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I toss my thoughts at the world...in more wordy fashion!
On this page are short stories, essays, a little social commentary and general philosophizing. New pieces will be posted periodically. Comments are always welcome. Click HERE to contact me or email PrometheusPromise@Yahoo.com.
Image of ancient Greek pottery painting courtesy of www.Theoi.com. |
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| Death of Gods
Japan is the first country in the world to approve the consumption of cloned beef. Soon, you won't have to insist on getting the exact same steak as the next table in a Japanese restaurant. It's automatic. Mutant cows for dinner. Um...
Modern automobiles emit 5 times more NOx (nitrogen Oxide) than 1950 models. The persistence to produce and sell disposable heavy cars of more than 1.5 liters for the use of 1 driver, 90% of the time running at average speed of 15 km/h in urban conglomerates resulted in our consuming 70% of the known oil resources in the last 50 years. What we defined as progress is actually the reversal of four billion years of evolution. But as Henry Ford said, "small cars make small profits."
Our way of life started in Europe and specifically England. It was there in the 1700's that the Industrial Revolution, the Age of Machines, began. It was there that the seeds of mass production, specialization, middle class nations, mass consumption and instant gratification originated. From there, we created machines that could do it faster, cheaper, and even better than our meager bodies ever can. From there, the ideas spread throughout the world and even now spurs on developing countries like China and India in the name of progress.
The 1800's was Europe's "wonderful century," the standard of living and degree of civilization the highest ever in history as of that time. The lingo we use today, democracy, socialism, fascism, communism and imperialism all came out of Europe then. With their machines and mighty armies, by 1900, European powers controlled most of the planet that even now is slowly unwinding. Nearly fifty new nations were created in Africa alone since 1950. And America, the ultimate creation of the industrial age and the near perfect marriage of democracy and capitalism, dominates the world.
Or was it? Was the Industrial Revolution the root cause of these drastic changes in human life that for millenniums remained the same only to mutate in 200 years? My answer is no. The Industrial Revolution was perhaps not a revolution at all but a culmination of ideas begun long before. Many great civilizations have come and gone. What made the period between 1700 and 1900 different than centuries past?
Democracy was born in Greece in 600 BC and great technological advances accompanied no less grand civilizations like Rome, Egypt, China, Ottoman and Muslim Empires. What kept them from taking full advantage of the resources of earth and control of their destinies? What made them stop? Why had industrialism not happened until just a few generations ago?
To understand that, we have to go back further in Europe. After the fall of the Roman Empire, Europe spent a thousand years in the chaos of the Middle Ages. The Roman Catholic Church and God dominated this period; kings and feudal lords got their legitimacy only with the blessing of the Pope. St. Augustine stated in 400 AD that the goal of man is to seek mystical union with God. In 1200 AD, St. Thomas Aquinas said that all knowledge leads to God. God was certainly on people's minds.
Lo and behold, between 1300 and 1600 AD came the Renaissance, which is the French word for rebirth. Rebellion was probably a better word for the period. It was then the foundation for the Industrial Revolution was set. Perhaps for the first time in human history, the center of attention was shifted from gods to human beings. Artists created works to glorify man, paintings showed Biblical figures in the clothes of their day, biographies of men became popular, sculptures detailed human anatomy and the great novel Don Quixote ridiculed chivalry. Men like Leonardo Da Vinci and Michealangelo became the first secular celebrities.
In their Voyages of Discovery, Christopher Columbus came to America and Ferdinand Magellon circled the world. Actually, Magellon's ship, the Victoria, went around the world. Neither Columbus nor Magellon lived to enjoy the accolades history bestows them. Columbus' men put him in chains and shipped him back to Spain where he died in prison. Magellon died in uprisings in the Philippines, never completing circumnavigation of the globe. But why fuss with details?
The Roman Catholic Church was out; revolution, Renaissance and Reformation were in, especially against the perceived oppressive authority of the Catholic Church. The Great Schism broke Eastern Orthodox Churches away from the Vatican. And when Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to a church door in Wittenberg, Germany in 1517, it opened the door to Protestantism, the third branch of Christianity. Protestant comes from the Latin word "protestan," which simply means one who protests.
