Swimming

After that funeral . . .

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Man's Funeral

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

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

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

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

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

Come Close

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

The Old Man, the Coffee Shop, the Shore

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

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

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

And, then, it happened . . .

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

Memory

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

That said . . .

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

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

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

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

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

Where to now? Not home. Not here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your shit smells. It does.


My shit smells too. I know.


If both of us remembered this, life would be better.

This is Nishkegaard's picture. He takes amazing photos, look him up on myspace and he might send you some.

And this is what I think:

Nishkegaard, you are a restless wanderer, sad in a way--seeking, grappling, fighting, hurting, wanting for the answers that dwell in your spirit without respite and with the strength of all your being. Yet, you are a hero--stopping at nothing for those answers, even amidst the banal, the mundane, the everyday, and the trash.

No parking. No stopping. No breathing. No thinking. You ignore the seductions of inauthenticity in favor of reflection and stop.

The world goes on behind you, in its rush and its confusion. The alley extends forever into the nothingness. Yet, you sit, still and calm, focused and intense, not a care in the world for the world you have left, the world that has left you here--in the alley, with the trash, with your fear, with your hope.

You are beautiful my brother--an existential hero and a poster child for the postmodern dilemma. You have made Leroy proud.

Alright children, it is that time.

The school year is wearing on. We have been through the first two and a half stages and now the dawn of the third is on the horizon. We have traversed our way through the Autumn--the fashion show that is the first couple of months of the year coupled with the Darwinian struggle for position on the social ladder. We have conquered the melanchology Winter--occupying the cold by solidifying places in the social scheme of things while simultaneously identifying potential mates. Twitterpation is now upon us--Valentines has come and gone, and the once potential mates have either blossomed into hand-holding friends with benefits or dissipated into the bitter cool air. Either way, the excitement of the New, the Shuffle and the Meeting are now staggering into Spring. What then? This is where it all goes down.

First, we are all tired. Whether you are in primary school, secondary school, etc. it doesn't matter--the routine is taking its toll, the mushy lump of neural connections in your head is weary and worst of all--we have to stare at the same people all day everyday. The little quirky things that used to be cute are now unbearable. The charming boy next door or in one of your classes has been revealed as a player who doesn't call people back. The cute girl you had your eye on is really a headcase which you have had to block on every online community to which you belong and has required the changing of e-mail addresses twice. The people you don't get on with are waring on your patience. Yes folks, it is time.

After Easter, it all goes down hill. This is when the beautiful couples of the Twitterpation stage fracture after a storm of cheating, lack of commitment or just plain annoyance. Yes, children, it is time to wake from the collective romanitc beer goggles, get over the 'what was I thinking?' and move on. After Easter, the fisticuffs will take place over issues that aren't worth stitches. Scuffles will take place over nothing, only because it is that time. You will grow weary and you will want to go home.

And then?

Summer. The freedom and promise of summer. Away. Away. Yes.

But, you know the story, 6 weeks in--bored, broke and missing all those wonderful people you used to get to see everyday.

Next Autumn, we'll do it all again.

I can't wait.

I love living,

Keep it real.

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

Animals?

Us Westerners do alot of things each day to convince ourselves that we aren't like the rest of the creatures on this planet. No, we aren't animals--we are more than that. We are separate. We are human beings--we have rational capacities and souls and whatever else we can think of to make us distinct from the animal kingdom. As Bacon said, because we walk on our hind legs--we are 'the gods of the earth.'

How do we do this? Well, you know, the usual--lotions, deodorants, sprays and other fragrant things. A complex semiotic system of clothes consisting of shoes, socks, shirts, jackets, pants, trousers, hats, etc. And then there is the etiquette. manners. How to eat. How to gesture. Spitting? No--barbaric. Drawing attention to bodily fluids (e.g. snot)? Out of the question. We are humans. We are civilized. Think about everything you do every day to think about the fact that you are not a chimpanzee, you are a person.

But, there is one thing all of us do. Most daily. Some less than that. But, all of us do it and so do all the animals. There is something each of us does that is a chance to remind ourselves--to reflect on the fact--that we are basically and essentially animals, barbaric, biological, natural animals that depend upon the natural order for our well-being. Yes, you came from the Big Bang just like the rocks and the snakes and the one-celled entities of this universe. And, when you are sitting and wiping your ass you can't avoid that. It is a second to remember where you came from and not to forget it.

