Thrown before the throes which govern existence--life--breath--I faltered. I left a temple of security for a sky full of, yes, beauty, but also, darkness and only scattered lights. It was here I searched for an anchor--a grounding--a sign that could orient me to my lattitude--one that would clue me into the strange game played on this locale.

As I did, I tried. I promise, I tried. I tried to prove. I tried to show. I tried to find. I tried to help. In so doing, I made smiles, impressions, fools, and hurt. In so doing, I faltered and found not the signifier I so desperately needed to help me along life's way.

At some point however, I met the Universe. I met the Abyss which constitutes the light, the dark, and the difference between the two. I met the One disseminated into an infinite amount of parts never to be reassembled ever again (or ever before). I met the voice that calls through silence and never speaks.

You know what I heard in that moment?

"Trust, try, and thank. Don't prove to anyone that you belong in this locale--why not? Because none of you do and none of you ever will. Don't try to fool yourself into thinking you are more or better--why not? Because you know--in every breath--you have no signifier--no anchor--no Being--to tell you such things. And, there is no point in doing so. Play the role in the play which you have been given-play in the play and rejoice in its in-finitude--its lack of determinacy--its endless play. Play in the play and thank--not "me", not One, not you--along the way. Just thank. Realized that in every moment those with you in this barren and fruitful topos are just as lost and just as at home as you. Realize they are doing their best in every breath with no guide and no signifier. Thank and try. Swallow, but don't drown."

You know what I said?

"Ok"

More or Less Dancing

It's funny you know . . . This business of dancing. I don't know the words and I don't know the song. Worse yet, I don't even know the steps. I guess that is what makes it no business at all--there is no purpose, no destination, and no know-how. I guess that is what makes it a game--a game to be played without rationale, without recourse, without worry.

But, it's hard not to worry, isn't it? I remember when we danced so long ago--across an ocean or two--in a world of transition, tremor, and excruciating temporality. It has been some time now. But I know I worried then too. I want to play, but I want to play right. You know?

So, that leaves the questions: Can you dance and worry at the same time? Probably not. How does one play--that is, enter the dance--without worry? How does one suspend their past--their-self--the scars from past dances--long enough to lose their-self in the dance with an-other?

I pray for the strength to be weak that way. I pray for the miracle of suspension and the triumph of desire over the still lingering, still residual "why". But, most of all, I pray that someday I'll dance and sing a song without knowing the words. I pray that I'll play in a world unworldly, in a way exquisitely and all too (in)appropriate.

Sitting, legs crossed, trying to catch up with the blur that accompanies each inhale. Sitting, wondering why each one carries so much color, so much wonder, so much life, and yet knowing each one is never accompanied by breath. Inhale and breath--these don't always go together. So, sitting, trying to catch up with the blur that goes with each inhale, wondering why each one lacks the breath its supposed to signify. Angry and confused in the same inhale, holding it in with the hope that if it stays long enough it might leave when I inevitably exhale. Angry at lessons never learned and identities never stabilized. Angry at the drive--with each inhale--to be the universal in the particular, and realizing that drives leaves one with neither. Not willing to be another part in the particular, but unable by an infinite measure to be any sort of universal. Sad at the hurt that each breath means for you--for all--and wishing I knew what could be done to--no, not stop the "breathing"--but to let it begin for the first time. Left with the choice to let the hurt sting your lungs--my lungs--lungs--to trust they can take it--or, to try again in futility and in selfishness. Sitting, legs crossed, listening to my heart beat in the stillness of absurdity.

Songs, Dancing, and Words

I still remember that time when we were dancing
We were dancing to a song that I'd heard

Do you remember the time(s) we danced? Do you remember the song we heard? I know I heard it, but at the time I wasn't sure if you had. I remember dancing and I remember the song--the two go together you know. You know?

Your face was simple and your hands were naked

I saw it. I saw it in your face--I saw the beauty and the mortality roll up into a ball of vulnerability and surprise. I felt in those hands as we danced--the longing for the song we both wanted to last longer than we both knew it could. I felt the hope of something new and the worry that comes with hope of something knew. But, guess what? The whole time . . .

