locked away

2011-08-05T00:44:00.000-04:00

I’m a Muslim. This bothers some people, because on the face of it, I don’t project “Islamism”. That fact bothers a lot of Muslims.

See, I’m an equal-opportunity bias-enabler.

The month of Ramadan is here. So, for this whole month, every day, from dawn till dusk, we don’t eat, drink, have sex, lie, cheat, steal, backbite or take candy from babies.

It’s a month to build a better relationship with God. To ponder our existence. To take stock of our lives.

It’s a month to try to get as many brownie points as we can by being good to others, by thinking of the less fortunate, and by counting our blessings.

In this month, God locks away the devil. Yup. He’s in lockdown for the whole month; so any actions we take, are all on us. We can’t claim falling for Satan’s charms.

And there, for me, lies the catch.

See, I enjoy blaming Lucifer for all the bad in me. So what do I do when Iblees can no longer be held responsible?

Where can the finger point when I swear someone black and blue when they’ve cut in front of me in their car?

Or when I lose patience with my son and scold him when all he has failed to do is a math question on a sunny summer day?

When I curse someone under my breath for having a different point of view.

It’s a terrifying reality.

Made more terrible by the realization that this is a part of me.

Every year, I promise myself that I will seek Allah’s mercy, and beg for forgiveness. That I will take stock of my life.

And every year, I find myself naked, striped of justifications. No Satan, no early childhood traumas, no excuses.

Just me and my reality.

I think the devil is more important than we realize. If we were forced to look at ourselves naked for the whole year, would we ever be able to live with ourselves?

Is there a person out there who is completely content with how they have lived their life? With every action they have taken? With every word uttered?

Is there a person out there who has never tried to convince themselves that “that wasn’t the real me, I just succumbed to the catalysts of the moment. I’m really a nice person”.

The devil, or temporary insanity. Call it what you will. We all hide our evil side behind the patina of “it was his fault” – even if just to ourselves, even if just for a moment.

So, when the devil is locked away, and you are stripped of your excuse, look at yourself.

Really look at yourself.

If you can, then you are blessed.

Ramadan Mubarik!

A Not So Pleasant Truth

2011-05-15T23:59:00.000-04:00

I’ve discovered something about myself that I don’t particularly like.

I’ve always had the lowest tolerance for people lying to me, or breaking my trust. I do not forgive people who do so.

This was never a conscious decision. I didn’t wake up one morning and say to myself, you know what, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive or trust a person who has fallen short of my standards.

God! That sounds so pompous, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to be. Maybe I’m just shy :P

Anyways. It is just that events in my life have taught me to distrust.

But now I guess I’m adding another item to my list of … Peeves? Issues? Negative triggers?

Betrayal.

And not the deliberate kind either. But the “it just happens that this step I’m going to take for me happens to betray you” sort of thing.

I dissect my reaction into two parts: The logical. The emotional.

The logical part says, “I understand, I even applaud. It makes complete sense, and just because it is ‘me’ at the other end of the stick, I’m not going to let it affect me in any way. We will stay to each other what we always were.

And then there’s this damn emotional part of my being. The part that says, “So, that’s how you treat me? I’m that expendable? It’s so easy to walk away? Fine. See if I care! I’ll leave you to it then.

Did you hear the teenage in me?

I’m sure there was something that triggers this reaction in me. Some pent up residue from my childhood.

But do I really care about the reason?

It is who I am. No apologies. No reasons. No excuses.

Coming back into myself

2011-04-21T23:46:00.000-04:00

As the night descends into its depths, and the images and sounds that remain get just that much more clear, one can begin to hear the gentle breathing of ones soul.

As I view the bright lights of the wallpaper on my desktop, I think over why I have forsaken my words for so long.

Yes, I have had a second child, and yes, two children are ten times more work than one. Yes, I am working, and trying to keep up with my life. But must I forsake all I hold dear?

My words used to be my life, my reason, my definition of me.

Yet, caught up as I was in the daily routine of living, I had abandoned them. Was it an abandonment of me? Had I forsaken myself?

Last night, as I lay beside my sleeping baby, I wrote some prose in my head. It wasn’t amazing, or great even. But it came spontaneously. And I recognized it as my own work.

But I did not have the physical strength at 2:00 in the morning to get out of bed and put it down on paper. And I knew that if I left the side of my baby, he would wake up again, and my 90 minutes of hard work would go to waste.

And so I lay there, trying to hold onto those words, trying to commit them to memory. And when I opened this Word document just before midnight today, my intention was to commit last nights’ words to my computers memory.

But I couldn’t even remember the theme of my words, the rhythm, the sequence.

I mourn the loss of those words.

I promise to try to never forsake my words again.

Awareness

2010-09-14T00:17:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been the only person awake in a house filled with people? Or at least, the only one you know is awake.

It usually happens early in the morning after a late night, or late at night, after a hectic day.

And usually, you are also in bed, but unable to sleep, and that is where is begins.

A strange sort of awareness. A strange sort of handicap.

