Hiro

I met an old Man once; one at the end of his life. His name was Hiro. Hiro taught me to appreciate the others in front of yourself that make you yourself. He taught me to remember that it is those others that are ultimately significant, and that you are significant only because of those others. He taught me that care is not automatic, not genetic, and not perpendicular; but eclectic, fluid, and colorful. He taught me that roots derive partially from inheritance, partially from good fortune, and mostly from endurance. He taught me most of this without trying, and without saying more than a few sentences over the course of each time I met him.

A Place

I had a friend once, she said "why don't we go, somewhere only we know?" I didn't know what to say. Why? Well, for a couple of reasons. For one, I wouldn't know how to get to such a place. And, for two, if I did--would I want to go with her? I wasn't sure.

But, it is more tricky than it seems: It seems if you knew how to get to such a place--a place only we know--you'd want to go there with that person. But, it also means you have been there before (?), since only the two of you know about it.

When did you go? And how did you know how to get there? Much less both of you?

And, even worse: What if one of you thinks you went to such a place, and, wants to go back; but, you are pretty sure you've never been to such a place with them, and because of that fact, don't want to return, or go for the first time, rather?

And, one last problem: If one of you can imagine that the both of you have been to such a place, and be deceived in doing so, how is it that you--one or both--know when you will actually get there? Its a problem, because obviously no one else knows how to get there, and so any outside help is precluded from the beginning.

This was all a bit much, so she said, "This could be the end of everything."

And I said, "Yeah".

Episodes In, Outside of, but Never Out of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Love

Another day soon after that, I had quite an encounter. I was siting in the back of the Smoke-Filled Coffee shop mired in smoke and text. I was away in concepts, trying to move beyond them. A precocious student sat near me and decided he would do me a favor by imparting his knowledge on me. We chatted a bit and he asked what I was doing there. I told him I was mired in a sea of smoke and text, he nodded in understanding, or pseudo-understanding, or both--I couldn't tell. Anyway, he told me he had been learning about life as of late--of love and hurt, of eros and of passion. I said, "Great". He spoke some more.

"You see," he said "Augustine taught me that we all desire love. He also taught me that we all desire permanence. But, Augustine believed in a God I can't believe in, after all, 'God is dead', so I had to move on." Enthralled, I said, "Wow".

"Yes, so Marion taught me that the love and permanence we desire is not found in that old God of Augustine's. He taught me that actually it is found in the erotic desire and transcendence experienced with an-other."

Really excited now, I said "Didn't Augustine say something of memory?"

He replied eagerly, "Oh yes, he said the memory is a strange, strange thing. It is where God resides and doesn't. It is where the self resides and doesn't."

"And doesn't Marion say something of me?"

Jumping out of his seat now, "Oh yes, he says that me is given to me by the other. He says the only way I can be me is through the receiving of my-self from the other in the transcendence of the erotic."

"Hmm," I murmured. "I tell you what friend, maybe you can help me. I have a question about me and memory. You see, I wonder about those in my memory. The ones that I tried to love--the ones that tried to love me back. Where do they reside and why? I'd like to forget some of them, but can't. I'd like to misplace them, but it seems impossible. And, if they gave me me, can I ever be rid of them? What if I don't want to be the me they gave me? I'm just confused. It seems like they reside in my memory and give me a me I am not sure I want anymore. How does the hurt linger so deep and so long? And, how can I forget something I not only remember, but which is so essential in making me "me" even now?"

He thought for a minute, and then left.

Sitting in the back of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop, mired in a sea of text and smoke.

Episodes In, Outside of, but Never Out of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Embarrassment

I remember one day close to the end of the Old Man's life. We sat in the coffee shop, mired in smoke and conversation. After a bit, we decided to walk down to the shore. On the way, just outside the shop, at the edge of the boardwalk, he tripped and fell. He wasn't hurt to severely, but the Old Man had taken quite a tumble. It was strange to see him this way--the fall revealed how his body had become fragile, his strength had left him, and now he lay in the sand almost helpless. "You okay?" "Yes, goddamn', let me breathe for a minute." I gave him some room, eventually helped him up and we made our way down to the shore. It was striking how the esoteric, intellectual, slippery Old Man had gone from so intimidating, so transcendent to brittle and weak so quickly.

We sat on the shore for a bit, just listening to the pounding waves. There was a bit of awkwardness between us, something I had never felt before. I knew he could feel what I saw. He could feel that I saw through him to his humanness. He knew he had gone from a demi-god, to a delicate old man in a matter of seconds.

What came next solidified in my mind everything I thought about him. He didn't defend himself. He didn't act proud. No, he did none of that. He didn't talk about how he used to be a strong, robust young man, or how he had fished for days on end, battled large fish, or anything of the sort. No, instead, his words were filled with a vulnerability, an honesty, a humanness--weakness--which made him all the more transcendent to me:

"You know son, to be human--to sit here like this day after day--is to be embarrassed." "What?" I asked eloquently. "You see," he went on, "you can't tell me where you came from. You can't tell me why or how you were thrown into this world. You can't account for you. But, you can ask about you. You can't tell me where you are going. You can't tell me why you should go there. But, you can think about it--project it--anticipate it. You appeared here, but you can' stay here. You exist--before your choice--but someday you won't exist, and that is beyond your choice too. Yes, it seems the most personal things about you are things you don't know about and can't account for. And, even beyond that, you can fall down and it hurts. You are here in body and your body is you. You can't escape it, and even if you did there would be no more you. That body of yours--you--does things you don't want it to. It not only grows, develops and decays. It does more than that. It longs, desirs, tries, wants. It is attracted to others--other bodies--other 'mes'--and can't stop, can't explain, can't resolve. It opens itself to them--is hurt, is vulnerable, is devastated. In turn, it devastates, hurts, and exploits vulnerability. You are embodied and you not only can't escape it, but you wouldn't know what to do if you did."

I shook my head to signal that I was lost.

"You see son, to be human is to deal with this embarrassment every day. It is to walk around knowing you don't know where you came from, why you did, or what to do about it. It is to seek, strive, and aim to find a home for this body--you--in a place that doesn't seem to have one. To be human is to open that body to others looking for home and trying with them. It is visceral. It is embarrassing. It is, at most times, excruciating. But, it is human. I'm old. I'm embarrassed. But sitting here, watching this damn ocean, I don't know how to escape it and if I did, I wouldn't know what to do--because I wouldn't be me."

I loved that Old Man. I decided that right there and then. I'd never tell him. I'd never reveal that to him. I pretended not to understand and not to care. But, at that point, I was glad to listen and glad to try to be human (as if I had a choice).

Me and Love

Shine, Light, Flourescence: blinding. I can't see for the light. Some think it is a matter of the opposite, but I am not so sure. There is light and there is, for some, Light. I tell you what son, I can't see for either. One is bright, attractive, sexy--the essence the erotic full of desire. The other is unified, everlasting, self-giving--the essence of what we call love without desire. But, I tell you another thing, neither of them seems to know, as hard as they try, that exploited, abused and raped thing we like to call love. Strange don't you think: that when love loses its desire, the erotic is eradicated. Yet, when the erotic becomes bare desire, love becomes superfluous. We dangle in the polarity of the two, looking at one another(s)--yes, in the light--wondering both why we need the Other--why and how we desire so endlessly, and, why and how that desire can never be reduced to objectification. Why are you Other? And, in the end, what does it have to do with me being me?

keep it real,

Tears and Heaven

"Would you know my name?" "Would it be the same?"

I guess what I am asking is, well, could I call you. You know, could I call you by the name here--the name I knew you by--the one which was given to you and you responded to? Because, I feel like if I could, there would still be the "you" there is to "me". There might still be an us, in cosmic, heavenly sort of way. I feel like if you let me call you by that name, then the time, the tears, the trying, the smiles, the laughter--memory--might be real. But, if not--if I can't call you, if I don't know your name--or the one that has been given to you--then, well, there will be memories, but no reality. See the difference?

Episodes In, Out of But Never Outside of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: More About the Abyss

Many afternoons I sat with that Old Man in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop talking about the sea. We would stare at the sea, sip libations and occasionally speak. He told me about fishing and about his "lost generation". One time I asked him, "So, why did you keep going out there every day? How did you face something--the sea--so vast, so incomprehensible and so threatening? How did you grow to love it so dearly? How did you balance fear with enjoyment, anxiety with the presence to smile?" He took a long time to answer, but then he told me: "You know what's funny. When I was young I never asked that, I didn't care. I got up and went out to that damn sea every day. I woke up energized, ready to conquer, to swim, to catch. I woke up ready to give it my best. Then, yes, I began to wonder. I began to see a horizon that never moved. I began to understand myself as trapped under that horizon--held there--and no matter where or how or what I did, there was no escaping. The horizon was my prison. In that prison everything melted into the same--all of it could fit into the same frame. Good food, good boos, good company--it all felt, tasted and looked the same. Because, I knew the next day that horizon would remain and no matter how far I went or how deep I plundered, there was no way out.

"So how did you keep going all those years? Sheer determination? Duty as a man? What?"

He said, "The secret is not duty, not its not guilt, or even any lofty goals of grandeur. Pretty soon son, I'll be dead and so will you. The universe will go on without a hitch--it didn't care before and it won't care then. You and I will dissolve back into the dust we came from and that will be that. All the dreams, all the trying, the accumulating, the success--every fish I caught--will melt into the sea of cosmic indifference. You know how you keep going? You don't move the horizon, no, you find something in this Same which gives you a hint or an idea or a glimmer--a portal--into the Abyss. You see, once you find something within the horizon that can't be held by the horizon--well, nothing else matters. Its funny, you could meet a girl in the bar tonight--see in her face, in her eyes, in her smile--something that can't be reduced to patterns, or molecules, or informational codes. You'll see right through the horizon into the Abyss of transcendence and it will make those days not unquestioned, but more than bearable and even exciting. You'll remain under the horizon's gaze for sure, but there will be something in the world that can't be contained by it, something that goes on forever."