In those tumultuous centuries, the worship of God was gradually replaced with the worship of reason. It was the age of humanism, the Enlightenment or Age of Rationalism, and for the first time – individualism. With his ability to reason, man was deemed superior to the animals. Reason was believed better than uncritical acceptance of authority. Mathematics was the law. Man was so sure of himself and his numbers that it became and is still - absolute certainty. Five plus five = 10, always. Even nature can be explained mathematically – there's Einstein's Unifying Theory again! He never did find the formula.
Whereas Aristotle wrote in his Metaphysics that he believed theology the highest form of science, the philosophers of the Age of Reason believed God could not have created a universe too complex to be grasped by man (the gall!), that when man let reason replace ignorance, emotions, and superstition, he would live happy lives. By the way, Meta-physics simply stood for the portion of Aristotle's writing "after" his section on physics.
This line of thinking should not have been comforting to European monarchs, as they soon found out. After rebellion against the church, it stands to "reason" that political revolts were next. The British philosopher John Locke stated that reason is the cradle of the Lord, "set up by himself in man's minds...and must be our last judge and guide in everything." He also said that men must unite to force a state to protect their "lives, liberty, and property." Sound familiar? One by one, the British, American and French revolutions took power from their kings and placed it in the hands of average citizens.
And yet the revolution has just begun. Francis Bacon, another English philosopher, gave us "knowledge is power." Copernicus and Galileo examined heaven and earth, making them man's domains. Sir Isaac Newton, the father of modern physics, described our planet as a giant machine, nothing spiritual there. The French philosopher Rene Descarte coined the phrase: Cognito, ergo sum, or I think therefore I am. What better justification to reason is there? When Charles Darwin published his Origin of Species proclaiming man descendants of apes and not in the image of God, science at last gained equal footing with religion.
In my humble opinion, all these prevailing ideas of prior years led to the Industrial Revolution. Action follows thought and like fine wine, the newer, "radical" ideas had taken 400 years to ferment before exploding onto the scene. But there was one more ingredient to man's mastery of the universe. Remember the Protestant Reformation that began in Germany? It had spread to England to become its state religion as the Angelican Church and to the rest of Europe, where it's still the state religion for many European nations.
Whereas the Catholics believed man's salvation lies in the worship of God and doing “good works” in life, the Protestants thought that good works is not as important, that if man can work for salvation, it makes man too important and demands too much of man. They believe that God establishes and is responsible for his relationship with man and that man is incapable of saving himself. How do we know how much good work is enough for salvation? Instead, it is for God's grace to decide if each man deserves saving.
The Protestant Ethic says that work is good. Our work or calling in life comes from God and it is God's decree that we make our lives better. We live a righteous life if we work hard and practice self-discipline and personal responsibility. Wealth is not evil, unless it tempts man to idleness and sin. But work hard, baby! In 1905, the German sociologist Max Webber linked the Protestant Ethic to capitalism. It made perfect sense that it's okay to acquire wealth, but not only must man work hard, so must his money! Investments in industries not only afford the chance for more wealth, it offers better lives for others, nothing wrong with that…either.
This ethic dominates our lives. We work hard to accumulate wealth, but it's not just for ourselves. It's for the betterment of all mankind. We can invest that money to create more jobs or give to charity later to take the sting of sinful acquisition away. But keep working, baby! How many of us can sit still for a day and not feel guilt? At least play hard when you're not working hard. Do something, for God's sake!
How do you summarize the tectonic shift in human evolution in three pages? I can't. How did we get here? I have a strong suspicion. Great civilizations have come and gone and a number of them could have made the final push, the technological advances to propel us lord of our world. I believe only one thing held them back...until three hundred years ago. It was the fear of God, or gods. When the gods held the final card, man stood content. It was convenient for the few in power to hold the sacred ordain of the gods and remain in power. The average person recognized that he was not in complete control of his life. Things happened and they lived with it. It was God's will.
Democracy lived in Greece, but the gods watched over them, as they did in Egypt, the Euphrates, India and China. But starting with the Renaissance, gods died a slow death as we crawled out of their shadows. Without the blessing of the gods, the privileged few could no longer monopolize power. If gods were not supreme, what is a human king? The gloves were off and people were free to pursue self-governance through whatever means possible. Let there be revolution!