You hesitate to get out of bed for fear of awaking anyone else. Why? So as not to disturb their rest? Or so that no one will intrude into your peace?

You turn the tap so that only a trickle of water flows into the glass. Rushing water might attract attention. And then you drink that glass of water as if it were the only thing standing between you and the desert.

You can’t read because you can’t turn on the light. If you are lucky, you are near a window, and so you hesitantly pull back the corner of a curtain, and try to catch a few rays of light on the pages of your book. But unless the book is why you are awake in the first place, that fascination seems only to last for a moment or so. You gradually let the curtains fall back into place.

And then you hear a creak. A footfall. And you turn around and pull the covers back over your head.

Why allow anyone else into your peace? Why intrude into anyone else’s?

Changes in the human thought process

2010-09-03T05:31:00.000-04:00

Changes in the human thought process.

What we think is mean and despicable one day, we excuse the next.

Which state is reflective of wisdom? Which is reflective of truth?

Are raw emotions brought upon by distress, anger, or extreme joy not the bare truth? Is it not so that once we start filtering them through the folds of rationality and thought, they become tainted by logic?

Do we follow the soul, or the mind?

Which state is more truthful?

Or are there different versions of the truth? Different times for different truths?

Then is truth a state of mind; a state of soul?

I'm a bitch today

2010-08-02T00:18:00.004-04:00

I’m trying to figure out my current status in life right now. I haven’t written anything in days for myself, which is bad. Usually, my words come by themselves, whenever my emotions are sufficiently heightened. And my emotions usually don’t take a lot to be stimulated. I can usually find someone or something to rant about, but not…oh wait :)

There are people who are naturally born bitches. And they are good at it. And I admire them for it. I can be a pretty good bitch myself if forced to rise to the occasion. And I can pretty much hold my own.

But then again, there are the wannabe bitches. Those who think they are, but really, just are not. They smirk, and look at you with expressions in their eyes trying to let you know just what they think about you, and it all comes across as…pathetic really.

There is a way to achieve your superior bitchiness over others. And one important aspect to that is judging the reaction of those upon whom you bestow it. If you can’t do that, and misread polite aversion of the eyes lest one breaks out into uncontrollable laughter as cowering in front of your supposed supremacy…well then.

Another mistake wannabe bitches make is supposing that inconveniencing others (whether justifiably, or not – yes, bitches can be gracious) is just another sign of their bitch-worthiness. It’s not, not if it isn’t done right. And if it is justifiable, and you try to turn it into something it is not, well, that’s just grasping really.

I guess, like lots of things, being a bitch is a natural thing. Either you got it, or you don’t. And if you don’t, and you try to act like you have it, then you lay yourself open to the real bitches to write blogs about you.

Yeah, I’m feeling bitchy today. I’m probably going to delete this entry sometime in the future. But for now, I think I’ll let the world know.

People Watching at the Airport

2010-07-10T10:52:00.001-04:00

Four men stand around the counter, their faces attempting to convey professionalism, even as their body language screams of anything but.

The two men with the name tags around their necks sit stiffly in suit jackets, glasses casting them within a light of intellectualism, their watches and phones shouting out to the world that yes, we are businessmen, and we are good at what we do.

The young woman in jeans and a flowing kurta, gold glittering at her neck and in her hair, attempts to calm down a crying baby. It’s amazing the images that must be upheld when one is flying off to visit ones in-laws.

The young girl in a flowing magenta frock, yes frock, not dress, but a frock of the type that went out of style, thankfully, way back in the 60’s, and glittering blue shoes prances between the televisions screen showing Tom & Jerry re-runs, and the airport internet kiosk. She is excited, having fun, and doesn’t mind the delay a single bit. What was her mother thinking of?

The young religious couple sits in a corner, wrapped up in their own little world. He has a beard that reaches down to past his collarbone; she is veiled in a blue burka and purple scarf, one end draped up to cover her face. They sit talking to each other as if afraid to take their eyes off each other. Suppose they were to, I wonder what they think might happen.

I guess I am an object of scrutiny as well. I wouldn’t mind it. I wonder what images and thoughts and conclusions pass through the minds of people who sit about, idly casting their eyes in my direction. Young...okay, young-ish. Typing frantically away at her laptop. Looking about her with what amuses-me-to-think-of-as a wry smile on her face.

I wonder if they would mind my observations about them. Should I go up and ask them the truth about their lives?

Now why would I want to do that :)

We’re back on the ground again

2010-07-02T02:56:00.000-04:00

We’re back on the ground again, thank God.

Okay, so I’ve heard about stuff like this happenings, but - as clichéd as it may seem to say it - it is supposed to happen to other people, those people on the news. Not to me.

The flight was delayed due to “technical reasons”. Okay, glad they’re making sure they send us off on a plane that’s been thoroughly checked over. Don’t mind the wait as long as we know what’s happening.

So, after waiting for an extra hour and a half, we board the plane. Find out seats. Sit down.

We wait a little while more for the plane to take off. And finally, amid prayers, and lots of positive wishes, it does.