I miss that Old Man, but he sure talked alot of bullshit.

I met a girl at the bar that day. She was strange. She strolled in simultaneously trying to keep everyone in their at bay, all the while interested in their affairs. She was distant and engaged. But here engagement was motivated sheerly out of boredom and lack of self-confidence. She needed to be engaged in order to continue to tell herself she was doing everything for a reason, or at least to tell herself she was a good person. We talked for a bit. She was obviously intrigued by my aloof expression, stack of texts and obnoxious shirt. She did most of the talking, and my occasional interruptions only seemed to spur her on more. She told me about herself. Which was by all accounts astounding. She told me about two things: being noticed, being wanted, being somebody--being glamorous; and, caring, helping and contributing. It was funny to me that someone who cared so much for them-self was trying so hard to convince me (and herself) how much she cared for others. I told her that if she had to think about either one, she should probably quit one and focus on the other. She wasn't all that bright and asked me what that meant. I told her that if you have to think about caring about people--if you have to try to care--then their is no sense in trying to convince me, them or yourself that you really do. Only the ones that care without breathing--without reflection--without a moment--only those understand how to care for others. Otherwise, you are just normal and that is that.

She didn't like my little piece of wisdom so she left. I sipped espresso and thought about sunlight. I sipped espresso until the evening came and then took a walk.

In a swirl of nostalgia and fear, coming back "home" to construct a new one, I reach, grasp and long for that old Winter feel of homelessness, knowing transience is always temporary and always even more permanent; comfortable nowhere, rooted in many places, I sit cross-legged as always, observing the million reasons to stop believing beyond anything that cannot fit within a frame of information, yet always at depth unwilling to look you in the eye and not try. Sitting at the bar of a smoke-filled coffee shop, one eye on the Abyss, one eye on meaninglessness, I sip espresso slowly and intentionally knowing that if I slip it slow enough it will last most of the day and I won't have to figure out what to do with that enigma we call sunlight.

Swimming

I went swimming today, it was scary and exciting. No matter how warm the water is, whenever you wade in there and duck your head underneath the surface for the first time--the cold and shock of immersion always strikes your body. For a second it is scary and then it turns to excitement. Water is always foreign and never to be disrespected. But, it is tied intricately to life and always to be enjoyed and revered. So, for me swimming is scary and exciting.

When

When night comes quicker than usual, it is strange, even sudden. When dawn comes quicker than expected it is miraculous, even apocalyptic.

Apparently

Apparently, this blog has been somewhat dreary lately. So, I decided to write on things we all find are happy. Here goes:

Butterflies--cotton candy--the color pink--ice cream--summer--water balloon fights--weddings--flowers--love--kindness--food--holiday--dogs--a nice cup of tea--snowball fights--your grandmother--old photos--riding horses--sunsets--sunrises--the ocean--the mountains--giraffes-bunnies--birthdays--
Christmas--Jesus.

Wasn't this fun? Please tell your friends.

Hello

Hello, if you read things here and then think to write me to tell me what they mean or ask how "I" am "doing" please don't read things here. Thanks.

Wishes

I am so tired of them.

Whatever

I met an Old Man once, one at the end of his life. He told me, "The pain doesn't stop. You can expect it not to--truly believe that it has ceased for a period of time--forget its sting--but it doesn't. Why? Because the end is death. You can't anticipate it. You can't understand it. But, most of all you can't experience it. The thing that means your possibility for having possibilities can't be experienced by you. Your end won't be in completion or telos, but in lack, lack, lack, suddenly, nihil." I told him he wasn't telling me anything original or anything I didn't know. Then he asked, "Sure, but does that stop the pain from stopping?" I said, "No" and that was that.

Onietzsche

I saw Onietzsche today; he saw me. We looked at each other with casual indifference for just long enough to give the impression that we were looking at each other with casual indifference. Then I realized Onietzsche is me--the one writing--and I am Onietzsche--the one writing. Then afr this 0&hk m y idtity cll psed in o ---- n itl ?????><>33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

knjo0poj[
\0p'l;mk


gaedklsn/



aghi'pkl;emjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

jo[j'lmf;dmfsk'lnj
fo[epuj0=\o3krm,fdnp'i;jknfml,'fodf;khldfhj
d[ofj;l;
djo;jfm,drhj39-3789=0

Episodes In, Out of, but Never Outside the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Pancakes

That Old Man's mumbling reminded me of family, it reminded me of faces I used to know and people that used to think they were important to me, and vice versa. It was Saturday morning, sititng with that Old Man--it reminded me of pancakes. It reminded me of pancakes and the experience of nothing.

Being 10 years old is important. Ten year olds occupy a strange space in human existence. Most do not want to be considered kids. Yet, both the world and the 10 year old know they still are. This is different than a 13 year old. The world knows the 13 year old is still a child, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At ten, the world becomes a bit different. It goes from a safe workshop to a changing landscape. At ten, the world used to be just a place you accepted--a given that could not be questioned. It is a place--the place--the only place--where you eat dinner when told, take a bath unwillingly, play as long as you possibly can before the street lights come on, and listen to your parents--because even though you tell you them you don't have to, you and your parents both know you have to. This is different than a 13 year old. A thirteen year old has to listen to their parents, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At 10, you are not a teenager. Your body has not changed into an awkward, alien entity. It has yet to betray you. Hormonally, not everything has kicked in yet; not everything. So, the angst of teenagehood is absent. The existential questioning--the endless quest for finding one's self--defining oneself--making oneself--creating oneself--has in most cases yet to begun.

Yet, you are a not a child. You have gone from medieval serfdom--enslaved to a framework of existence which not only goes unquestioned, but is ingrained so deeply that you wouldn't know how to question it with ideas like freedom and liberty even if you wanted. Yet, the Pubescent-teenage Enlightenment quest for freedom, autonomy, and most of all, will, has yet to dawn. Yes, this is truly a time of transition. And, with all historical transition, there is upheaval.

I remember this upheaval. It didn't hurt. No, it wasn't pain. It was something deeper; something more because it signified the utter nothingness of it all. Maybe all 10 year olds don't have this upheaval. Maybe they play baseball, dress up Barbie and ride bicycles to the park. I did those things too. But, I remember the experience of the nothing. Maybe this upheaval explains the coffee-shop and everything that happened there. Whatever. I remember it in my bones.

I remember sitting in my parents suburban home on a Saturday morning in the middle of summer. The California sun--not the heat, that is different--blanketing us. Days and days of sunshine stretched in the days before and the days after. I couldn't remember seeing a cloud for days, months, forever. Only the sun--blaring, looking, gazing. It was summer. I was a child. It wasn't like the end of the week signified all that much. It meant dad was home. It meant we might have to do something as a "family". But, I was a child. Nothing changed that much. Summer weeks meant dad went to work. Mom took us bowling with other suburban wives and their children. Mom took us to Newport Beach to boogie board and build sand castles. We went swimming. We threw waterballoons. We played until dark--baseball in the street, hide and seek in the bushes, water pistols in the yard.

Saturday's were a bit different. Maybe dad would mow the lawn. Maybe we would go see Nana in L.A. Maybe we would go to the park. But, one thing was for sure. Saturday's meant pancakes. I remember waking up each week to the smell of batter and bacon and goodness. Dad let us flip the some of them. "Wait until you see the bubbles," he said patiently "then flip them real quick." This was the culmination of a child's existence. We filled our plates high with pancakes and bacon. We covered our food in butter and syrup. We drank orange juice and made jokes about the Transformers or talked about what to put on our Christmas lists. My family was together--my little brothers and I in our pajamas. The front door of our modest suburban home open to allow at least a glimmer of that blanketing mother Sunshine in the house. It was great. I could feel it in my bones.

Then, it happened. The first time was a bit disconcerting, or rather, uncomfortable. It didn't hurt. No, this wasn't pain. It was more akin to a metaphysical enema--strange and extremely violating--than a cosmic torture device. See the difference? It was more the experience of experiencing nothingness. That has to be uncomfortable, especially to a kid. I remember sitting in the family room, the house now somewhat quieted. Dad in the back. Mom on an errand. Brothers watching the TV in another room. The table still a mess with the remnants of our family feast. The lights still on in the kitchen despite the blanket--the endless layer of Sun-Being--beaming down outside, inside, wherever there was a was. Sitting now, quiet. It all melted away. All of it. The things remained--the familiar trappings of our home--my home--my world--the world. They stood still. But, they evaporated too. Not the "they", more the force or the idea or the thing or the reason or the purpose or something that made them what they were. I didn't understand it. But, I saw the world evaporate--the tables and chairs turned into wood and nails. The kitchen floor--something I never saw because of how familiar it was--stood out as an ugly baj tile. My face, still smeared with butter and batter crumbs, felt heavy and rubber. The windows seemed to allow in an eternal amount of sun--the sun seemed to cancel out everything. There was nothing in face of the everything that was the sun. There I was, 10 years old, at the height of happiness in the childhood world I had been given--and it all became so clearly meaningless. There was no point. The weeks would go on. School would start. I would look forward to the weekends. Then summer would come. Eventually I would grow old and be done with school. Then I would have a job like dad and never have a summer again. I would be rich maybe or famous or a professional athlete. I would own lots of houses or cars. I would be happy. I would then die. The sun would remain, the world and the universe wouldn't care. None of it--the struggle of the weeks--the laughter at the beach--the trips to Disneyland--the pancakes on Saturday's with my family and my happiness--none of it mattered. I saw all of this in an instant. I saw the things in my house collapse in front of me into an endless abyss. I saw the true nature of it all come forward all at once--the absurdity of trying to be happy. I saw this. Or, it saw me. I don't know. It was depressing, even at 10. I tried to think of other things--of unhappy things that were not nice, that were bad. I thought of drugs and curse words. I thought of gangsters and bad people. Maybe these would disrupt my world enough to stop the nothingness from staying there. I hated it. No matter where I went the sun blared and on that Saturday revealed the end of the world for me. I could feel it in my bones.