When the best the earth has to offer no longer remains in the hands of a few, all can have the good life and live to be eighty. Go around the world in search of raw materials, make enough of everything for everyone; all it takes is hard work, machines and money. We're in charge now. Gentlemen, we have the technology. We can make him stronger, faster, better...
We had become as powerful as the gods, almost. And we have no one to get permission from or answer to for our actions except ourselves. No more altars, rituals, or animal sacrifice. No more prophecies or wrath of God. Nature is ours to use as please. You can't stop progress. Why did you climb the mountain? Because it's there.
My hero used to be Star Trek's Mr. Spock, a man of reason uncluttered by his emotions. Now, I'm more inclined to agree with Dr. Ian Malcolm, Michael Crichton's socially conscious scientist in Jurassic Park. Here are some of his choice comments:
"Yeah, but your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should."
"God creates dinosaurs, God destroys dinosaurs, God creates man, man destroys God, man creates dinosaurs."
"The complete lack of humility for nature that's being displayed here is staggering."
"God help us; we're in the hands of engineers."
I am agnostic and not preaching religion of any kind. I merely hoped that we still have something more frightening than each other, so we may ask "if we should" more often and wait for the answers before jumping in. For if not, in the words of Engineer Scott, "At warp nine, we're going nowhere fast!"
I'll remind you later of the multitude of things that are yet out of our control. Meanwhile, I'll have a cloned, nuked Big Mac to go, please.
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| Sisterhood of Thirteen
 It was the same sky, the same nervous sky. Unsavory and yet hypnotic at the same time, I couldn’t tell day or night, but I knew I’d see the harvest moon before the sun. I didn’t know if I’d see them again in tomorrow’s light.
When I ascended Drombeg, three were already there. The younger ones, sent ahead as scouts, stood at the southern entrance. I languished my eyes on their familiar faces, each the warmest of spring days, and they beamed their innocent smiles upon mine. Once a year I met them here at this circle of sacred stones. Once a year, they called upon the Mother and pleaded for her generosity to regenerate the land in cycles of celebratory life.
There used to be thirteen, sisters of the Temple Earth, who guarded the secrets of Rebirth and the location of this insignificant hill. But once upon a battle with their eternal enemies long ago, one was lost to the savage Drudges. She came to be known as the Sister of the Missing Month, her name expunged from the menology with which we counted our days. Thus, only twelve remained and each grieved for the fallen sister in her own way. And I mourned her, with perhaps more reasons than the others.
I was always taken with the young ones that stood before me by the skyward rocks. Sweet baby sisters of mine they would be if I had stayed with my farmer parents. But these things, even with knave scrolls of ancient chants, I could not control. For I was chosen to spend eternity with the thirteen priestesses, thirteen visions of replete resplendency that ever walked the world together, albeit only twelve still lingered. One man was needed, the ancients decreed, to channel their energy. While on each occasion the priestesses would lend their spirits to awake the Mother, the voice of a single male must initiate the rites.
The appointed time drew near, though I couldn’t tell by the blood curdling sky, darker but still refusing to release the moon. One by one, I held the hands of the youngsters and greeted them, pairs of pink ivory extending from their albino dresses. Gowns really, the sisters though of unique physiques, were always plainly adorned by their ritual clothing. Sheena, Seanna and Serena offered their tidings, but before I could reply, yet more specters appeared.
From the west hailed Andrianna, Augustina and Alisia. At the same time, Susanna, Sungaus and Sommira appeared in the east. And the reunion of the sisters was cause for cheers and laughter. They took turns to embrace each other…and me. These new arrivals were slightly older than the first three. Unlike the youngsters who walked their paths with oblivious vitality, these sisters were hostesses of womanhood. More lavished and self-assured, their entry lit up Drombeg like the midday sun in full bloom.
Though I’ve been in their company many times before, the scene of the gathering sisters again placed me in awe. How could so important a task be burdened upon such delicate creatures? If not for jeweled swords by their sides, who would have guessed that these were the gallant priestesses who recalled the Mother annually and protected their duty with their very lives? Haunting prospects indeed, to anyone. The imposing Drudges were always nearby…
And who felt the weight of this obligation more than Winnamere, the leader of these women, since the eldest had fallen under the Drudge’s ax? It happened long ago, but my memories were still fresh. They were ambushed on their way here in a year much like this. The Drudges had been tipped off. They waited and sprung their trap with overwhelming numbers. Being the strongest and most experienced, the Sister of the Missing Month held rear guard while others escaped. It took the sternest of commands to spurn them on, but for the greater good, they left her behind…to die. And so one priestess was sacrificed to the Mother…away from Drombeg.