Then, what, ten, fifteen minutes into the flight, the plane starts wobbling. It starts teetering. It starts doing things no plane it its right mind should do.

Air pockets I think to myself. Weather. But I look outside the airplane windows, and the sky is clear, not a cloud in the sky.

Then, the plane banks to the right. And I notice that the ground is a lot closer than it should be. Then the engine started making noises no engine should. Think about a sputtering car, rolling down the hill, the driver suddenly puts it into gear. Imagine the whiplash, and the engine noise. Now imagine that 7000 feet up in the sky, in a plane.

And then the sudden bursts of acceleration as the pilot (God bless his soul) put his foot to the peddle to try to get the plane back to the airport.

And the landing. A voice at the back of my head kept reminding me that 90% of airplane accidents take place on take off and landing. I kept praying for the brakes and the landing gear. Never have I prayed for breaks before.

And so we landed, amid cries of thanks and joy. The plane slowly taxied to the terminal. The engine (not engines, but singular) slowed, and came to a stop. We got out of our seats, claimed our hand baggage, and made our way back into the waiting lounge.

I now sit here, typing away at my computer, waiting for the alternative flight to take off. The only way I can replace this fear in my heart with cold rationality is to write it all down.

The next flight is in 2 hours.

Points in emotional time

2010-06-23T06:15:00.000-04:00

It says in the book that words must start at the start, and end at the end.

But what of emotions?

Where do they start – end – and most importantly: where is the in between?

Stylized comments and undetermined end of sentences.

Places at the start of the paragraph ending thoughts started two books before.

Winding, turning, parabolic roads leading to everywhere.

The start of the twisting.

The beginning of the wandering.

Paths, emotions.

Play-by-plays of facial expressions that hide true feelings.

Welcoming you to the in between.

Projection of Self

2010-06-12T08:45:00.000-04:00

As I sit here on the dining table, with a bowl of letters for breakfast, I ponder upon the insistence of some people to make their presence and authority felt.

For some people, to matter is not enough. Their existence will not be satisfied until they matter in every aspect of everyone’s life.

Normal love is also not enough. Blind devotion is a requirement.

And don’t assume that this is love of the passionate kind. No. I am speaking of simple kind, everyday emotions. The kind of love you feel for a best friend, or an uncle.

When does awareness dissolve?

Paths and Decisions

2010-05-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

Taking the first step is the hardest part. It determines the rest of the path that is going to follow. If you take a step in the wrong direction, your whole path will be wrong.

But what is to decide which direction is wrong? Which path leads to perdition?

Or do we define our paths along the way?

That being said, I guess then there is no wrong direction in which to set out on.

The only wrong decision would be to stay where you are.

Unless of course, you like where you are.

Then we would not be talking about paths and steps at all, would we?

This Circle.

2010-05-06T06:26:00.000-04:00

The problem with all of this is that there has to be a let-down.

Somewhere, along the way, I will make a left instead of a right. Not by mistake, but because I damn well felt like it.

Because sometimes I get so f@#*ing tired of making that right turn all the time. Of slowing down at yellow lights. Of staying within the legal limit.

Everything is so positive all around me, so rosy, and bright. Everything seems to be going fine.

The cards are all lining up; the pieces seem to be falling in place.

And all I want to do is snatch the cloth off the dining room table and smash as many glasses as I can.

I want to drop the ball on top of a f@#*ing vase, and have it crack down into a million pieces.

There is this headache that refuses to go away.

This fever that has settled deep within my bones that radiates heat at 1:30 at night when all there should be is peace.

Small words like restlessness and discontent seem pitifully laughable.

I want to tear at the smiling images around me and run them through a shredder.

It’s a phase, a step, a circle in this spiral I’m in.

I’ll spin out, soon.

Somehow.

Unanswered Sunsets

2010-04-22T23:46:00.000-04:00

As I lay here staring straight into the unanswered sunsets that rise unashamedly at the start of each thought.

As I glance around for the questioner to appear. Whose words and utterings will make sense out of the deep yellow shadowed by a hint of orange.

The footsteps draw unerringly closer

But always stay just that little bit far away

Conforming to the theory that you and I can never meet

That the halfway mark will always keep us just that little bit apart.

I mark time not by dropping grains of sand within the glass walls, but by taking each grain, and tossing it into the sea. And as I watch each individual wish brought down by the natural forces of gravity, I wonder why it could not have sailed away across the ocean. Once. Just this once.

Circles. Squares. Tears.

Shapes that mold my words. My thoughts into feelings. Into strands to be held and scattered.

And still those sunsets rise. And those footsteps echo. Each step passing over my grains of sand.

My Time. My Space

2010-03-27T02:17:00.000-04:00

It’s like this. I am a sociable, solitary person.

I like parties, and friends, and kids.

But when it is time, my alone time. Don’t disturb me. Recognize the signs, and go away.

In this case, it’s really not about you. It’s about me.

So don’t go crazy. Don’t give me the look. Or the attitude. Don’t talk about my mood swings behind my back.

I need time to lock myself in the bathroom, and soak for two hours in water I keep just below boiling by allowing a trickle to keep flowing in.