After a moment, I stirred myself into action so I didn't have to think or feel or something. I watched TV with my brothers or played outside, I don't remember. After that day, I didn't feel special. I didn't feel like I knew something other people didn't. And, as long as I ignored it or kept moving or kept having fun or something, it didn't bother me. I didn't think about it. I also didn't tell anyone.

Episodes In, Out of, but Never Outside the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Intimacy

Sitting there with these three, my mind wandered again. I think it came due to Levinas's revelation about there being nothing without the Abyss. But, I am not sure.

I thought of a time when I was the Old Man. We were sitting in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop looking out the window at the boardwalk. We looked at the people--milling about with seemingly so much to do. They belonged to the everywhere-to-be club. Tourists, trendsetters, cosmopolitans--they all appeared to have a set purpose and so much to do. We weren't in that club. We sat. We watched. We had nothing to do.

The Old Man told me: "You know, son. There is something that most people never learn. Everyone has places to be. We can invent these. Humans are good at this. We can create activity. We exist in the world with the world and with other people. These two sources give us endless material to create somewhere for us to go or something for us to to. We meet countless people in our lives--most of them in passing, some of them as acquaintances, a very small number as dear friends. You see, however, that through all of this intimacy is never a given. The difference between intimacy is this--intimacy is "I will miss you when you are gone"--when you move, when you die, when you leave. Intimacy is "I wish ___ was here," or "Remember when ____ did that." Intimacy is not--"thanks for talking to me about other people," or, "thanks for organizing the pot luck." You see the difference? When you get to my age, you won't remember the casserole so and so made at a potluck. All of the bullshit will melt into the blur that will become your scattered putrid old existence. No, you will remember the people that walked into the room and took your breath away. You will remember the rare moments you laughed deeper than you hurt. You will remember the people with whom you had conversations with late into the night which were too important to remember in the morning. See how this works?

I told him to shut his mouth. At this point, I didn't need his cheesy nostalgic advice. It wasn't my fault if he was alone or whatever. Then, without him seeing, I cried one tear.

Picture

I saw a picture today. And, man, did I do you a favor. You are welcome.

Clergy

After a night of dismal sleep, I awoke frustrated. Why? Why did that clergy person bother me so much? Why was I harboring anger rather than simply disregard? I went to the park for a walk that day. My headache fully in tact, I walked with my head down and slowly. After a bit, I saw some children playing and some parents watching. I saw an older gentleman feeding birds and a young couple holding hands. I saw a homeless person sleeping under a tree and a teenager taking a walk. It was then I realized why I was so angry: that clergy person talked as if people were the burden--or something to deal with--not the source and the awe and the reason for trying to accomplish whatever divine mission they thought they had. There was no deep seated awe or intrinisic, life-gnawing, energy quenching, feel-you-in-my-bones when I sleep and am beyond tired. There was no I-care-even-though-I-don't-want-to. Instead, it was as if people--the ones to save--were just another job. It just seemed tragic. One convinced there mission was to somehow show others the way would, even if their ideology, philosophy, theology was unacceptable, seem to have the capacity for this kind of love and compassion for humanity. Instead, their vocation--the divine one--was just another occupation. This made me angry. So, I walked in the park with my head down.

Friendship

I met a friend once. We met on the beach. It wasn't particularly sunny, or even really nice out. I am not even sure that either of us expected to be at the beach that day, or to meet someone else there. But, we did. We talked a bit and then for some reason carried our conversation out into the water. It was more difficult to talk there--with the waves and the noise and the current. You know. But, we did and it was great. Connection. Understanding. Laughter. It was all there--instantly. But, after a while, we couldn't tread water anymore. Our legs were tired. Our muscles were sore. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

I saw that friend again, on a similarly non-beach day. We went to talk and they said, "We have to go into the water otherwise I will have to leave. The sun is too hot, there are too many people around, and I would rather tread water with you if that means we can connect like last time." I didn't fully understand, but to me it was worth it. When do you have a chance to connect with another human being like this? Not often. Once again, we grew tired--the water became cold, the sun went down--we had to go in. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

We met again, after a period of time. The day was the same as the rest. I told them, "If we want to talk we have to do it in the water--there is so much noise, so much confusion, so much stuff here on the beach. If we are to be us, even for a short time, it has to be in the water." They agreed. Once again, we grew tired--the water became cold, the sun went down--we had to go in. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

What are you going to do? Water is fluid, but sometimes it is all you have. Maybe someday there will be more than water, but maybe someday there won't be any water left at all. It makes me grateful for the beach and even more grateful for the sea.

Meeting

I met a clergy person once. They said, "Come on over, I will cook you dinner." I said, "Okay." When I arrived, we sat down to a nice meal of pasta, bread and wine. Surprisingly, we didn't talk about religious things. In fact, the clergy person even seemed to avoid such topics. So, I asked, "What is it that a clergy person is supposed to do exactly?" The clergy person told me, "As a clergy person my vocation is to announce to others the arrival of the Kingdom." At the time I didn't know what to say, so I said this: "Wow, that is quite an important job. So, it is your responsibility to help other people find the only way to eternal life?" They replied, "Yes." After a bit more food, some thought and enough wine, I said: "What do you like to do in your spare time?" They said, "Shop for things, read a little bit. And, clean and organize. " I thought this was a strange thing to say from someone who knew had the burden of announcing the arrival of and path to the Kingdom of God. Then, we got more than tipsy and I sauntered home to bed, depressed and thinking Nietzsche didn't have it all wrong.

Sitting

There you are, back in the same position. You remember the regret from last time, but it hasn't stopped you from coming right back to this shit hole of a situation. As you shake your head, one drop of sweat drips off your brow.

Your exposed lower body trembles at the coldness of the air. You aren't used to being so exposed--so vulnerable--in such a public place. The hairs on your naked skin stand on end. The chills run up all the way to your lower back--partly from the cold hard surface, partly from the nervous feelings running through your soul. Hearing a sound, you flinch a bit. Who is coming? What will they think? You sit, you wait. You wonder. How could I make such a mistake again? I haven't even been drinking like the time before. How could I be so careless as not to check? Last time the pain, the embarrassment, the regret--it was almost too much to bear. Of course the news got around to your family and friends. People seemed to think it was funny--laughed about it at parties, called you names. You felt like something inside of you--something that should be kept private--was unconcealed. Ahh. Not again, please God, not again.

So, you wait. Knowing you won't know until you open that door.





As you sit, trying to hurry, and thinking to yourself over and over again . . . "Am I in the wrong bathroom?"

Born

Its funny, I don't remember being born. That might sound obvious. But, do you remember being born? I remember other people's births, and I have heard about my own from people that were there--like my mom and stuff. But, being born isn't an experience I can say I have had. Instead, I feel like I just appeared one day. To other people I was born; to myself, I appeared without a choice. It is like the mush in my brain developed enough for me to realize I was here and ever since everything has been one strange day after another. Know what I mean?

Episodes In, Out of but Never Outside of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: "No Woman, No Cry"

Back in the Smoke-Filled Coffee shop, I tried to keep my mind from wandering. So many dreams, so many memories. How could I not concentrate in the presence of these three people?

We sat in a corner booth. The three of them lounging in the booth, me in a chair facing them like an interview or an inquisition. Braff looked a bit smug after his little (but profound) speech about the Infinite Abyss. Mandela as poised and distinguished. His gray pinstriped suit was classy, but not gaudy. He sat with the posture of a man who had experienced hell, but still longed for heaven. He had nothing to prove, nothing to show. He seemed like someone who would be comfortable in almost any situation. He joked with Braff. He asked incredibly sophisticated questions of Levinas. I was in awe.

Levinas sat cross legged with all of the aura you would imagine of a French philosopher. He sipped his espresso--elegantly taking it from the saucer to his lips without spilling, or seemingly exerting any effort. His eyes seem to run deep and glare even deeper.

Finally, he stared me in the Face as to say, "What more do you want to know?" Startled and overwhelmed, I looked away, not wanting those eyes to see the confusion which was the reason I was in this place in the first place. I guess he sensed my discomfort. "You know, I agree with Mr. Braff about guarding the Infinite Abyss", he said in an eloquent French accent. "It is hard to explain obviously, but it seems like this is an essential aspect of our human-ness--maybe the essential aspect." I must have looked puzzled because I could tell he was thinking hard of a way to explain it to me. After a brief pause he turned and said, "It is kind of like some things Wyclef Jean does with the remix of Mr. Marley's song, you know the one, 'No Woman, No Cry'."

What? This was too much. I am sitting here in a shady remake of the Transfiguration with a political freedom fighter, a Hollywood actor and a French philosopher (who is supposed to be dead), and now the Jewish-French ethicist is explaining himself through a song by a Haitian born musician, cleverly named after a German Reformer, who remade a song by the most legendary Jamaican Rastafarian of all-time? What is happening? How did I get here? When did things go from confusing to absurd?