I was singing without knowing the words

I was. I danced with you to a tune I didn't know. I sang to you--did you know that?--I sang to you a song, but I didn't know the words. And, I know you didn't either. But that's what made it such a wonderful dance; that's what makes it such a wonderful song. The words are half-written--half-composed. They remain suspended above the two of us as we twirl, laugh, and move. They remain undecided and inexressible just as long as we keep dancing. It's funny--funny to dance to a song we keep from being written by continuing to dance. It's funny to sing a song to you that can never be finished, and never be heard. I'm just glad you have ears to listen and you aren't tired of dancing.

But I started listening to the wolves in the timber
Wolves in the timber at night
I heard their songs when I looked in the mirror
In the howls and the moons round my eyes

I don't know if I started to listen to them or if they started to listen to me. After all, I was dancing and singing the inexpressible song. So, how did I hear them? And, what did they hear me cry?


Then winter came and there was little left between us
Skin and bones of love won't make a meal
I felt my eyes drifting over your shoulder
There were wolves at the edge of the field

There was, wasn't there? A winter that felt colder than usual. A little left between us--an excess of lack--a call to stop dancing. We had to get back to the world, back to the words. We weren't allowed to stay lost in the reticence only we heard and the world only we knew. We weren't allowed to stay in the dance--in the circle--beneath the suspended song we didn't know, but which knew us.

Then one day I just woke up
And the wolves were all there
Wolves in the piano
Wolves underneath the stairs
Wolves inside the hinges
Circling round my door
At night inside the bedsprings
Clicking cross the floor
I don't know how they found me
I'll never know quite how
I still can't believe they heard me
That I was howling out that loud

I remember that days(s). That day when it was only the wolves--in my text, in my pen, my fingers, my . . . song. Did they find you too? Did they hear you? I hope not, but I suspect so. It's hard not to listen to them; to not let them frighten us into forgetting there even was a song--especially one with no words and no sound.


At times in the frozen nights I go roaming
In the bed she used to share with me
I wake in the fields with the cold and the lonesome
The moon's the only face that I see

Roaming in a place unending and untraceable. Searching in a field where nothing grows, and nothing surely blossoms. The cold and the lonesome stretch along a horizon with no horizon. They make me shiver in my bones and writhe in my own skin. I crawl within myself trying to find a way out of the horizon--out of the immanence of the fear the wolves left me. I try to crawl through myself to a place where the field breaks for something different; something unexpected.

And, when I do, just before morning--when the dreams of wolves, and horizons, and the bed we used to share has me under--has me suffocated--I hear that song. I hear the one we used to dance to--the one with no words. Well, there are words--we just don't know them yet. There are words, but they are suspended--waiting--for me and you to stop dancing. I hear the silence of the song we created and the dance we keep hoping to share. And, then I wake--and the wolves scatter across the field as the thaw evaporates into the "without why" of trying again.

People ask, "why?" And I say, "You've got the wrong question and the wrong intention. We are always left without why. But, that doesn't mean we can't sing a song without words, and it doesn't mean we can't dance. Dancing is the best part."

No Wonder

It's time, isn't it? Time to write about something? To have something to say--something to write about. It's time--time to reflect, or interject, or enlighten. It's time to bleed all over the screen, through these fingers. It's time to throw up through the unseen networks that encapsulate us--tie us in--tie us together.

Time to write. But, after all this time--there is no writing. No bleeding. No regurgitating.

No feeling?

No trying?

No . . . what?


________________

I saw you today--saw you hurt. I saw you try. I saw you submerge and be overwhelmed. I saw you care, hope, and do your best. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I don't know how. I don't know how to be a good person. I guess, well I could try to save you. But, we both know that won't happen. We both know saving isn't something humans do. So, I am left with walking--with callous, despair, and a genuine lack of naivete.

Is there a third way? Is there a 'grown-up' way? Some way that 'adults' would do it?

I don't know. I am not sure I care. After all, to be an adult is to simply pretend you are no longer a child. Life forces this decision upon us. It isn't one we make willingly. But, it is one we should stay cognizant of. Being an adult isn't anything different than having to face the absurdity of breathing without admitting you have no idea about how or why or whence. Being an adult is nothing more than feeling your heart beat through your chest and not being able to stop long enough to let it completely disorient you. Being an adult is not having the time or desire to stop--to let the stars become yellow blurs, the trees strange silhouettes, and the cold evening air a jolt--a reminder--of both meaning and meaninglessness.

I'd rather do it the kid's way--the naive way--but, we both know that isn't allowed either. Why? Because we are neither creative, nor strong enough to be children any longer.