Crass? Maybe. Gross? Possibly. But, next time you are have your hand down there remember you read it here first.

i love living,

keep it real.

Karate Kid or Back to the Future?

As a semi-child of the 80s, I have been struggling with something for a long time. I have pondered this subject informally, but never fleshed out my thoughts about it. So, here goes:

Which 80s trilogy is better: The Karate Kid or Back to the Future?

Now, before the haters begin shouting, lets clarify: yes, there are other trilogies which could be considered better than these--Star Wars, Indiana Jones, etc. But, I believe these two hold a special, quasi-comical, quasi-dramatic place which only 9 year old children truly appreciate.

Let the games begin:

1. Main Character
Both Marty McFly and Daniel Larusso share an endearing underdog status which helps us root for them right from the off. Both have family struggles--Marty struggling with the existential, Freudian dilemma of a weakling father, Daniel (absent of father) just moved to a new place with a somewhat aloof, but caring mother.
Both are unassuming and cute. Both have high aspirations caged in very adolescent worlds.
However, the first round goes to Back to the Future. Daniel is an emotionally closed in teenager, unwilling to express his emotions at times. His persistence and boylike facial expressions makeup for this, but . . . No one runs like Marty. Really, watch Michael J. Fox run throughout the three films and you see the heroic underdog embodied in full stride. Marty is open, humble and enduring. He stands up for himself and others. His mission is fueled not only by revenge, but by a hope to set the time-space continuum right.

Winner: BTTF

2. Eccentric mentor?

Both classics. Doc Brown and Mr. Miyagi have reached iconic status and if there isn't a website where you can by t-shirts with their likenesses on them the Information Age is truly a failure. Doc Brown is wide-eyed, excitable recluse with crazy aspirations. His genius is hidden behind a whirlwind of scattered thoughts. But, he got the flex capacitor right. A time machine out of a Delorean, genius. Mr. Miyagi on the other hand is a zen-like master, cool under pressure and always under control. His sage like advice is subtle yet potent. But, these aren't the reasons that KK wins this round. No, it is the sheer amount of times that Miyagi beats ass throughout the trilogy that gives the KK the edge. Miyagi beats Johnny and the gangs ass and the jokers at the beach in the first one, the Cobra Kai sensei in the second, and then has it out in his home town on Okinawa in a family duel.

Winner: KK

3. Girlfriend?

Both are hot. That's for sure. But, there is a definitive answer as to why the KK version is the winner here. BTF contains numerous scenes of Marty kissing, or at least romantically compromised, with his mother. I am sorry. I don't care who is girlfriend is. I don't care what she looks like. The sexual energy has been zapped straight up. On the other hand, Elizabeth Shue is always hot. Always.

Winner: KK

4. Plot?

No doubt, the Karate Kid is an endearing figure. I practiced the Crane Kick for years after seeing the first film and still pull it out in bar fights when need be. Daniel's quest for self-confidence and revenge is great. The way Miyagi works him into shape is classic. But, there is simply no way that BTTF doesn't win here. Throughout the films, we are taken from suburban America in 1985, to the future of flying cars, back to the Wild West and then into an alternative 1985. This is more than teen angst, the fate of the time-space continuum rests in the balance. The sheer drama oozing from Doc Brown's eyes and Marty's numerous run ins with the Biffs, the decision about whether or not to tinker with the future, the interweaving stories of family, love and self-control--this is the stuff of epics.

Winner: BTTF

5. Lessons Learned?

I credit any moral fibers in my existence to these trilogies. Truly, the stuff of life is contained here. Daniel learns about hard-work (pain the fence, sand the floor, etc.), how to stick up for yourself, what it means to have a mentor that is demanding and compellig, how to hope against hope and to never give up. Miyagi instills in him the virtue of self-control--karate is not about hurting people, it is about balance. Isn't all of life? I mean really.
BTTF is chalked full of it to. Marty is balancing a shaky self-identity made up of rock star dreams, a dissapointing family and an incessant desire to prove himself to anyone that challenges him (Did you call me chicken?). Over the course of the trilogies, he comes to see that people are not static--small, strange events can transform destinies. A bit of self-confidence can bring out the genius in people (like his dad). He stands up to bullies at all costs, especially for the vulnerable (his mother, George, Doc, etc.). There is probably a sermon tied in here for people that do that kind of thing. Anyway, point being, Marty's combination of persistence, cool under pressure and care for the vulnerable leads to the restoration of the time-space continuum with the added bonus of those closest to him becoming what they truly could be--self-confident, talented individuals. This is starting to sound like eschatology.