And who thus came from the north but the elder sisters with Winnamere in the lead? Two others just as capable flanked by her side; they answered to the names Wynona and Winthra. These three were the most cautious of the group. They had seen treachery and the loss of their leader in bloody conflict, the result of which was the encumbrance upon them the sacred trust. And yet this heavy obligation had not and could not erase all their courageous charm, still alluring, still beseeching, their likeness the very shape of womanhood. Oh, how I beheld the very sight of them!
Another wave of salutations and merriment, however briefly, orbited the stones. I approached Winnamere and noticed the deeper squint of her brows since last I saw her. With sympathy and admiration I took her hardened hands and we exchanged greetings.
“How good to see you again, my friend. Swift are the winds of change that again brought you here,” she exclaimed.
“No less than fate,” I replied while warm torrents surged through my heart.
Then the mood turned silent. As if on cue, the moon at that precise moment revealed her brilliance and the neglected stone temple gained a silvery gleam. The hour drew near. The sisters withdrew their smiles and with a quaver of Winnamere’s arm, they took their posts. Each white clad priestess took a gap between the holy monoliths while I accepted my usual place at the center of the shrine.
“Let us begin, Humanicious,” calmly Winnamere addressed me as her eyes swept across her companions. And lo, like an orchid that only flowered in perfect nights, facing center, the sisters stretched their arms to fill the void and sealed within their embrace the energy emanating from under Drombeg. They called to the Mother…
It was my turn to repeat the familiar chant, in an ancient tongue that only I seem to understand, to commence the ceremony…
“Ouchtmoorra perrtah, ouchtnurtoo bezsla lithra…guthpherstah!”
I raised my cupped palms toward the moon as if scooping her radiance, lowered them unto the ground below and reversed my palms to pour out the moonbeam and feel the pulsation below. The Mother was stirring.
Faintly, as if rising from the depths, we heard a hum as we had so many times past. Like the cry of a hundred gray haired hags for their lost children, the eerie but lyrical hum filtered the grounds and rose toward us. She awoke!
And from below my feet a light brighter than the moon lit up the very firmament upon which I was planted. It saturated outward until reaching the boundaries of the temple, those ageless stones, and under the priestesses’ feet. We had become shadows in a momentous column of light that erected into the dark sky. I could no longer keep my eyes open…she was coming…
But just as the light was returning from the heavens, awash in its new tint of lilac, the ceremony would have been complete, a most shocking sound -
“Gata Uck!”
Oh holy Mother, It was our mortal enemy the Drudges, the single-minded abominations more beast than man. We’d been surrounded…betrayed again!
As slowly as we had gathered Mother’s Light, it vanished in an instant as the priestesses grasped for their swords. The Drudges had long lusted for the power of Drombeg and now it laid before them for the taking, with only twelve angelic warriors in their way. Swarms of them rose from the lowlands around our hill, from all sides they advanced, hundreds and hundreds. Their black armor glistened in the moonlight, a most ominous sign.
In an instant they befell the sisters, poking and prodding from beyond the stones. As simple creatures as they were, they’ve tasted the ferocity of the sisterhood and knew better than to blunder into the arch of their swords. And thus the sisters held their ground…for the moment, while more and more Drudge dog soldiers pressed down on them, walking over their dead and wounded to get at the temple.
Helpless I stood at the center, protected by the steely points wielded by the very goddesses I adored. If I had only chosen the warrior’s path instead of this useless life of priesthood, even knowledge of the black arts, the power to summon lightning would do. Oh, how despicable a soul could betray these good women? What scourge of the ages would have the heart to repay their kindness to mankind with this act of treason? Likely, it was the same one who, through an act of cowardice, murdered the first sister. The world would not hold enough clouds to hide this shame.