______

So, fuck it. No writing. No words. No bleeding. No saving. No wonder. That's right--no wonder is the no wonder there is no writing.

Scars and Scabs

Scar. Scab. Scab. Scar. One comes sequentially after the other, and not exclusively. Scabs lead to scars; but, other things lead to scars too. With scabs however, it is a matter of only a replacing the "r"--the "are"--with the "b"--the "be". Strange, don't you think? That the constant pain of healing flesh morphs into the constant reminder of hurt and pain with only the change of "r" to "b". The change happens when the present--the presence--of "are" is changed to the general--the universal--the "be", being, to be. "I am" to "to be". The particular--the scab--the trace of pain--of a mark (even in which the memory of the blow--the incision--or the scrape has been lost) is one short consonant--one short constant--from the universal inadequacy and impossibility of healing. Time means scabs heal. Time means there will always be scars.

Overcoming, Over-coming . . .

Overcomes. Over-comes. Over-cums. Being human means there is no overcoming—no becoming what you need and should be. There is no coming over anywhere—over-coming. There is no overcoming when it comes to cumming; no over-cumming. Do it over, do it more—it doesn’t matter, doesn’t make a difference. No matter how much, the result is the same. Strain, try, excrete, grunt—both you are left empty; both of you are left open. It is the essence of being human—the epitome of the effort to become something—someone—somewhere—that simply does not exist. Over-cumming? You want to overcome where? Overcome how? Yes, enjoy the journey—the ride—the path. Thank you for the sermon—goodness you are insightful. Go ahead—the journey, if you are lucky—can and will be enjoyable. But, there is always the building—always the constructing—the semblance of hope that creeps into the anticipation of cumming—the hope that this time time itself may be overcome by over-cumming. What am I talking about? I’m talking about immortality and permanence; happiness and rest. I’m talking about the oh-so-human need to find the path that leads to immortality and permanence in order to enjoy happiness and rest. I’m talking about the need to find a home in a place, as a being, that has none. Yes, a child may appear—I know; I understand. Thank you for the reminder. But, how does the child relate to over-cumming? How does the child equate to having over-cum? Does the child solve the difficulties—fulfill the hope—quell the fear-? Will a child change this situation? Maybe. Maybe not. But don’t tell me that is the easy answer—the answer to the question I put to myself—to all ourSelves. Plato knew long before any of us were children that birth is not about children, but about immortality. Birth—is about overcoming and if you think it will happen—if over-cumming is possible, well I don’t know what to say. But, at least don’t tell me the appearance of the other will put me the quest to rest. Don’t tell me that birth equals over-cumming. After all, how could 6 billion people be wrong?

"If I had Eyes"

If I had eyes in the back of my head
I would have told you that
You looked good
As I walked away

Eyes in the back? Eyes to see behind? Eyes to see a behind I can't or won't turn around to make an in-front-of. Eyes to see you even when I'm not looking. A comment--a compliment--to make you feel what you are, to make you see how you are. My eyes--these ones that make the behind possible--allow you to see who you are? Maybe. Maybe not.


The more of this or less of this or is there any difference
or are we just holding onto the things we don't have anymore

From seeing to holding--from sight to touch. What we can't see we can't hold? And, how does one hold onto something they no longer have? How does one hold on to absence?


Sometimes time doesn't heal
No not at all
Just stand still
While we fall
In or out of love again I doubt I'm gonna win you back
When you got eyes like that
It won't let me in

Time, healing? Strange. Time is the opposite of healing--it is the temporal antecedent to death--the experience that makes my experience of my-self impossible.

Stand still? In time? In the movement which is unbearable, inexpressible, uncanny? Stand still and fall in and out--strange.

And, those eyes. Those eyes--won't let me in to a place not even you know; a place not even you get access to. Those eyes--the locale of a world irreducible, even if it remains without why. Those eyes--the ones looking through me to the place I don't know--the one inside I don't have access to.

That's the answer isn't it? All of this talk of time, of falling, of love. It ends with those eyes--the ones that take me out of time--out of the unavoidable path towards my impossible end--that take me to a world which remains without why, but where the question of why is suspended in favor of something secret, something inexpressible, but something so, so Good.