I need the space to zone out in front of the TV, even if all that is on are old reruns of CSI New York.

I need to be able to read the last few chapters of my book. Yes, 17 chapters is a few.

So. Give me my time. My space.

And later on, I’ll give you what you need too.

Bullshit

2010-03-22T00:49:00.001-04:00

My capacity for turning the other cheek when faced with utter bullshit has reached its limits.

If you cannot respect my opinion, do not bother asking for it.

If I express my opinion, do not consider it your intrinsic duty to tell me how wrong my choice is, and how right it could be if only I changed my focus to a target of your choosing.

Do I look utterly stupid to you?

Does my face scream of my inner imbecility?

You should know the reason you always win an argument is not because you are right. But that people have better things to do with their time than banging their heads against a brick wall.

I do not wish to hear how you forced your opinions down someone else’s throat.

I do not wish to hear stories of your greatness. Of how you defied odds to get the best there was.

Do you not hear yourself?

Or, do you never stop wanting to hear yourself?

And then you berate others for not listening to your opinions. When you tell me behind their backs how utterly wrong they were for not listening to your advice, how stupid and pig-headed they can be.

Do you say the same about me when I am not around? I bet you do. What else do you say? Everything? Who do you say it to? Everybody?

Does anyone take you seriously?

You look at me with that expression on your face when I tell you what I think. I can see the wheels turning in your mind. Not listening to what I say, but coming up with an argument to counter it.

“The sky is blue”, I say.

“No, it is a little overcast”, you counter.

“It’s nice out today.”

“There is a brisk wind, it’s getting chilly.”

“This cake is delicious.”

“The one I ate yesterday was better.”

You have perfected polite bullshit to an art form.

If I call you on it, I’m the one who looks like a shrew, like a woman with a bug up her ass.

You see, I have not perfected the art of polite bullshitting. So I’ll say it straight.

Shut up.

Evil

2010-03-11T00:58:00.000-05:00

My statement begins with the fact the evil exists in this world, and I am living proof.

Purity, joy, laughter and love. I do not deny their existence. But at the same time, I refuse to turn my eyes away from the crooked lines that make up the paths behind our laughter.

I do not claim that every being has evil lying at its core. I do not claim that all is falsehood, and the world is in a constant state of deception.

I believe we only deceive ourselves. And that too, by choice.

Evil lies in the fact that we have all taken that one step too far, that one thought too terrifying, that one slash too marked. And as we stood back to analyze our actions, we have been filled with a delightful enjoyment of having broken the rules. Of having taken the risk. Of doing what aught not have been done. And of having enjoyed the doing.

Evil lies in the acknowledgments of the fact that if we were presented with the same set of circumstances again, we might just slash out again, Might just take that one step over the line again.

Knowing that something is wrong, believing in your heart that it is wrong, doing it, and enjoying having done it.

That is my definition of evil.

What is yours?

I think I missed THE cue

2010-03-01T11:34:00.000-05:00

In the process of trying to make sense out of it all, I stumbled over the fact that not all of us are meant to play every part on-stage. For some scenes, we have to sit it out, watching from the sidelines. Our role is that of a spectator.

But what if we, during this ritual observation, catch someone fumbling his lines, missing his cue, making a mistake. We are not directors, so we can’t yell, “Cut!”

Is our silence justified? Or is it a crime. Will we be thanked for breaking the rhythm of the scene? And besides, what does it matter, that one fumble.

But if we don’t cut in, then just what is the point of our observance? Why don’t we grab a good book in the meantime and ignore what’s happening out there. We’ll get a call when it’s our turn again, and we can worry about that when the time comes.

And if we do cut in, doesn’t that mean that we’re not simply spectators? Then that would imply that the sidelines are a sham, an illusion…a part of the stage.

Just who are we performing for anyways?

Time and Place

2010-02-24T08:53:00.000-05:00

I understand about the problems

And the issues

And everything that is wrong and everything we need to put right.

And I understand the frustrations that may grow when people close their eyes to all that should be, and are content to live in all that there is. I too have had times when I wanted to shake you all out of your lethargy and give you a slap on the face and tell you to wake up and smell the rotting coffee beans that have been sitting for too long in the damp filter.

What I don’t understand is this insistence that we should close our eyes, too, to all that is bright, and light, and colorful. That we should refuse to bask in the warmth of the sun for even a single day, without being made to feel that by doing so, we are somehow selling out.

Pride, joy, exhilaration. They are causes for celebration. For happiness. For a unity that winds its way through us all and makes us jump up off our couches when another Gold comes our way.

Why this insistence, then, in turning your backs to the TV screens, and shouting at the top of your voice that this feeling of joy, of pride, is somehow…sacrilegious. That by feeling this light, we are turning our backs on the dark. That we are not the nation, not the people, we should be.

Time and Place. If you forget these two basics, you will succeed in making us all believe that you spend your days sitting in a heap of rotting coffee beans, and refuse to come out even on those bright, sunny, rose-scented days. And so, when you shout out to us to be aware of the oncoming train, we will ignore you. Weary of your insistence that beans surround us all, all the time, we might even try to prove you wrong by jumping on the tracks.