"Yes" I somehow got out of my mouth. Levinas continued, "Well he says something about the song being for all the Refugees worldwide. I guess in reference to what Mr. Braff said about the Infinite Abyss, I think we are all Refugees in the world. At our core is an Infinite Abyss. This is the center of our existence. That means two things. First, we are homeless--we are thrown here and exist in a way which is always, infinitely, seeking. Second, it is our responsibility to revere, respect and protect that Abyss. That is, to realize that it is the Abyss which is not a reason to delve into a nihilistic existence--to give up on making sense of life--no, it is the Abyss which gives us hope that there is more to us than we can see, feel, remember, or anticipate. It is the Abyss which signals that every person deserves your effort, your care, your trying--is your responsibility. None of us is home here. You could dwell on the fact that we are homeless. Or, you can dwell on the fact that none of us can ever treat another human being like we own the place--like we have it mastered. What does he say in that song? 'In this great future you can't forget your past.' If there is to be a great future, we can't forget what kind of trouble us humans get into when the Abyss isn't respected--wars, camps, gulags, bombs. President Mandela knows more about this than most of us will ever understand."

I was truly startled now: "So you mean the whole basis of our humanity--and our ability to treat one another humanely--is built on an Infinite Abyss?"

"Yeah," he said with an ironic smile, "without the Abyss there is nothing."

Without the Abyss there is nothing?

Strange.

Re-Post: The Breath of Life

To Nishkegaard and the Boss-Man:

Smoke fills the cold air from the cigar in the left hand. As the port is sipped gently in a singular movement of the right hand to the mouth and then down the throat, distant thoughts are lured to the foreground--thoughts lodged somewhere between sub-consciousness, recognized consciousness and the chaos of existence.

The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.

But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are
suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.

And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.

It's all in Genesis 1 . . .

"There you are, running. Moving. Rushing. Somewhere to be, and it is urgent. Your face bears the desperation and your movements signal how important it is. You are so vulnerable; so open.

I watch. I watch wishing I could help. Wishing you didn't have to rush anywhere; that you were alright, or calm, or happy, or . . . I watch, feeling sad that you are so vulnerable and that I can do nothing. I watch thinking that you are beautiful and deserving and that the last thing you should be is hurt, dissappointed, or betrayed. In this way, I watch wishing I could be your hero.

But, I have tried that before. I have tried and it doesn't work. I can't save. I can't even really help. No, it seems I am frozen watching, but no more. My efforts are mixed, weak and poisonous. Why do I feel so helpless? Why am I so selfish, so deluded, so self-centred to think that I could help? To save?"

Its funny, I don't want to believe this anymore. No, not all that about saving or helping or whatever. People do want heroes. If they didn't, church and cinemas wouldn't be so popular. But that isn't the point. No, the other part. The part about being helpless or wishing you were happy or calm. The part about wanting you to be at peace or smiling. I don't want to want that. I want to want something else. But, when I think of you--or anyone for that matter--in that state--the one of desperation and rush and trying and hoping and wanting--I can't help it.

It doesn't work that way, though. Why not? Oh, I don't know the answer to that. Probably because help gets interpreted for . . . , and nice gestures as . . . or, well you get the idea. But, don't ask me, really, because I don't know.

Meadows

I keep having that dream, the one about the meadow. You know the one . . . it is explained back there somewhere.

Anyway, I keep thinking of meadows past--ones which bring good memories of smiles, laughter, naivete, and most of all, flowers in bloom. The flowers in this dream are overwhelming--their colors are vibrant, their smells aromatic. They are everywhere--all different kinds, shapes, sizes and shades. Beautiful. Breathtaking. The thing is: they all seem to be in full bloom--giving the idea that life is teeming from their petals--that an endless amount of these colors is yet to come. Then I remember how spring turns to summer turns to winter. With that, things change. You know how.

Then my mind moves to thoughts of a different meadow that is similar in many ways. The colors, the vibrance, the life--they are all there, not in exact form as the other, but in structurally similar ways. The funny thing is that when I get to that future meadow--the one of anticipation not memory--even though I remember the previous meadow--I don't remember it in my anticipation. That is, the remembrance of Winter doesn't carry over into my dream of Spring. Is that because I want to forget Winter inevitably comes each year? Is it because Winter doesn't come in the meadow? Or, is that the nature of meadows or anticipation or both? If you expect Winter, maybe you wouldn't thinking of meadows in the first place? If you anticipate end, would you anticipate at all? Isn't that part of being-human though--end? After all, I have said here before, that all heavens are human because they are temporary. Does this apply to the meadows of anticipation or not?

Tension

I saw a friend today. I said, "How are you?" She said, "My back hurts." I said, "Do you want me to crack it for you?" She said, "No, I will live with the tension." I said, "Yeah."

Credit where credit is due

The beautiful answer given to the protagonist in the selection below (Tears) was written by a dear friend. It is a beautiful piece of writing and I am grateful for all the time, creativity and thought that went into it. I don't know what to say, but "Thank you."

Episodes In, Out of, but Never Outside of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Tears

Sitting with these three was surreal. As we talked, laughed and drank caffeine laced thoughts, I began to think of a different time in my life. I am not sure if it was because of Braff's revelatory speech about the Infinite Abyss, or if it was just the extreme happiness I was feeling in the company of these three human beings. Regardless, I reminisced about a dark time, a hard time in my life.

I am not sure how long ago it was, a few days, weeks or years. But, at some point, I grew fed up with the smoke, the text, the confusion, the heaviness of it all. I was confused by the two Old Men, one telling me about swallowing the ocean, the other about dancing on the surface. I was hurt. I was exhausted. This wasn't the nausea of breathing. No, this was the end. This was not only lack of clarity, lack of vision, no something worse--it was total lack of desire.

I tried to leave the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. I walked outside and headed "home". Once there, I retrieved an album of memories--pictures, words, etc. I made my way to a park where I had spent time as a child. I remembered the playground being much bigger, and of course much more important. In that album, I looked over people from my past--people I cared about, people that cared about me; people that had come and gone; people that tried, people that looked to me for answers. I saw faces that made me sad. Faces that I knew smiled for the second a picture was taken, faces that couldn't be satisfied. Behind those smiles, I saw hurt. I saw misery. I saw people I wanted to help, to make feel whole, and human, and unembarrassed, and dignified, and proud, and happy. People I wished could laugh alot and hurt very little. As a result, I saw people I disappointed and people I couldn't give all that to. On top of it all, I looked around and saw no progress--I was stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop and was at least wise enough to know there was no leaving--no going outside of it--once you entered.

I began to weep. First tears trickled down my cheek, then they flowed constantly. Before I knew it I was bent over, my face in my hands, shaking and weeping. With every tear--every convulsion--I felt the powerlessness of the situation rattle through me. I felt like I would choke at every moment from trying to cry--to express--to vomit--to omit--something from, yes, now I realized, an abyss.

In the lowest, the darkest-when the night had gone from the end of day to complete dark--a hand touched me on the shoulder gently. Not frightened, no, no even startled. I kept on. I didn't care who it was and didn't care what was going to happen next. The shaking, the convulsing, the weeping--it all continued. I don't know how long we sat there like that, their hand on my shoulder as I wept uncontrollably, it could have been hours for all I know.

Then my friend spoke, and as soon as she did, I realized it was an old, familiar and wise voice. It was a friend--one I had met in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. This was a Wise-Soul--a conversation with her meant one espresso would last three hours. She was soft spoken, but loud. She was younger than most, but born older than most too. She said, "I saw you. I saw you leave and I saw the look on your face." She took the album and looked through it.

After another long silence she said something I will never forget:

"You know, friend, it seemed to me then, as it does now, that neither brother was entirely right. It is presumptuous, arrogant, perhaps, to think one can swallow the entire ocean. To take it all in without drowning. It is an obsession that takes oneself too seriously. There is something to be said for playing on the surface. But is the surface all there is? I don't think either of us could ever believe that. Certainly I could never believe it of you, my dear, old friend, that you can resist for long the desire to submerge yourself in all that deep blue, all that impossible-possible depth. Swallow it whole? No, none of us can do that. We are lying to ourselves, entertaining those dangerous delusions of grandeur, if we think we can do that. But swim in it. Let it wash over you. Don't be afraid to get your feet wet--hell, to get everything wet. Admit that it is bigger than you are--if there is any swallowing, it will swallow you and not the other way around. But it won't. You can always go back to the surface, the sunlight, the salty breeze, if it gets to be too much. Let yourself be human. But don't give up on the very human seriousness of all this, either. Let the waves crash over you. Come up for air, then plunge yourself back in. That is the secret."

I looked at her, and said all I could at the time, "Thank you." With that we shared a hug and said goodbye. At that moment, I was thankful to be human. I was thankful to have the grace of another--their hands, their embrace, their embodied friendship--with me. I was thankful for her words and her wisdom. I was thankful to be human--to be embarrassed, humiliated, hurt, embodied, thrown and stuck in the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop. She walked away. I wiped my tears, put the album back under my bed at "home" and went back to the sea of text, smoke and yes, tears, within the Smoke-filled Coffee Shop.

Nothing was clarified. Nothing was clear. But, my desire to be human was restored. As I walked, I whispered "Thank you" one more time.

Episodes In, Out of but Never Outside of the Smoke Filled Coffee Shop: The Infinite Abyss

Refreshed a bit, I sauntered back to the smoke-filled coffee shop. I sat down in my usual wooden chair, picked up my pen and took a glance around. There was smoke in the air as usual, but something else--something strange.

After a bit, I began writing--thinking--trying--as usual. Swamped in the sea of smoke and text, I was uneasy. Something was happening around me, something unusual, but I couldn't figure out what.