Lot of people spend their time just floating
We were victims together but lonely
You got hungry eyes that just can't look forward
Can't give them enough but we just can't start over
Building with bent nails we're
falling but holding, I don't wanna take up anymore of your time
Time time time

Victims--of time, yes. Who isn't? Eyes--looking forward into a back that wants to see you--wants to see through you--but can't make the back the front. Falling, time, holding--a question without answer--without origin or end.

What then? What's left?

That world--the one we shared--the one without time--that is the eternal and that is the place to look. Turn your eyes there and let it the chorus chime as long as it takes--time, time, time.

Pop-pop:

If you asked anyone in this room about Hiroyoshi Shimazu, I know they would have wonderful things to say about him, and fond memories of the time they spent with him. He was a loved husband, friend, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and much more.

If you asked me, I would tell you that despite not being biologically connected to me—that he was my grandfather—the only grandfather my brothers and I ever had. I would tell you that from the day each of us was born, he treated us and loved us as grandsons—and so, we called him Pop-pop.

If you asked any of us what we remembered about him, we would all have different memories of the man we admired and loved. My cousins Mike and Kevin Watanabe could tell you about the man they called ‘gramps’. If you asked the Shimazu boys, they could tell you about playing poker with grandpa and how special that was to them. If you asked me and my brothers what we remember about him, I would tell you that I remember someone who seemed to care and love us without trying—like it was natural to him—even though he didn’t have to. I would tell you about how Pop-pop hid Easter eggs in the front yard of the house when we were kids, and how one year when one egg was never found—how he searched for hours trying to find it. I would tell you how he shaped and designed our pinewood derby cars; how he spent hours on them, how they won best design every year, and how it was something he seemed to enjoy—like it was never a burden.

I would tell you Pop-pop made my grandmother—my Nana—laugh every time I saw them together; how he tried so hard to make her laugh, how she seemed to adore his sense of humor even after all these years, and how she laughed like a teenager every time he made a joke—like they had just met. I would tell you that in 27 years the worst thing I heard him say about another human being was to call him “Ponky head” on the freeway. I would tell you I never heard him raise his voice or even say anything remotely rude to anyone, and how he always treated my grandmother with respect and patience. Anger was never something I associated with Pop-pop.

I would tell you how he would sit and tell my brothers and I stories from his days in the service; how he shared with us what it was like to come the mainland for the first time as an enlisted military man, what it was like to not know which segregated bathroom to use, or how he fell asleep on duty one day under a table and got scolded by his commanding officer.

If you asked me, I would tell you how much he loved our grandmother, how much he loved being her husband, and how much his Ohana meant to him.

Then, if you asked me what Pop-pop taught me, I would tell you that in 27 years he never sat me down to give me advice, never gave me a lecture, never told me what to do—that just wasn’t Pop-pop. But, despite that, I would tell you that he taught me more than he probably realized. I would tell you that he taught me that it is only the significant people in your life that make you significant—so you should make sure to always appreciate them and realize you are only you because of them. I would tell you that he taught me that in most cases patience and gentleness are the main ingredients to the solution. I would tell you he taught me that laughter is more important than anything—how if throughout your life, you can always manage to laugh deeper than you hurt—then things will always be okay.

But if you gave me minute, I would tell you that what the main thing he taught me was the meaning of Ohana. I would tell you that Pop-pop showed me that Ohana is about finding people in this world to spend time with—to celebrate with—to grieve with—and it doesn’t matter where they come from or how they got here as long as you love and look after one another. I would tell you how Pop-pop taught me that Ohana is not inherited, no, it is not a given in life—it is something you have to make, create, and work hard to keep. I would tell you how he taught me that Ohana is more about endurance than anything else—and that once you find it, you should never take it for granted. Then I would tell you that how taught me all of this without trying—how he taught me all of this just by being himself. That is what made him so special.

And finally, the last thing I would tell you is that at the end of my life—if there is even one person in this world that admires me half as much as his family admire him—one person that cherishes the memories, cherishes the Christmas Eve’s, the pictures, the time we had together—then I will count myself more blessed than I deserve to be.

After all of this—after everything I told you about him—if you asked me what I would say to him if I could see him one more time, I wouldn’t even have to think about it. I would say, Pop-pop:

Thank you, Arigato, and Mahalo.

Tries. Tires. Tires. Tries.

Tries. Tires.

Do to the first, is to experience the second. It seems it is only a matter of (re)-placing one consonant; one constant.

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

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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.