Don’t get me wrong; I understand about the problems, and the issues, and the wrongs that must be put right.

But I refuse to live my life surrounded by damp coffee beans.

When I am shown sunshine, I will step out, and I will smell the roses, and feel the joy. I will jump up off my couch and cheer that goal, that jump, that run.

Won’t you join me?

Peace

2010-02-19T13:03:00.002-05:00

There is nothing more comforting than a PB&J, flannel pajamas and a good book.

Silence except for maybe the background noise of easy jazz.

Warmth, softness, intrigue.

Maybe a little romance thrown in for good measure.

Peace of the knowing that for the next couple of hours, no one expects anything of you. That you don’t expect anything of yourself. Except this.

That you don’t have to run out to pick up a carton of milk. That the laundry doesn’t need to be folded away. That your boss isn’t expecting that report first thing Monday morning.

Your loved ones are off, somewhere together, having fun. You aren’t responsible for food. Or runny noses. Or entertainment.

You aren’t even responsible for yourself.

Peace. Just peace. And you.

The Olympics

2010-02-13T00:41:00.000-05:00

I just watched the Olympic opening ceremony from the comfort of my couch, with an L.E Modesitt, Jr. book in my hands.

Images. Feelings. Emotions.

Shane Koyczan and his feeling of “We are more”.

Colors, seasons.

Pride.

Sorrow for the fallen.

Glitches, overcome.

United. Together. As one.

Music, words, laughter.

On days like this, I embrace the Canadian in me.

I am glad, and proud, to be here.

But

Prouder was I still,

When the lone player from the sun-streaked land from where my mother and father hail

Lifted up his flag. My flag. And walked proud.

My lone hero. My 200 heroes.

May you have an amazing day.

Death

2010-02-01T22:02:00.000-05:00

What does death do to a family?

How does it impact me?

My grandfather died this Sunday.

I had not seen him for over 2 years. Physical distance is sometimes harder than those poets let on.

I loved him. I was his special girl, his cat. That’s what he used to call me, his cat. I was the one who could disobey him, and he would do nothing but laugh and tell everyone that I was very very hardheaded.

He had been ill. For a long time. He actually died about 16 years ago. The day my grandmother died. I remember seeing him that day as he knelt beside the body, mindless of everyone around him. He collapsed for the first time in his life that day. And he never fully recovered.

For 16 years, he died slowly.

That is not to say he did not have any happiness after then. He saw his youngest son married; his grandkids grow up. But through it all, you could tell. He was slowly fading away.

Is it wrong to be grateful that someone has died? I miss him. I miss him as much as any granddaughter can miss her grandfather. But he was in so much pain! Is it wrong for me to be glad that his body is finally free?

He was a good man. He lived to see 12 grandkids, and 3 great-grandkids.

And now, he has gone on.

I am sad he has gone.

I am glad he is no longer in pain.

Muhammad Shafi Bhatti

1925 - 2010

Delusions of Choice

2010-01-23T02:04:00.000-05:00

When we silently start to believe that our sins are not sins, but reflections of ourselves.

Is it freedom, or delusion?

When we walk through the crowd and foist within our thoughts our impressions of others on to our opinions of them. Impressions that are formed by mere seconds of interaction.

When we see someone, and either lock eyes, or exchange glares, neither of us knowing why.

Is it freedom, or delusion?

When we believe that our thoughts will set in motion ripples that will alter the state of the universe a trillion years from now.

What would you call it?

My First Poetry Slam

2010-01-17T21:02:00.005-05:00

I finally took the plunge - and all that. On January 16th, Guelph Spoken Word held it's Poetry Slam at the Guelph Googenheim. Let me start by saying that I had the greatest time! It was so great to see people who really enjoy performing poetry. And greater still to have people who appreciate it. Brendan McLeod was the featured Poet, and he was eloquent, entertaining, and SMART. You can see his stuff here.

I got through the first round (Woo hoo!) and that is amazing for me, considering it's the first Slam I've ever attended. And that everyone there was so good. A shout out to Matthew Dryden who was hosting, and who is a great poet too.

A special shout out to JM Prescott, who is the reason I was there in the first place. If it was not for her encouraging me, I would never have had the guts to get up and speak.

I'm also attaching the Poem that got me through. Enjoy!

Musings

Satirically inclined to believe that nothing before, or nothing to come, would ever be as it is now. Caught in a whirlwind of forced and contrived emotions, I fall through the hole in my floor.

I don’t fall far, because the basement hasn’t been dug out yet. We built the house first, and then decided to dig away. Foundations are over-rated anyways.

When the guests come over, we treat them with artificial humor, sprinkled with whip cream and a cherry on top. We leave out the sprinkles...we have to watch our weight.

Don’t point out the obvious. That would be bromidic. Who likes bromides? Be as sulphuric as you can. The explosion will be louder. And we all love fireworks.

The colors in the sky are so old. Lets bring out the paints and erase the old. Progress is important, and imagination a must. Lets try for the modern look. Steel-gray is just so it.

