These are the words

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

flare up like a flame!

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Go to the limits of your longing.  — From Rilke’s Book of Hours

Where is my Strawburry

10 icecreams & u get the tea
u may go back and your icecream is no longer there.

I want to be desired not loved ... monty python

Think Deeply

Time, space, human factor

with time situations, things, people change

rules and forces change with space

humans change facts to fit their purpose
People have basic needs: need for shelter, feeling secure, health insurance etc
People can firm cliques when u least expect it

stories

Emory cap-driver with a diabetic child, a cat who saved the son, educational campaign, both children profs

Emory prof who attended my talk, expert in molecular mechanism of sepsis, lost a wife in ICU to sepsis

jacuzzi & drinks or water? It's beautiful on the roof. Bad night, my grandma just pass away.

Talent

SARAH GREEN: ... before we move on, have a clarifying questions. When you’re talking about the talent, in this case, being a very small percentage and extracting a high rate of return, it sounds like you’re not talking about creative talent in the terms of like a choreographer or an advertising executive or even a CEO. It sounds like you’re actually really talking about a specific kind of financial manager. Is that a fair assumption to make?

ROGER MARTIN: No, no, no. It’s a good question, Sarah. No. I would say that choreographer is in the realm of the talent world. There’s, of course, all sorts of talent and all kinds of levels of talent.

I think what’s most conspicuous these days is the earnings power of financial management talent, hedge fund managers being the most obvious example. And they’re the group that, if you look in the Forbes 400 list of the 400 richest Americans, the biggest growth category by far is hedge fund managers, one category. They’ve gone from a tiny participation in that list in 2000 to being second highest to high tech, high tech entrepreneurs like Zuckerberg or Gates or Ellison.

So they’re the most conspicuous version, but in many of these fields– so in choreography, there isn’t as much money in general. There isn’t as much capital to extract value from. You see, that’s talent’s game. What talent’s game is in the modern world is attach yourself to pools of capital, use those pools of capital, and try and make sure capital gets the least possible and you get the most possible.

"A writer—and I believe, generally all persons—must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art."

FaceTime and FaceOff

"Too much, too little, or not enough, too fat, too thin, or nobody" - The Crunch, Charles Bukowski

We checked out each other on the FaceTime. A few minutes of exchanging greetings and chitchats. A few attempts to get to know the 'other' person; a lost art among the post-social media socialized 'selves'. What stuck out were a few personal narratives, stories of how we became who 'we' are. An attempt to make connections among ones lifetime events, well some events, others to be left alone within the "tome of memory, its random blank pages".

We also left alone the context that we carried with ourselves, the 'class', and with that our perception of what is 'normal' or 'abnormal'. We both carried our own walls, walls to insulate us from the 'others' of certain types. To penetrate these walls, simply meant to be a romantic, while the forces of 'class' face off.

diamond-like brilliance

Often optimistic, sometimes pessimistic, then romantic and always paradoxical! 
Ultimately, it is my genius that radiates through with a diamond-like brilliance!

"Her neck, her bosom open, the snowstorm in her face! But the storms from north cannot harm the Russian rose. Oh how a searing kiss burns through the frost!"

Radcliffe

I'm yet to find my grandfather's voice. However, being here at Radcliffe helped me to find my own voice, voice of a generation that are still condemned to silence.

Giorgio de Chirico 1913

The Uncertainty of the Poet

What I Want

I want a girl with a capacity for empathy and abstraction

I want a girl with rosy cheeks

I want her next to a fruit basket

I want her in layers, in shades of sunset:

A pale tint of orange, amber, pumpkin, tomato, tea rose

I want her to be peeling a banana, slowly

I want her on a hammock, playing the banana strings

Hairs dancing to the rhythm of the afternoon breeze

I don't want her to look at me and smile

I want her oblivious of space and time

I want her next to the palm trees

I want her in the background of deep blue seas

I want her displaced, but I want her at ease!

Have we recovered?

We will leave ourselves behind

A different self will go on

O Me! O Life!

BY WALT WHITMAN

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyUTDJ72q9k

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr9ruvxA3K4

Living like a child

I found her in that theater

Amidst the crowd

Facing a blank screen

I found her in the middle row

In the middle of life

Such serenity, such beauty

She sneaked in

To make it all appear

To make them all disappear

I came for a scape from my litost

When I left, full moon was in the sky

And the whole universe was by my side

My senses had come to life

Every encounter is now a fresh experience, I do not remember whether I forgot, I had never experienced, or maybe given the same scenes, I can now see more, maybe I can feel more,  maybe I can connect more.

