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!!!

Is Boredom Unavoidable?

Today I chatted with Lori, a character from Matisse's painting "Luxe, Calme et Volupté", about inevitability of boredom. 

She turned the canvas around and in a melancholic voice started reading:

"C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,

II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.

Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,

— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!"

Haiku

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku

inazuma no kaina wo karan kusamakura

lend me your arms, fast as thunderbolts, for a pillow on my journey.

Is Boredom Unavoidable?

I just asked an Eritrean man on the plane if "Boredom was Unavoidable". He took out a poem that he yesterday wrote for his wife of 17 years, and started reading it to me. Perfect rhymes; you may notice that by noting the letters that end each verse!

Is Boredom Unavoidable?

Last night, running at sunset on the Florida beach, I asked an ancient Pelican if "Boredom was Unavoidable". He replied 

"Oui Oui,

Since my gaze set upon this deep turquoise sea,

My mind has been set free.

In such state of absence and glee,

Your question sounds

borderline schizophrenic to me!"

A Farewell 

I 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey: 

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 

For every day. 

II 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, ...

And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever 

One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley 

Contradict me

Movement is the favorable balance of contradictory thoughts. Thoughts of morning one hour is countered by an urge to celebrate next. A man of contradiction is a man of all seasons!

Thanks for the song

Some times even the small mice or the wild tigers have a soul that is a bird. Not a blu one, not in a cage... a colorful one, so beautiful that could captivate you. But the most magical is its song.. A divine melody. This bird doesn't want to sing often, you have to be patient to hear. But you will hear..At the beginning just a sweet whisper..and then louder and louder.. And the bird starts to feel happy and confident.. and sing more loud and even more beautiful. And your soul start feeling that is been touched and becoming a bird too..

Thanks for the song!!!!...

Noches alegres, mananas tristes

Happy Nights, Sad Mornings

It has been so

In these moments, as past, present, and future coalesce to form the hours of my life, I feel dissatisfied and disgusted by the circumstances of my life. And what is the rationale behind this pain, what is this bad karma the consequence of? Context, or lack thereof, deprives us of our vital needs to belong to, to interact with, and to experience magic and serendipity. Without context we are children of odds and random collisions of particles; since every atom belonging to me, as well may not belong to you.