Endings are usually hard. Beginnings are simple. They just take a nod and a smile. And those are for free.

Witness to Love

2010-01-15T10:26:00.000-05:00

We’ve come here to witness the happening of love.

The culmination of half-glances

The giving of the petals, or the thorns…

Petals die

Thorns hurt.

Which would you prefer?

Reciprocated Existence

2010-01-06T13:15:00.002-05:00

Spirituality of the Soul becomes evident only after ones Soul belongs to someone else. Before this occurs, we can only be unaware of the depth the existence our Soul has.

It is only after we have linked our Soul to that of our possessor that we appreciate the effect it has. For what is ones existence…what meaning do we have, until that meaning is apparent to someone else?

Self-definition may satisfy us for a contracted period of time, but absolute fulfillment can only come when our existence is reciprocated.

God didn’t create Kane just for procreation, but for the realization of Eve.

Discontent

2009-12-22T00:59:00.000-05:00

She is restless. Her life is full of activity but she is not content. She needs that little more.

Damn you! What little more. Don’t be so #$%^& vague!

Vague?!?!?

You have no idea what you’re about...do you? You’re nothing but a prick!

Hey, hey, hey! There's no need to use that kind of language!

“That kind of language”?! God! You’re a prude as well. You can’t even swear properly. You have to resort to those dumb ass $%$%^ symbols.

Ok, that's it. I’ve had enough.

Huh! That is just so typically you!

Typically me?

Yeah, running away when you can’t face the heat.

Heat. What heat...you enjoy doing this...aren’t you?!?!

Oohh....li’l baby’s gonna cry now....

Shut up. I can’t stand your snotty know-it all bullshit attitude.

Ooh....li’l baby better go wash her mouth out with soap...

You know what your problem is?

No, what is my problem?

You have nothing. No feelings, no purpose. Nothing. All you have is words. Hollow words. You hide your nothingness behind your play with words.

Well, at least I can play with words. What about you...huh? What do you have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You don’t know anything...do you? I have more than you can ever have!

Oh yeah? What?

I have my discontent. Beat that!

Unbounded

2009-12-18T12:18:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had a feeling of complete....BLANK. Where your mind refuses to grasp even the simplest of thoughts. Fragments blow through your senses, but refuse to materialize into anything substantive. One wisp follows another, and another, but like ghosts, they slip away.

Ghosts, gosh, was that meant to be morbid or romantic?

Romantic. The idea of love surviving beyond the boundaries of our physical awareness is a high that keeps me going. The simple idea that a feeling can be so strong that even darkness cannot smother it.

Darkness? So do you perceive the outside of the boundary to be dark? Aren’t we getting morbid again...?

Good point. Yes, the idea is so strong, that it GROWS in the area beyond our perception. So strong as it feeds upon the light, growing ever so much stronger.

Ok, but what does this have to do with you and your blank mind. It really irritates me, you know, that tendency you have to wander from idea to idea. From thought to thought. It clearly shows how unstable you are.

Yes! But what you don’t get is that i CRAVE this instability. It is what makes me ME! Who wants to be predictably dull?

Ok. So you are unstable, so you flourish in your instability. Where do you go from here? What do you plan to achieve. What are your goals?

Ah. You talk of goals and instability in the same thought. How bounded your thoughts are. That's what I so love about me. My thoughts, my vision, even my physical path within the boundaries is undefined. I am free to go wherever the next wisp of an idea takes me. I am free to do whatever I think...or don’t think. I am free to not map things out. I can simply let myself be, and go from rock to rock, taking a dip in the puddle if the idea grabs me. I can flourish or flounder. I can jump, leap, or curl up and go to sleep. I can build a staircase up to the stars, or stop as soon as i reach the first branches of the lowest smallest tree, or rip the stairway out of existence.

And you’re proud of that?

It isn’t a matter of pride; it’s a matter of freedom. Of not letting myself be bound. I hate chains, you see. I hate limits of any sort. I love being able to do what I do when I do it, how it may, or may not be done. That is what defines ME.

And what about me? What defines me?

You might find out, if you’d only let yourself go.

The Attempt

2009-12-12T01:05:00.000-05:00

The desire to rise above the clouds takes hold of me as I struggle to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground. I have so many wishes. So many desires. But I am bound by chains I cannot define.

Aww! Cut the crap! All of your words, everything you wrote, is plagiarized. Can’t you be original for once!

I want to do things. But I can’t.

...

Is that it?!? You piece of shit! And you call yourself a writer. Bring on a little expression at least.

My life is defined by those subtle moments that mold my personality. I am a product of what I dreamed to become. And where I will be some years from now will be a product of my dreams today. I have so many dreams. Such large ambitions. But it seems such a difficult task. I am hampered by restrictions. By responsibilities. By expectations.

God! You are so depressive! Can’t you ever be positive about anything!?!?!

Despite the fact that my life revolves around the happiness of others, I have not let my dreams fade away. I hold on to them like an anchor clutches the earth at the bottom of the sea.