Winner: BTTF

So, by a slim margin the debate is decided. As always Daniel-san put a good fight, but in the end the cosmos is restored by the only man that could pull off Marty McFly and Alex P. Keaton in the same decade.

In our world--in our time--the only sacred left is the ordinary. The sacred times of life happen in ordinary, unexpected moments in which instead of dissappointed, betrayed, hurt; something unexpected happens--something that takes your breath away.

The Space BetweenThe tears we cryIs the laughter keeps us coming back for moreThe Space BetweenThe wicked lies we tellAnd hope to keep safe from the pain

If you are lucky enough, there will be a moment, or even just a second in which you are left speechless. When the expected turn of events is reversed and on the horizon comes joy, or comfort or closeness. In a world in which community is sipped over a cup of hyper-text, in which our identities are constituted by the flickering images of the screen in front of us and our value is reduced to marketability.

The Space BetweenWhere you're smiling high is where you'll find me if I get to go

It is those moments--filled with inexpressible grief or transcendent joy--which fill the space. The space between you and yourself. The space is mundane, even profane, but here that the sacred happens. Unexpected closeness, kindness received, community formed. And, in those moments--we realize that breathing is worth it. That, the nihilism of the age is overwhelming but not conquering. In the sacred moments, the mundane and the profane are transformed in a way that they 'serve the cause of life.'

The Space BetweenThe bullets in our firefight is where I'll be hiding, waiting for you. The rain that falls, Splash in your heart Ran like sadness down the window into...The Space Between Our wicked lies Is where we hope to keep safe from pain

Sacred moments aren't a given. We can't take them for granted. You can't expect the unexpected. But, when it comes--when it appears--step outside of the space, let it be filled and thank the universe for the chance to continue to hope.

I love living.

Keep it real,

The circle forms as they sit. One offers to gather the potion as the others settle in for what they do not expect. All of them have arrived with worry, tension, joy and monotony. Each of them carries burden, hope, hurt and loneliness. As the first drinks are sipped, a sense of ease begins to set in. The anxiety of existence slowly releases every time the glass is brought nearer to emptiness. As time wears on, the collective worries, burdens, celebrations and hurt each has brought melts into the cool night's air. A community is formed around a wooden table, on wooden benches in a beer garden removed from the swirl of sickness and sadness--from the everyday, the mudane and the hurry. Time is a component removed as the participants--now reminded of why they are friends--laugh and talk story. Conversations too important to be remembered in the morning are experienced in a unique combination of random thought, exhaled relief and imbibed drink. Spontaneous creativity comes to the fore as the conversation ebbs, flows and transcends the subject--instilling a sense of reason, purpose and value to the things left behind. A sense of renewed strength to go back when the circle convenes.

Community? Maybe too strong a word. Fellowship? A bit too much baggage. No, let's leave it at friendship. Let's leave it as a group laughing, smiling, sharing, trying, hurting and most of all being. Shared space. Shared existence. Shared breath. A fleeting moment never caught nor verbalized. A smile wrought from the depths of the 'sickness unto death'. A glimpse of why gardens were created in the first place.

In the technocracy and de-mythologized existence we have created, for those lucky enough, this is the closest return to the Garden we might ever experience.

Stop. Watch. Be. No moving. No creating. No yesterday. No tomorrow. No behind. No forward. No creating. No worrying. Soak in the view and let yourself be enveloped by it. You are not against it. Not over it. Not opposed. You are in and only in. You are you only here. Most of the time we spend moving, thinking, trying, looking, remembering, and eveything else. Movement revolves around purpose--my purpose, our purpose. Intention. Projection.

Give it up for a moment. Focus your attention on something other--realize its existence. Let the primordial reality of our shared genetic heritage--the development of all things from an explosion 15 billion years ago to the diverse array of difference before us--related and other; one and not. There is unity here. There is mystery. The key is to let you--the subject, stop letting it be an object of intention or purpose--and simply be. No worry. No concern. Just.

Why? "I don't have time." What's with the cosmic bullshit? Meditation?

It is in those scarce moments of still recogntion that the mystery creeps in and reminds us that there is more to the universe than ourselves and more to being than everyday bullshit. If there is a reason for living it is found in appreciation of these others and finding our role within this whole strange framework.

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, just go look it up.