And, then it happened. I saw them. All three, sitting in a corner laughing over nice cigars and espresso. I couldn't believe it, had they been there the whole time? What? How? Sat there, naturally, confidently, at ease--Zach Braff, Emmanuel Levinas and Nelson Mandela. How did this happen? Nervous now, butterflies everywhere, my mind was on skates and my thoughts shocked by my passive role--my nonintentional participation--in this event. It was like the Transfiguration in reverse. James and John were nowhere to be found, but these three sat before me aglow in dim light, smoke-filled air, and grateful laughter. Shocked I walked over and said, "It's good your here, can I get you a muffin?" They laughed quietly, smiled disarmingly, and Levinas told me to sit down with them. It was like a moment out of eternity or something. I don't know how long we sat and talked and laughed and discussed, but it felt so easy.

After some time, I was comfortable or at least at ease. I was curious as to why and how they were here, but I knew asking about such things would ruin it all. So, I asked, "What is it all of you see yourselves as trying to accomplish in this world?" Pretentious? Presumptuous? I don't know, but it seemed like a natural question at the time.

Braff jumped at the question, giving an immediate answer: "Well Onietzsche, I wrote and directed a movie once called Garden State," he said in a semi-cocked, Hollywood voice. A bit of strange tweak in his demeanor appeared, but nothing to prevent the conversation from going forward. He continued, "And if you remember, in a critical scene near the end of the movie my character wishes a man who lives on the edge of huge underground cave good luck in guarding the infinite abyss." I nodded in remembrance, trying to convey that I remembered the exact scene. "Well, the man then wishes my character good luck in doing the same, that is, in guarding the infinite abyss. Strange as it sounds, I see my role as an artist as just that--helping people to somehow understand what it means to guard the infinite abyss. After all, isn't that what it means to be human? Isn't each 'person' an infinite abyss to be respected, communicated, explored and finally appreciated."

Taken aback at the heaviness of his answer, I thought for a moment. Surreal--sitting here with these three and having the hollywood actor explain things this way. I thought maybe Mandela would be offended. I thought maybe Levinas would smirk in disapproval. I looked at both, and speechless, they both nodded as to say, "Me, too."

Strange.

Episodes In, Out of but Never Outside of the Smoke Filled Coffee Shop: Beauty and Transcendence

A few days or weeks or years went by, and the smoke-filled coffee shop took its toll on me. Gagging on smoke and text, I couldn't ingest anymore. My lungs burned from the combination of sea water, smoke and dirty, precocious, esoteric air. My heart beat rapidly at times--inflated by the adrenaline that comes with ideas and the same (different) adrenaline that comes with difficulty in breathing.I pulled myself up--raised out of the nausea of that coffee shop--the sea of text and smoke. I had no reason. I had no purpose to do so. There was no revelation. No epiphany. It was a pre-conscious, instinctual movement. At some point, something said it was time to go. So I walked.

On the boardwalk--between the sea and the shop--I saw a girl I knew once, walking. As always, she had one eye on the water and one on the people all around her. Everyone she saw, contacted, met, or just smiled at had a better day because of it. She was unique in this way--a revelation. She seemed to have an energy unfounded and an enthusiasm for breathing unjustified. But, don't get me wrong, this wasn't an annoying, cheery person, equivalent to human cotton candy. No, within the enthusiasm there was charm. Supporting that smile was wisdom. I couldn't take my mind off her. It was uncanny how the water came so close to her, yet the people remained all within reach. No one else is able to walk between both, so finely, so delicately, so preternaturally. It all seemed to balance in, on and within her. She seemed so beautiful because she seemed so human--so vulnerable, yet so whole; so enthralled by the water, but never enough to lose her way on the boardwalk; so magnetic, so enthralling--transcendent and immanent all at the same time.

I wondered if within-on-through-by her if an-other could be. I wondered if an-other--in an I-Thou, not I-Other, relationship would unbalance that balance, undo the harmony.

Most of all, I wondered if she wondered the same.

Funny. I woke up from that dream of reality, or the reality of that dream. The next night I dreamed again. The Old Man was walking in a quaint neighborhood park. In his checkered jacket and old man hat, he said: The smoke-filled coffee shop isn't worth it apart from the dream for that impossible meadow. Derrida was there with him, and he nodded his head in agreement as they walked on.

Episodes In, Out of but Never Outside of the Smoke Filled Coffee Shop: Interlude--Dreams

Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time. Taking in the Sun and the horizon of existence it floats upon--I wander through the weeds, the shit, the flowers, the butterflys, the chirping birds. The sounds, the smells, the sense! All overwhelming! Something has changed, however. Something is different. When I used to walk like this, I was dreaming. And, in those dreams the meadow was beautiful, the flowers transcendent, the birds harmonious; but there was no weeds, no shit and no screams to match the chirping. No, something has changed. Now, they all reside together. And, now, I am not dreaming. What now? In this world beyond dreams, are the flowers less aromatic? Has the Sun rescinded a portion of its life? Do the sounds, the colors, the Present of this life carry any less beauty? Less wonder? Less hope? No, smelling the shit, seeing the weeds, being stung by the needles--they haven't lost their luster. I hear the birds less often, the flowers bloom only in Spring (if then), the Sun shines and the skies bear blue occassionally, but, now, when they do, they seem all the more luminous. Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time.

Episodes In, Outside, but Never Out of the Smoke Filled Coffee Shop: The Old Man's Funeral

A few days or weeks or years went by, and that old man died. Part of me was torn. I didn't know him that well. I hadn't spent that much time with him. But, for some reason he was deep inside me--somewhere--creeping, crawling, disturbing. At his death, I felt vulnerable and depressed. Yet, part of me was still stung by his pretentiousness. How could he take himself so seriously? Swallowing the ocean? Everyday? Who does he think he is? How could he consider himself so existentially important? What drove him there everyday? Overall, it plagued me--not a question, but the question--why? why? why? Upset, confused, disheveled--I went to his funeral. Something strange struck me as soon as I walked in to that dilapidated old social hall: half the people were of a different generation than me. They were his contemporaries. Some were at the end of their lives--mentally and physically weary. Others were still very alert. They were robust. They didn't smile, but they were proud. They had the looks of those that tried--that attempted--that believed. It was easy to see that some did so naively. Some did so because they didn't know any better. But, some had the look of the Old Man. Some of them grimaced while they laughed and thought while they listened. Strange. The other half of the room look much like me--young, precocious, ratty and disheveled. Most smoked ceaselessly and rambled on and on about cigars and the breath of life. Boring. Others stood in silence, trying to fit in, but not really. Who are they? And how do they know the Old Man? I walked over to the bar, more confused now than ever. Muttering to myself, I leaned and sipped my Jack and Coke. 'Ocean, shore, bullshit, all of it' I sipped and muttered. And then it happened. An Old Man in wearing the shiniest, cheapest jewelry all over his person, wearing an incredibly gaudy jacket and smoking a cheap cigar, put his hand around my shoulder and told the bartender to get me another. 'So he got you?' he said. 'What?' I replied, intrigued, but wary at the same time. 'He got you with all his business about the ocean, and swallowing it, and trying. And now you are bothered--confused--bottled--and trapped. You are haunted by the desire to try, but frustrated by the hopelessness of it all.' Angry now, I took his hand off mine and tried to walk away. Stopping me, he pulled me close and said, 'Look, my brother didn't get it. He was caught, with all these other fools our age, in a dream with no reality. Let me tell you something--the answer, the key, whatever it is you are looking for--is not in swallowing that ocean everyday. It is not bearing the weight of the cold seawater as it burns your throat and holds you under. No, son. The key isn't subsuming it, it is playing on the surface. Listen, you go down to that shore tomorrow, and the next day . . . and instead of doing what my naive old dead brother said--instead of killing yourself for it all--you find something to float on, a raft, a surfboard, a piece of wood, anything. You find something to float on and you manuever, manipulate and enjoy the surface of the water. Somedays it will be cold, others glistening in the sun; somedays it will be clear blue so you can see the fish below, others brown with the stuff of life. The point is not in figuring it out, the point is realizing that the movements, the shapes, the waves, the tides--all of them move and shiver endlessly without anywhere to be. The surface is all there is and you can ride it as long as you like. ' And with a kitsch wink, he shuffled off to pull the old biddies who had come to mourn his brother's death.

Its funny to me that you fell in love. Its funny to me that you think you are the only one. And, it is funny to me that you are the only one that measured said love by your-self, rather than in, through, or for an-other; especially considering, you know . . .

Episodes In, Outside, but never Out of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: The Old Man, the Ocean and the Shore

Some moments, days or years passed. Randomly, but I think somehow cosmically . . . Outside of (but not out of mind you) the Smoke-filled coffee shop . . .

I met an old man, one at the end of his life. This man was wily. He had the look of one 'who knew', coupled with the eyes of one who 'still believes'. It was evident that his old age had not left him bereft of thought. His body meager, his intellect remained alive. I don't know if it was all the people that continued to visit him, all the walking he told me he did, or all the books he continued to read, but he was still all there upstairs. After some BS, he seemed ready to 'let me in'. So, he told me a--in his mind, the--secret.

'Come here,' he said, 'come close and listen': "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." With a satisfied, smug smile he lay back down. Caught off gurad, I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Walking now, perturbed, angry, disillusioned. And, thinking: 'The ocean. Stupid man. Spent his days, his worries, his breaths, caring enough to swallow that ocean every day. Cared enough to walk down there every day and take it all in. Cared enough to take it in and then to live the day. Stupid old man.' I resolved that he could take the cares and the ocean with them to his grave. I would have no part. I would waste no more time. That night, I went to the smoke-filled coffee shop. And, then, it happened . . . The next day, bewildered, tired, empty, I rose. I staggered the short distance to the shore and stared. No thinking. No thoughts. Just silence, peppered with the crashing of waves on that goddamned shore. The energy that sent them seemed never-ending, maddeningly and beautifully so. The force was overwhelming and inspiring all at the same time. They kept coming; I kept staring.