...

...

Literary Merit

2009-12-07T13:28:00.002-05:00

It is supposed that once a writer has written a piece that has been termed brilliant by the general public, that piece actually becomes brilliant.

Does literary merit not have a place in this determination at all? Or is judgment of quality based on acceptance of the story?

Harry Potter not only had a great story, he came to life.

Can there be greatness in a story with a 2D character, lousy dialog and predictable sequences?

Or am I just a snob?

Just because

2009-12-02T10:00:00.000-05:00

I turned on the machine, chatted with a friend, and just felt like writing something. If you don’t want to waste your time, I suggest you stop reading now. Cliché…yuck!

I don’t have any specific idea in my head, or any overwhelming emotion. I just…felt like writing. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? Ok, maybe not specifically writing, but sometimes you just feel like…umm…singing. You aren’t particularly happy, or sad. You aren’t even in love. But you just feel like singing.

Or walking, or talking, or laughing, or hitting someone on the head.

People who really know me know I have this annoying habit of slapping people across the back of their necks. It can get real irritating at times. But sometimes, I just feel like, umm…contact. And any other contact can be so easily misconstrued. Whose gonna misconstrue a slap on the neck…well, now I come to think of it…but that’s another story.

Someday I’m gonna write a novel. A love story. Or a story about a girl whose life is totally screwed up. But writing a novel is something that requires patience. And if there is one thing I’m not, that’s patient.

I have to get to work in a while. I really don’t want to. Most people will say, “Well, who ever wants to”. But that’s not true for me. I like my work. I’m pretty independent, which is good, cause I’m not that good a team player…I tend to get bossy. And there are days I really get into my work, and I love it when I write some code that’s really great. Or churn out a module that I know is good.

Okay, if I want anyone to even attempt to read through this, I’d better stop here.

Thank you if you’ve stayed with me so far. Next time, I’ll try to churn out something a little more meaningful.

Fabric of Life

2009-12-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

The fabric of life is interwoven with dreams and hopes; an intricate work of art created not in an instant - but day-by-day, year-by-year - until it emerges into a unique pattern to be cherished forever.

We are here at the end, in the now

2009-11-30T13:07:00.000-05:00

And in the end, where do we go from here.

To stay still in one place would be wrong, wouldn’t it?

Thoughts. Paths. Pathways.

Searching. Searching. Always searching.

Yet

Even as we wonder about which way to go – which direction to take, we are already not where we were before.

Our indecision is a state as well. Is a place as well.

We are already here, so let’s relax. Take a deep breath

Enjoy this time and place.

For once we decide where to go, we will have left this place.

And so, in the end

We move on.

Away from here, but knowing that our next place of inhabitance is waiting for us.

We will not be homeless.

Our states, our places, our feelings, our emotions – in whichever form – are where we were meant to be.

Sunshine, Colors and Dogs - Part III

2009-11-25T10:09:00.001-05:00

I am happy. I am content. I am comfortable in my own skin.

I am not lonely, guilty, or suicidal. I have a good, comfortable life.

I love, and am loved.

Contradictory? I think not.

The only difference between me and your perception of me is that I am at ease with myself. I have accepted life and the living as how and what they are. I have accepted myself for what I am.

I believe that some people are good, and others are bad.

But I also believe that even the good are propelled by some degree of “want”. Charity is done for a purpose that has to do with myself. It makes me feel good about myself. God will put a big tick mark in the box beside my name.

Nothing will come to me for free. If I get good luck, I have to pay for it, either with a degree of bad luck, or by passing it on to others.

I know that people have thoughts and feelings. But I also believe that they are over-analyzed by those of us who love to write. Thoughts and feelings are what they are. Discussing them to death will not somehow make them more precious or more meaningful. But, it will make us feel good. Yes.

Sunshine, Colors and Dogs - Part II

2009-11-24T08:52:00.000-05:00

And now, I will sit back, and watch you all protest that this is simply not true!

That I am looking at the world through cracked sunglasses.

That I must not let my past experiences color the way I look towards the future.

Some of you will shake your heads. Others will gather in corners and whisper to each other, convincing themselves that there is something seriously screwed up with me. Others still will give me a card to a shrink they’ve gone to, and swear can work wonders. My mom will probably berate herself, wondering where she went wrong. My father will sit me down and have a long “talk”.

Friends will wonder at my friendship. Foes (I like that words so much better than “enemies”) will chuckle with glee.

The common assumption will be that I am sad, lonely, dispirited. Down on my luck. I’m just in a bad mood. Am going through PMS.

How obvious of you.

Sunshine, Colors and Dogs - Part I

2009-11-23T10:04:00.000-05:00

I am convinced that men and women are base creatures.

I know for a fact that people can only be trusted as long as they have something to gain by keeping that trust.

I am a realist when it comes to love and emotions and relations.

Dogs frolicking basked by the warmth of the sunshine on a warm June day evoke emotions in me, but do not cause me to sit down and write epic poems steeped in philosophical meanings and double connotations. I like watching dogs play. That is it.

