Inspired by Paul Coelho
August 17th, 2008
I love traveling.
The fear of the unknown with the comfort of being alone. You have no one else but your self to depend on.
Some countries make me nervous. Today I’m at ease. The boat skims over the water, cutting through choppy ocean with like fresh cheese cake in covert late night indulgences. That’s how I know I’m meant to be here.
I use my book like a journal and even before I’m finished mix feelings arise. Do I want to say read me, know me, don’t forget me, I matter and sign it? Do I acknowledge that I am a small in the microcosm, not much different than the Russian behind me, the Korean beside me, the Japaneese im front me, and not sign it? Just…read me, let me get inside your skin. Are you looking out the window feeling lost or awe? Do you wonder about my thoughts like I do about yours?
I think about the man I gave the candle to hold and the one I dropped and burnt all existance of. Both the best lessons I,ve ever had. I regret not having the maturity to keep that great relationship just as much as loving someone more than my own skin. One taught me to keep on course and self reflect often while the other taught me mitigation of emotional investment. So, I look at this overcast sky ready to make it pour and wonder how well I can navigate a gray area. I let the tides rock me to sleep where ever that may be as the evening clouds over the Japaneese coast line smile at me. How odd that traveling makes me loose all the feelings of uncertainty, regret or fear. You are where you’re meant to be even if you don’t know where you’re going yet. I leave my email on my thoughts. Can’t wait to see the city lights.
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The river’s response to the death of Narcissus’ “I weep for Narcissus, but I never notice he was beautiful. I weep because each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.” –P. Coelho
How do you sell philosophy?
August 9th, 2008
How do you sell a thought? “Actively, or sometimes inactively,” says the white Netherlands’s boy with dread locks in the New Delhi Airport. “See those in the orange pants over there? They just came to get high.” I wonder how much different their experience is compared to my student’s trying it for the first time, the executive who uses it like a martini, or the girl mixing embalming fluid with her weed to get a three day high? How is that seeing God?
How do you create a prism of mind filtering life into organized colors of intention and emotion? Repeat in extreme simplicity and allow for extreme complexity in individualized meaning. Repeat an om until the om can be heard no more. Hare Krishna! say the Lord’s name and be blessed with the mere sound. Commission a work of art and be save through your art if not with your money. Pray the rosary, chant and read for hours until the emotion is spit and burnt in a fire, to cleanse the soul. I wonder if anybody here repeats the om until they bleed from the pain of those fallen in a war that’s continued for seven plus years hoping it won’t spill into Pakistan. Or are they just feelings not polite to voice in our religion?
I’ve come to the conclusion that selling religion is like selling someone on marriage. Left to the complete truth, we’ll become depressed. Much like happiness and love, the longevity of a marriage depends on selective memories of everything that keeps us illusionary happy and trash the rest. We agree to disagree or believe if the story sounds right, anything and everything for hope.
How do you label colors in area that keeps you thinking long after its gone? You don’t, not everyone will agree. You infuse it like chai with strong contrasting tastes. This is India. India the caste, the white gold and diamonds on elaborate hands with intricate saris. The gangrened beggars that parade on the street in their profession of pity. The simplicity of the country side on camel and a farm. India the colorful, the brown and white marble that never keeps heat and the dirty street that mixes dung and piss with jasmines. India, a bed of religions and charlatans, how contrasting you are, how beautiful you are.
Sorry, back to every Monday posting!
August 5th, 2008
Still traveling but writing more. Stay tuned and my apologies for the time lapse.
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August 3rd, 2008
I hate this falling in love business. It feels like a hell of a lot of generated energy for something that may or may not happen in some take your time distant future so you can get to know each other when you’ll never really know a person. You have to thread lightly so that you do or do not confuse depending on the variation of the chase and while truth can not be changed it can be omitted upon level of interest and time in the relationship… or friendship… or whatever it was you decide to call it. Squinting from reading all the in between lines and the caveats of the in between ‘tweens, if and only if statements to help you make sense, predict or reprogram an action, is painful to me. The excitement of a kiss is really a negotiating chip for a possibility that you may or may not get me depending if you do or do not like me today and/or tomorrow as long as the strong attraction Pluto and the waxing moon on a partial Asiatic eclipse stopping at China doesn’t interfere. I’m tired of wondering why the phone doesn’t ring.
My scalp is itching and before anything begins, I erase the number. I’m seriously tempted to go back into the serene silent tranquility of single world if it weren’t for the fact that in the end we all settle. I hold my tongue when I see the lugubrious pour of loyalty and affection to a career, hobby or pet, when one deficiency doesn’t and can not compensate for the other. I wonder if settling just isn’t another way of just getting tired of all the mundane complexities when it’s difficult to stay in love as the years go by. When we look into each other and step into the tender spots that trigger doubt: am I good enough, do I matter, is there love. And I breath. Alone…like we all do.
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