Important Notice

I have received thousands upon thousands of questions about the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop. So, I will post all the parts in order, starting with the first one (which is below).

As a result, my hope is that someday this will be the most-read blog in the world.

Also, I am looking for a corporate sponsorship, so if you know anyone from Honda, Ikea or any local antique shops please pass along my details.

Also, leaving comments on the blog like, 'Onietzsche, I am sure the blog will be the most popular in no time!' or 'Hey man, I don't hold your breath on getting a corporate sponsorship,' or even 'Did you really get thousands of requests?' would reveal that you might care about this blog too much. But, it would show Onietzsche that you care, and in this day and age, these gestures are always nice.

Episodes In, Outside, but Never Out of the Smoke Filled Coffee Shop: Sitting in A Smoke Filled Coffee Shop

Sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled coffee shop, watching in silence as life slips by once again, my heart beating with the vapors of meaning evaporating into the endless play of images, people, and memory. Watching grown-ups pretend they aren't children, as we careen through the rubble of what was never simple, or sensical. Writing thoughts that reflect the cynical and semi-hopeful feelings of a pretender trying to make sense of the mystical, the commodified, and the inhumane. Drinking caffeine laced thoughts to get through the night of logos, slogans, and ads. Dancing to the beat as our existence floats--no, crystallizes--into photos, videos, and tattoos that will define the illusion that is to become our memory and existence. And, then, it happens. While the smoke still in the air--floating in waves of creativity never before seen, never after repeated; while aimless conversations go on, perpetuating the endless flow of endless information; while lurkers sit as open-air voyeurs, watching others to make sense of themselves; while cosmopolitans desperate for attention sit legs crossed, face shiny, physique seductive; while workers work; while consumers consume--the lights are turned off and it is time to go home. The neon doesn't even dim--no, it just disappears. The buzz of the flourescence doesn't simmer, it simply ceases. And, then, it happens. The identities created in this lit interior--this 'dimly lit place'--go dark. The endless play is revealed to be nothing more than . . . ended play. The 'people', now unable to see one another, have no means to make sense of what was always non-sensical. The 'people' recognize in one moment that they have no memory of what existence was like in the light, and in the same moment, forget what they were thinking of. Yes, the surface disappears and there it is not time to go home, not time to move on, not time to try something new. No, the surface disappears and there is nothing more. The dancing is not even a vapor. The smoke not even a memory. The images not saved on a hard drive. The tattoos obliterated along with the body. Where to now? Not home. Not here. I guess we'll wait.

Hostage

Dont hold me hostage. Dont hold me hostage by pinning me in a text, or even worse, this hyper-text. Both of us, if not equally or unequivocally, are indeterminate. Attempts to pin either down will result in frustration, possible hurt and a poor hermeneutic. Dont hold me hostage for your own sake. Dont go looking, inventing or imagining. Let the words reverberate and let the text as a whole disrupt, anger, or dissapoint. But, let it be and I will do the same. peace.

Boardwalk, Beach, Beauty

A few days or weeks or years went by, and the smoke-filled coffee shop took its toll on me. Gagging on smoke and text, I couldn't ingest anymore. My lungs burned from the combination of sea water, smoke and dirty, precocious, esoteric air. My heart beat rapidly at times--inflated by the adrenaline that comes with ideas and the same (different) adrenaline that comes with difficulty in breathing.I pulled myself up--raised out of the nausea of that coffee shop--the sea of text and smoke. I had no reason. I had no purpose to do so. There was no revelation. No epiphany. It was a pre-conscious, instinctual movement. At some point, something said it was time to go. So I walked.

On the boardwalk--between the sea and the shop--I saw a girl I knew once, walking. As always, she had one eye on the water and one on the people all around her. Everyone she saw, contacted, met, or just smiled at had a better day because of it. She was unique in this way--a revelation. She seemed to have an energy unfounded and an enthusiasm for breathing unjustified. But, dont get me wrong, this wasnt an annoying, cheery person, equivalent to human cotton candy. No, within the enthusiasm there was charm. Suporting that smile was wisdom. I couldnt take my mind off her. It was uncanny how the water came so close to her, yet the people remained all within reach. No one else is able to walk between both, so finely, so delicately, so preternaturally. It all seemed to balance in, on and within her. She seemed so beautiful because she seemed so human--so vulnerable, yet so whole; so enthralled by the water, but never enough to lose her way on the boardwalk; so magnetic, so enthralling--transcendent and immanent all at the same time.

I wondered if within-on-through-by her if an-other could be. I wondered if an-other--in an I-Thou, not I-Other, relationship would unbalance that balance, undo the harmony.

Most of all, I wondered if she wondered the same.

A Walk, A Friend, A Heaven, and Hell

I went on a walk today with a friend. We walked into the woods and talked. It was nice. Nice because the woods were beautiful, serene and so alive. Nice also because the conversation was comfortable, intimate and also alive. Life seemed to flow between the life all around us, and the language between us which was an attempt to make sense of the life all around us. The language and life converged. Sometimes I was walking, watching and being (in). At others, I was speaking, listening, and imagining. The moments seem to go back and forth without notice and I never really knew where I was.

We walked, talking, listening, watching . . . I saw heaven, only briefly. I felt it in the world around me. I listened to it--not in words, but in reverberations and echoes of trust and care. Then, I saw it over the ridge at the opening of a clearing--more green, more life than my senses could bear. We sat--at that moment silent--grateful.

The sun had almost left us at this point; inspired, we walked on a bit further. We came to an opening--a long, wide gravel road which seemed imperial, eerie and beckoning all at the same time. Still silent, we went forth. We walked, wondering. We didn't speak, wondering. We came to the end and entered that graveyard. We saw memorials, signs and etches of lives lived--lives lived in the place we saw heaven that day. We heard the quiet--but this time not of life, but of death all around us. We were still silent. It is one of the most sacred and most terrifying places I have ever been--hidden back in the woods, amidst a clearing. At the end of a long road, wide, and narrow--opens a semi-circle with graves around it, and a large memorial at the head. No fountains. No pavement. Nothing but rememberance and death.

Then I realized that I had been duped again. I realized how naive I let myself become. I realized that the heaven I saw that day--and others--was truly human. Why? Because it was temporary--of course. But, also because it ended here--in this place of death. Not only in a passing-away, but in terror, in degradation, in war. I realized that this is where all human heavens have ended thus far--in belief, hope and enjoyment, then humiliation, suffering and war. Strange? more than that:

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh

The Woods

What I love about you is that you understand something about me. I dont know if it is because we are the same or because we are different. Or, maybe you are just incredibly wise. But, nonetheless, you understand.

What?

My love affair with the woods. I love them and fear them both. The woods seem like home to me. Every morning, they are the first thing on my mind. Each day they enchant me. There are alway more trails to follow, more trees to climb, more horizons to pursue. They are beautiful--the sounds there, the quiet, the crackle, the colors, the smell--these are to me the clues of life. They may not be, I know this. They may not ever lead me but to bigger leaves, higher trees, and further ridges--I know this too. But, the woods are me. The woods are where I belong. But, this isnt the important thing. Many people understand this. Many see that the woods are my habitat.

I dont want to live in the woods, however. I dont want to stay there permanently. No. I like to hike out each day. I like to get a distance. I like to go into to town to see the people, to watch the passers by, to laugh over a glass of potion, and to hear 'the talk of the town.' I like coming out mostly to see you. To walk with you. To listen to you. To look at you. I like coming out because there is someone there to gaze into, and someone there who I allow to gaze into me. Your center is transferred to mine, and vice versa. This is just as much or more the clue of life than those woods. This is the source of joy. But, many people know this too. They see me in town, they laugh with me over potion, the tell me the talk of the town. Others I have gazed into, and others have gazed into me.

What then? What? you ask, almost hurt.

You let me go. You let me venture into those woods each day. You know I have to. You know in order to be me, in order to be the me you want, in order to be the me that is sane, happy or free, I have to go. I go not to get away from you. I go not to escape you or anyone else. No, I go to understand. I go to try. And, when I come out life doesnt make sense, but it is at least more than bearable. You understand this. This is unique. This is hard. But, you understand it and I love that about you. Thank you.

A Boy I knew

Dualisms are hard to escape. It seems that much of existence is a passing between two poles; a going from one side to another.

I knew a boy once called Pinnochio. He was a puppet on a string. Pinnochio, due to the string and the way in which it controlled him--made him who he was--was a puppet. His identity was tied to another. His existence was at the end of a string. His movement as pre-defined. His presentation was limited.

Dualisms leave us wanting. The grass is always greener . . . and the far up and far left and far East is always attractive when we are trapped in the far down, the far right or the far West.

Pinnochio was bitter. He was humiliated. He wanted to be free, to move, to act, to present, to make himself how he wanted. He wanted to make himself. He didnt want to be made to . . . He freed himself from that string--cut the string and went running.

The problem with duality is that it is dual. Desire is never quenched, rather, satisfied, by saturation.

When he cut that string, he realized something. He realized he was no longer Pinnochio, for no one called him any longer. He realized that he was merely a wooden box. His efforts to create, to make, to determine were purposeless because they were the end--the only--the horizon. He knocked on his 'body' (which was by this time only wood) and realized it was the end.

Duality is a vicious circle of bitterness and nausea.