Pots of gold at the end of the rainbow are for fools who believe the taxman hasn't already taken his share.

I like looking at colorful flowers, but Wordsworth’s Daffodils was written on a slow day, when he had a deadline, and could think of nothing else to write about. I don’t doubt the words – no – they are beautiful. But I know the ecstasy people say he was feeling was only because he had written something after a couple days of writers block. Otherwise he was, in my books, crazy.

Love dies when we stop receiving whatever it was we were receiving that caused us to love in the first place. It is a selfish emotion. I will die for you, but only if you love me.

Yes, I have been hurt in life. And I have caused as much hurt as I have received. I am human, and thus, a base creature.

An IDEA

2009-11-20T09:15:00.000-05:00

The suggestion, the concept, the notion even, that an IDEA can be easily bound within the confines of words is a result of either immense naiveté or gross egoism.

Naïveté if you believe that an IDEA is a single dimensioned sheet of cardboard paper that can be written upon, folded up, stuck inside a bottle, corked, and sent across the sea of the combined human psyche.

Egoism if you believe that you will be able to uncork that bottle, pull out that cardboard sheet, smooth it out, read the words and understand the full extent of the IDEA.

An IDEA is not a single cardboard sheet. It is layers and layers of fine delicate tissue paper. Meshed together to form not a weave, but a tangle. Each layer scribbled upon, crossed out, torn and re-tied to some other knot. It is scrunched up. It is messy. It is in MY handwriting. The one I reserve for when I’m writing to myself. The one worse than a doctor’s illegible scroll.

It is tied to my other ideas. Ideas formed when I lay alone within the confines of my being. The thoughts and impressions thrust upon me while I wait in line at the grocery store, waiting for the 16-year old temp to sort out whether those eggs are actually on sale for $1.99. The images that wind their way through the electrons of my brain as I type these words that magically appear on the light box in front of me.

The strands of those tissues are connected to my vast hoards of soft paper that I keep stored away in the warehouse I keep on retainer for a rainy day. They weave and wind through the winds that blow in from the future to perpetuate the words that flow out of my fingers today.

Even the manifestation of the word into a singular is a gross simplification. No IDEA is ever in the singular. No IDEA is ever alone living its life in a tiny black hole. It is energy. It is the wind, the water. It is any and every metaphor you can think of that negates the concept of isolated particles in space.

Oh sure, you can try to decipher the letters on those crumpled bits of soft tissue. You can attempt to make out what is there. And you may even form some sort of impression. But then your own tangles will blow in, with whispering tendrils flaying around them, ready to grasp at any edge, any thread, any fleeting strand, and bind them to the knots of your own IDEAS. Your attempts at deciphering my tangles will be overlaid with the translucent wisps of your own.

No.

The suggestion, the concept, the notion even, that an IDEA can be easily bound within the confines of words is the result of immense naiveté and gross egoism.

Infarctions

2009-11-19T11:45:00.001-05:00

Infarctions

Doesn’t that sound like a bad word? But cloaked in a cape of morality. Intellectuality even.

I love the way my mouth has to move around the word to make sure it comes out right. For who would believe my innocence if it came out wrong?

We so love to assume that there is a hidden meaning in mistakes. Are slips of the tongue actually slips of the mind?

Change

2009-11-18T09:19:00.001-05:00

It is supposed that after an event of great import, the psyche of the affected individuals changes. It is thought that the event is the result of trillions of years of cataclysmic changes. And such an event is bound to alter events for the next trillion years.

But the real question is...does it really matter?

A star explodes and three men make their way to a manger. It rains and a pot of gold is found.

Again I ask...does it really matter?

A trillion years from now, the world will expire. Will it be based on today’s events of great import?

Do I matter? Do I count in the great scheme of things? I know if I go, tears will be shed. But eyes eventually dry. Someone else will take my place. So why bother?

I'm not obsessed with my role in the world; I'm really more interested in the role the world has to play in its own story.

Analyze Yourself

2009-11-17T09:37:00.004-05:00

There are some people in this world whose sole reason for existence is to cause others to give thanks for all that they have.

That sounds clichéd - or flip, depending on your point of view. I don't think it’s either. It’s simply a statement.

This statement will be analyzed, broken apart. People will offer explanations trying to justify their reaction to it. Those reactions will stem from either of two emotions. Some will feel a deep sense of guilt for things they have done, or thoughts they may have had. Others will honestly believe they are good, and will justify their goodness by trying to relate with it.

A justification is usually aimed at oneself, not the world. Think about it.

In the meanwhile, there are some people in this world whose sole aim is to cause others to give thanks for all that they have.

Anticipation of Discovery

2009-11-16T17:26:00.000-05:00

Life is bearable only because we can't see into the future; because we do not know what lies beyond the mountains, around the corner, beneath the veil.

It is anticipation of the discovery that keeps us going.

If we were to learn all that is to happen tomorrow, if we were able to look through the mountain, to see past the corner, to lift the veil; if all the mysteries of life were solved, what would we live for?

It is the hope of discovering the unknown that keeps us going, and not the discovery itself.