Somebody took me from inside and placed me on the outside. Maybe I was on the outside all along and was staring at outside. I turned my head to the inside, just to become an observer, just to become all eyes.

She was all eyes, strong, committed to be good, committed to be kind. 

Devil's Laughter

And the new millennium arrived and brought with itself more wars and destruction. Mr. M kept up with his rhetorics & generosity. One day around noon, he stepped up a ladder on a friend's balcony to replace a broken lamb. As he turned and twisted the rusted lamp a Gini came out, smiled at him, and kicked under his ladder. Before he knew he was flying off into the air, like a bird. The Gini grabbed him gently in the air, aligned his body perpendicular to the ground concrete, and let him go like a flying dart.
When my father arrived at the scene (he later described it as being in a battle field) later on, the police was guarding the area. He was asked to identify the person. What are we mortals to make of grey matter, blood, and grains of rocks?

Follow your destiny

Where does the hand become the wrist?

Where does the neck become the shoulder?

21, he counted them one by one. Were they enough?

Enough to cover the line of destiny, where he finally merges with his fate

The fate that he loved and pursued so earnestly

The fate that hated him so diligently

The galvanic response of his skin reminded him

that like anything else dying required practice.

He sat there, staring at his palm, for a minute or two,

since it was never too late to start the practice.

Above the space where they formed their blissful constellation

All he saw were his callouses, a reminder of his daily struggle,

Struggle to live

And now he realized that the art if dying is even so much harder to master.

No plans, Only dreams!

The pond in my backyard is my canvas
Every night I paint my dreams next to moon's reflection
Every morning I watch them melting with the first appearance of the sun!

--Sisyphus, the painter

What history fails to mention

What history fails to mention is

Most everybody lived their lives
With friends and children, played it cool,
Left truth & beauty to the guys
Who tricked for bigshots, and were fools.   - Gary Synder


What appears as attractive, the unstable equilibrium of forces, is nothing more than a mirage created by the projection of values on the barren island of perception.

On Crushes and Metaphors

"There can be no end to our sense of emptiness and incompleteness. This is a truth chiselled indelibly into the script of life."

http://www.philosophersmail.com/relationships/on-the-madness-and-charm-of-crushes/

As maria helena used to say, only unfulfilled love can be romantic. 

Once there is correspondence, it is fatal.

Have lots of crushes, and enjoy the imperfections of people. 

To the dicotomy, are you a romantic or a pragmatic, we can add this concept of a romantic pessimist. 

I rather embrace the romantic optimist idea though, nicely explained by Goethe

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wr6itOBLVQA

Well said! 

A more "realistic" metaphor may be that of a pilot with finite fuel who not only must aim high to eventually arrive at his destination, but also has to discover his destination along the way! He may ultimately find some solace in "amor fati", since wherever he lands will be his Ithaca!

Lessons

Leave a trace where a trace needs to be left
Manage public opinion

OLaLaaa

The most risqué thing I could do is to write a Nabokovian poem:

O,

when her lips took a trip to the field of budding roses,

where the honey bees suck the sweetest nectars!

La Laaa,

the tip of her tongue,

twice, tapped the arch of my universe!

And I whispered her name, till the end of aaa,

till dissipation of sound;

where words imprison passion,

in this battle of syntax and rhyme.

Growing Old

What is it to grow old? 

Is it to lose the glory of the form, 

The lustre of the eye? 

Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? 

Yes, but not for this alone. 

Is it to feel our strength - 

Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? 

Is it to feel each limb 

Grow stiffer, every function less exact, 

Each nerve more weakly strung? 

Yes, this, and more! but not, 

Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 

'Tis not to have our life 

Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow, 

A golden day's decline! 

'Tis not to see the world 

As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, 

And heart profoundly stirred; 

And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, 

The years that are no more! 

It is to spend long days 

And not once feel that we were ever young. 

It is to add, immured 

In the hot prison of the present, month 

To month with weary pain. 

It is to suffer this, 

And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: 

Deep in our hidden heart 

Festers the dull remembrance of a change, 

But no emotion -none. 

It is -last stage of all - 

When we are frozen up within, and quite 

The phantom of ourselves, 

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost 

Which blamed the living man. 

Matthew Arnold 

Try Learning Something New Every Day!

Evaluate Propositions!!!