He didnt know what was worse--bitterness or nausea.

Earlier

I was happy earlier. I was happy that what I knew all along was betrayal was betrayal. I was happy that even though I knew it was betrayal that it wasnt jealousy. So, in sum, I am happy to be betrayed, but not with jealousy. This seems right to me.

Heaven

I saw heaven today in an embodied vision. I saw heaven today . . . I saw it in a coffee cup not too big. I saw heaven today . . . in cobblestones and a breeze. I saw heaven today in text and quiet. It was temporary, an hour or an hour and a half. But, that is what made it heaven; a human heaven at least. I saw heaven today and it was temporary, but all heavens are (at least the ones experienced by humans. That is what makes them heavens. And, that is what makes us human). I saw heaven today in all my senses.

A Scab

I pulled a scab away today. Picked at it for a while, then it came right off. It was fairly big and had definitely been there a while--not long enough to heal and grow back into healthy skin, but long enough to be bumpy, to be cumbersome and to draw my attention every time I sat down to think. It had been there long enough that I had come to accept it as part of my leg. When I pulled the Scab off, it hurt. It hurt because it was skin--scarred skin--ripping from myself. It hurt because parts of me were exposed to the fresh air that dont usually breathe. But, most of all, it hurt because I remembered where and when I got that scab. I remembered how much fun it was, how helpful, how nice. I remember laughing and crying, playing and trying. It wasnt until the end that we bumped into one another, giving rise to the makings of a Scab for both of us. I am not sure whose is bigger, but in any case . . . Wasnt till the end that the progenitor--the event (which was in the making all along)--of the scar appeared. I knew when I picked that scar that it would eventually scar and then slowly fade. I would see it on occassion, but the memory of how it got there and the story, and its experiences, would also fade. Despite the pain, that makes me sad. I wish a generally good experience like the one that preceded the Scab could be inscribed on my body in a healthier, more permanent way. I wish it didnt have to end with blood and sting. But, here we are--the scab is in my hand--what can we do now? I pulled a scab away today; it hurts like hell.

My Friend

A friend of mine came into the smoke-filled coffee shop (By 'friend' I mean one of those people you like a fair amount, whom you spend time with out of convenience, and may or may not speak to when you are separated by long distance). I said, 'Whattup, what's goin on?' He said, 'Whattup, aint much.' 'Whatch you been gettin up to?' I replied profoundly. He said, 'Packin. I'm out. Goin somewhere new.' 'How's that?' I said, half-paying attention, half-winking at the cosmopolitan woman with the shine in the corner. Then he got all serious on me, 'Funny thing is I packed up my stuff the other day and it all fits in two boxes. Everything I own, sitting there in two medium-sized cardboard boxes. Clothes, Memories, Stuff.' Trying to pay attention now, 'Does that depress you, or does it make you proud of the way you live?' He took a sip and said reflectively, 'I don't know.' Strange.

Me and You and Text

Please don't look for me or you in this text. You may not find me--amidst the smoke, the sea, the confusion. You will certainly not find the me you are looking for. That may frustrate you. Sorry to let you down. Sorry you are looking for something that doesn't exist. You will definitely not find you here, and that might disappoint you. So, don't go looking and don't go interpreting and don't go flattering yourself. See you all soon.

In the Sun

"I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in."

There you are. The one. The road. The journey. The experience. It's been surreal. The venom and the anger--now wrapped in tears and vulnerability. The frustration and misunderstanding--now flowing down your cheeks, your hands trying to cover not the hopelessness, not depression--no, don't get it confused--trying to cover the utter and complete emptiness of non-being; of having yourself evicted from yourself because of another.

"I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
’cause when you showed me myself I became someone else."

Strange. Ironic. I can't see you. I don't get to be inside anymore. Your eyes are shielded, begging me to stop looking--to stop gazing--to stop being inside. The vulnerability that is so evident you try to hide. But, I can't help it. I am inside. And I feel how alone you are.

But here is the cruel paradox. It was only you who showed me--helped me--enabled me--to be me. When I looked into those eyes--the ones I'm no longer given the privilege to see--you showed me how to be me. Yet, when I became me--well . . .

"How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You"

The consequences of that paradox: now I look on my own. I look with no eyes to look into. I gaze with no window into any soul. No, I search--I try--I am me apart from you. Yet, I am only me because of you. This is strange to me. Strange and excruciating.

"But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need."

And

"I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need."

That's it, isn't it? Its universal, and here, it is particular. This is human. This is existence. This is the paradox of existence. Kitsch existentialism? Maybe. Pubescent questioning? Perhaps. But, in an age of 'posts-', of cynicism, of difference. In a time of technological prosthetics which replace souls and informational identities which replace the body. In a place which now looks like all others. What else do you, or me, or any of us have to say? Only . . .

"May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you."

A prayer? No. Liturgy? No. A command to a certain set of beliefs or a particular idea of 'God'? No, again. Instead, a desire to move past. A desire for new. A hope--despite the paradox--that need and want--that myself and myself, that me and you, aren't infinitely separate, but only temporally alienated.

I Want

I want to be polite. I want to smile at the right time and shake hands in a firm, but friendly manner. I want to eat properly. I want to drink enough to be fun, but not enough to be out of sorts. I want to write thank you notes in a timely manner. I want to remember birthdays, holidays and saints days. I want to shave neatly and smell fragrantly masculine. I want to talk about the weather, taxes, children, mortgages and petrol. I want to wear an array of bland jumpers and converse about equally bland subjects. I want to develop a good polite, fake laugh that is convincing, but not overbearing. I want to be interested in sitcoms and reality shows. I want to do my wash regularly. I want to fold the clothes neatly and place them all in their pre-ordained homes. I want to say things at parties that are interesting, but not controversial. I want to go on vacation/holiday for two weeks, and complain about it the rest of the year. I want to complain about waiter's and talk about bad service. I want ironing to consume at least 80 hours of my total time on earth. I want a succession of 5 year plans to be the content of my middle age.

I want life to fit in a square. I want the horizon to appear horizontal and without surprise. I want to live perpendicularly at all times. I want the colors to be pretty, but not confusing. I want my existence to be solvable by Pythagoras's theorem--right angles and square roots. I want to see straight and walk even straighter. I want to move through the universal in the particular, without having to deal with the abstract. I want Religion to be Ethical, but not Existential. I want to fit it all in neat cubby holes and to always have a compartment for each breath I take. I want to look at the sunset and be thinking about what's for dinner, and nothing else. I want to walk in meadows and say things like, 'Lovely day, don't you think?', and 'oooh, look at the flowers, aren't they gorgeous?' I want to breathe without reflecting.

Boardwalk, Beach, Beauty

A few days or weeks or years went by, and the smoke-filled coffee shop took its toll on me. Gagging on smoke and text, I couldn't ingest anymore. My lungs burned from the combination of sea water, smoke and dirty, precocious, esoteric air. My heart beat rapidly at times--inflated by the adrenaline that comes with ideas and the same (different) adrenaline that comes with difficulty in breathing.

I pulled myself up--raised out of the nausea of that coffee shop--the sea of text and smoke. I had no reason. I had no purpose to do so. There was no revelation. No epiphany. It was a pre-conscious, instinctual movement. At some point, something said it was time to go. So I walked.

On the boardwalk--between the sea and the shop--I ran saw a girl I knew once, walking. As always, she had one eye on the water and one on the people all around her. Everyone she saw, contacted, met, or just smiled at had a better day because of it. She was unique in this way--a revelation. She seemed to have an energy unfounded and an enthusiasm for breathing unjustified. But, dont get me wrong, this wasnt an annoying, cheery person who is the equivalent of human cotton candy. No, within the enthusiasm there was charm. Suporting that smile was wisdom. I couldnt take my mind off her. It was uncanny how the water came so close to her, yet the people remained just as close. It all seemed to balance in, on and within her. She seemed so beautiful because she seemed so human--so vulnerable, yet so whole; so enthralled by the water, but never enough to lose her way on the boardwalk; so magnetic, so enthralling--transcendent and immanent all at the same time.

Strange.

Swimming

After that funeral . . .

The Old Man's Brother was so different from the Old Man. One was earnest, determined and persistent. The other clever, playful and just as persistent. Strange. Whatever.

Confused, bitter, tired--I went back to the smoke-filled coffee shop. Existence was relegated to the sea, and its surface, comprised of thoughts, smoke and text:

Swimming in a sea of text and smoke, coming up for air (on occassion) to imbibe laughter and drink; treading water amidst the current of change--no, vertigo; lost in a world of endless and meaningless ideas; surfing the waves of the surface all of us share, and soaking up the sun when, and when it does not, shine. I don't want to exist here anymore--not on the deserted island, lost at sea on a small rock in the ocean--no this is worse. Lost at sea, relegated to existing at the interplay of the endless currents, breezes and climate of that cold, alluring water. No rock. Nothing solid. My limbs are tired from treading. My breath is gone. My chest burns.

Yet, I am drawn here. The Old Man and his brother both--they both knew. They were drawn here too. I want to leave--but where else is there to go? I want to escape, but every time I open my mouth--speak--I'm brought right back and faced with the futile mission of moving past.

. . . Smoke and laughter, those will have to do for now.

The Old Man's Funeral

A few days or weeks or years went by, and that old man died. Part of me was torn. I didn't know him that well. I hadn't spent that much time with him. But, for some reason he was deep inside me--somewhere--creeping, crawling, disturbing. At his death, I felt vulnerable and depressed. Yet, part of me was still stung by his pretentiousness. How could he take himself so seriously? Swallowing the ocean? Everyday? Who does he think he is? How could he consider himself so existentially important? What drove him there everyday? Overall, it plagued me--not a question, but the question--why? why? why?

Upset, confused, disheveled--I went to his funeral. Something strange struck me as soon as I walked in to that dilapidated old social hall: half the people were of a different generation than me. They were his contemporaries. Some were at the end of their lives--mentally and physically weary. Others were still very alert. They were robust. They didn't smile, but they were proud. They had the looks of those that tried--that attempted--that believed. It was easy to see that some did so naively. Some did so because they didn't know any better. But, some had the look of the Old Man. Some of them grimaced while they laughed and thought while they listened. Strange.

The other half of the room look much like me--young, precocious, ratty and disheveled. Most smoked ceaselessly and rambled on and on about cigars and the breath of life. Boring. Others stood in silence, trying to fit in, but not really. Who are they? And how do they know the Old Man?

I walked over to the bar, more confused now than ever. Muttering to myself, I leaned and sipped my Jack and Coke. 'Ocean, shore, bullshit, all of it' I sipped and muttered. And then it happened. An Old Man in wearing the shiniest, cheapest jewelry all over his person, wearing an incredibly gaudy jacket and smoking a cheap cigar, put his hand around my shoulder and told the bartender to get me another. 'So he got you?' he said. 'What?' I replied, intrigued, but wary at the same time. 'He got you with all his business about the ocean, and swallowing it, and trying. And now you are bothered--confused--bottled--and trapped. You are haunted by the desire to try, but frustrated by the hopelessness of it all.' Angry now, I took his hand off mine and tried to walk away. Stopping me, he pulled me close and said, 'Look, my brother didn't get it. He was caught, with all these other fools our age, in a dream with no reality. Let me tell you something--the answer, the key, whatever it is you are looking for--is not in swallowing that ocean everyday. It is not bearing the weight of the cold seawater as it burns your throat and holds you under. No, son. The key isn't subsuming it, it is playing on the surface.

Listen, you go down to that shore tomorrow, and the next day . . . and instead of doing what my naive old dead brother said--instead of killing yourself for it all--you find something to float on, a raft, a surfboard, a piece of wood, anything. You find something to float on and you manuever, manipulate and enjoy the surface of the water. Somedays it will be cold, others glistening in the sun; somedays it will be clear blue so you can see the fish below, others brown with the stuff of life. The point is not in figuring it out, the point is realizing that the movements, the shapes, the waves, the tides--all of them move and shiver endlessly without anywhere to be. The surface is all there is and you can ride it as long as you like. ' And with a kitsch wink, he shuffled off to pull the old biddies who had come to mourn his brother's death.

Come Close

Come close. Come here. Let me tell you why you are amazing. Let me make your day. Come here, come close. Let me tell you all the good things you forgot about you, all the small things that go unnoticed, all the unique things no one ever takes the time to alert you to. Let me inform you why this world needs you and why it would be worse without you. Come, let me tell you why there is no one else in the world like you and why you'll never be repeated. Come, even if you don't want to hear it. That's okay. Come anyway--I can joke, or be silly, or embarrass myself. I do tricks. I tell stories. As long as you smile. As long as you laugh. As long as you leave the room feeling ten times better than when you arrived. As long as you walk away wanting to breath more than anything. As long as . . . you don't get too close. That could be problematic; that could make things difficult. Yes, please come. Please come, but don't get too close and whatever you do, don't _______. That would really be a mess. See you soon.

The Old Man, the Coffee Shop, the Shore

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Walking now, perturbed, angry, disillusioned. And, thinking. 'The ocean. Stupid man. Spent his days, his worries, his breaths, caring enough to swallow that ocean every day. Cared enough to walk down there every day and take it all in. Cared enough to take it in and then to live the day. Stupid old man.' I resolved that he could take the cares and the ocean with them to his grave. I would have no part. I would waste no more time.

That night, I went to the smoke-filled coffee shop.

And, then, it happened . . .

The next day, bewildered, tired, empty, I rose. I staggered to the shore and stared. No thinking. No thoughts. Just silence, peppered with the crashing of waves on that goddamned shore. They kept coming; I kept staring.

Memory

The nice thing about memory, is that it is always infused with elements of fantasy, idealism or wishful thinking . . . Some are concrete. Some are inescapable. But, it seems like the good ones are flexible and while they remain past, are able to, at times, to open spaces, worlds, openings for living in the present/future. Windows? No. More like retroactive pile drivers, able to breakthrough hard material when and if called upon.

That said . . .

'Do you remember? Do you? The boy with the books, coming down the stairs, one eye, as always, on the books, the other, as always, on the girl; the magnetic, adorable girl. Simple, wan't it? A boy chasing and a girl chasing back. Do you remember? The boy with the smile, and the girl with the eyes. The nerves, the hand holding, the walks. The stars, the prayers, the tears. The trying, wishing, hoping. Then, the world was made of looks, hands, smiles, and steps, both small and big. At the time, it seemed like a whirlwind--a chaotic swirl. But, now, it seems so simple. I remember. I remember the ice cream. I remember the parking lots, the playgrounds, and the ball games. I remember being safe. I remember feeling home. I remember the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--following you. I remember, the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--being followed. I remember green eyes and first kisses. I remember bad films and a crick in my neck. I remember the sunrise, the sunset, and everything in between. '

I remember . . . As long as you do too, then the present/future is still somewhere in those simple memories; fantastic, idealistic, wishful or not.

Sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled coffee shop, watching in silence as life slips by once again, my heart beating with the vapors of meaning evaporating into the endless play of images, people, and memory. Watching grown-ups pretend they aren't children, as we careen through the rubble of what was never simple, or sensical. Writing thoughts that reflect the cynical and semi-hopeful feelings of a pretender trying to make sense of the mystical, the commodified, and the inhumane. Drinking caffeine laced thoughts to get through the night of logos, slogans, and ads. Dancing to the beat as our existence floats--no, crystallizes--into photos, videos, and tattoos that will define the illusion that is to become our memory and existence.

And, then, it happens. While the smoke still in the air--floating in waves of creativity never before seen, never after repeated; while aimless conversations go on, perpetuating the endless flow of endless information; while lurkers sit as open-air voyeurs, watching others to make sense of themselves; while cosmopolitans desperate for attention sit legs crossed, face shiny, physique seductive; while workers work; while consumers consume--the lights are turned off and it is time to go home. The neon doesn't even dim--no, it just disappears. The buzz of the flourescence doesn't simmer, it simply ceases.

And, then, it happens. The identities created in this lit interior--this 'dimly lit place'--go dark. The endless play is revealed to be nothing more than . . . ending play. The 'people', now unabel to see one another, have no means to make sense of what was always non-sensical. The 'people' recognize in one moment that they have no memory of what existence was like in the light, and in the same moment, forget what they were thinking of. Yes, the surface disappears and there it is not time to go home, not time to move on, not time to try something new. No, the surface disappears and there is nothing more. The dancing is not even a vapor. The smoke not even a memory. The images not saved on a hard drive. The tattoos obliterated along with the body.

Where to now? Not home. Not here.

There you are, running. Moving. Rushing. Somewhere to be, and it is urgent. Your face bears the desperation and your movements signal how important it is. You are so vulnerable; so open.

I watch. I watch wishing I could help. Wishing you didn't have to rush anywhere; that you were alright, or calm, or happy, or . . . I watch, feeling sad that you are so vulnerable and that I can do nothing. I watch thinking that you are beautiful and deserving and that the last thing you should be is hurt, dissapointed, or betrayed. In this way, I watch wishing I could be your hero.

But, I have tried that before. I have tried and it doesn't work. I can't save. I can't even really help. No, it seems I am frozen watching, but no more. My efforts are mixed, weak and poisonous.

Why do I feel so helpless? Why am I so selfish, so deluded, so self-centred to think that I could help? To save?

Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time. Taking in the Sun and the horizon of existence it floats upon--I wander through the weeds, the shit, the flowers, the butterflys, the chirping birds. The sounds, the smells, the sense! All overwhelming! Something has changed, however. Something is different. When I used to walk like this, I was dreaming. And, in those dreams the meadow was beautiful, the flowers transcendent, the birds harmonious; but there was no weeds, no shit and no screams to match the chirping. No, something has changed. Now, they all reside together. And, now, I am not dreaming. What now? In this world beyond dreams, are the flowers less aromatic? Has the Sun rescinded a portion of its life? Do the sounds, the colors, the Present of this life carry any less beauty? Less wonder? Less hope? No, smelling the shit, seeing the weeds, being stung by the needles--they haven't lost their luster. I hear the birds less often, the flowers bloom only in Spring (if then), the Sun shines and the skies bear blue occassionally, but, now, when they do, they seem all the more luminous. Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time.

Much of life consists of 'talking story.' The only way to make sense of anything is to frame it within a story.

Life is good when we know our particular, individual story. When we have in mind where we have been, where we want to be and why we are doing what we are doing in order to get there. Life is good when the narrative makes sense--when the unexpected events have been appropriated, the characters fallen into place and the plot, and the infinite of subplots, coalesce into a fragile whole which makes sense, if only to us.

When 'you lose the plot', things can get strange. When the story is rearranged, sliced, forgotten or erased--reflection comes in. Who? What? Why? All these questions--these fundamental questions--come to the front.

The key is finding a story which still makes hope possible. Which sees this little plot we have all been thrown into--sees the characters, the hurt, the chaos, the excruciating depths of breathing, the suffering, the accidents, the uncanny cruelness, the bodies--vulnerable, present, open--and keeps hope at the forefront.

The stories which continue to be stories, but are void of hope--these are the stories which sear our history with cruelty and tragedy.