The battle raged. Taking refuse behind the boulders, the sisters fought bravely and held the temple grounds, but it wouldn’t be for long. While the Drudge casualties mounted, there seemed an endless supply of assailants and it was a matter of time before they grew tired. Defeat, it seemed, would come not by their enemies but in sheer exhaustion. I clinched my fists and faltered at the thought of the impending moment.
And it finally came, again the young first. While possessing more physical stamina than their older siblings, they lacked the composure afforded by experience. With each heavier breath they were more prone to panic until…the Drudge henchman’s blade cut into Seanna. Frenzied and turning to her aid, Sheena and Serena were brought down by enemies from behind. The circle was broken…and Drudge troops poured through the unguarded southern breach between stone columns.
I could see the crimson flail upon their snowy dresses as clearly as it was yesterday. Underneath them, the imagined gashes in their fragile bodies were more than I could bear, the pain of the initial shock, then wanton anger and stupefied dullness. Unarmed, I stood frozen in the middle facing the oncoming force.
The others too had seen the tragedy unfold and, at a shrill from Winnamere, backed away from the edges of the stone ring to form a circle with their backs to me. As they ran near, I saw their moistened eyes, a blush that coupled their cheek colors. Again, most of my sympathy flowed toward Winnamere for I could see the anguish and frustration in her eyes. The situation she was in did not even allow her to make the similar sacrifice her elder did before. There was no escape today. Her sisters had nowhere to run.
Fatigue continued to collect its toll. Within moments, three more sisters fell. And as fewer and fewer of them could cover each other’s backs, danger presented itself from all angles. And all through the storm, I stayed perfectly still as if no one knew I was there. There is a point where physical pain is superceded by distraught and insensibility. I would have found it had I been sliced.
Alisia was wounded in her shoulder, then finished off by a Drudge battle-ax. In sympathy, Augustina and Andrianna received mortal wounds simultaneously and fell. But to our surprise, the Drudges suddenly halted their attack. Winnamere, Wynona and Winthra, last of the pure priestesses, had their backs against each other a few paces from me, huffing and teary, but determined. The Drudges had ignored me to encircle them.
Through the wooly hair and protruding armor of the Drudges, I caught a glimpse of Winnamere. Ash and dust smeared, her face was still warm and inviting, if only to me as our eyes met. She grinned in defiance. The Drudge leader demanded she divulge the secret of Drombeg. She laughed in disgust. And the soldiers closed in…I ran towards her but was shoved aside. I fell to the ground. Then all was quiet.
Struggling to my feet, I stumbled over to Winnamere, only to find her bloody corpse. Life that a moment ago flowed through her valiant heart was oozing onto her gown. On her face, she had the look of peace about her…
The Drudges parted a trail and I walked through their ranks. Eyes aground, I couldn’t look back. One more glimpse of the broken sisters would surely break my dilapidated heart.
***
It was the same sky as today, as if its colors alone would serve to lament the fallen sisters. Here again, I occupy the center of the shrine. The Mother hadn’t spoken since and no trace of the sisterhood remained. The Drudges ruled the world now, but they do not know the damage they had done. We would never again feel the nourishment of the earth in our mindless wandering.
And the traitor, the only living being who knew the location of Drombeg aside from the priestesses? Was it the promise of riches and comfort that ensnared him to commit this crime against his own soul? What makes a man destroy all that he cherished? The blades of grass pasturing from below, like the healing fingertips of the Mother that welcomed her daughters long ago, carpet the mound gently. I rest my knees in penitence on this softness.
Was the prospect of spending eternity with those one loved but could never possess more loathsome than to witness their death and never living essence again? Was a moment of indiscretion and lapse decision all it took to condemn us all to a world that is dead? I loved them so.
Oh Mother and the ghosts of the Sisterhood of Thirteen, forgive me. What have I done?
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| Zen and the Art of Bathroom Remodeling
 Against the bathroom counter leans a man recoiled in the lotus position. His face harbored the look of indifference, an expression yielding neither joy nor pain, a state of almost enlightenment. Eyes closed, head tilting slightly back, he sits with his legs scissored, arms outstretched and inwardly bent and fingers curled towards the thumbs. His is an image of peace.
It wasn’t always thus. Arriving in this state of blithe required time, patience and a little finesse. It seems a while ago when he began this spiritual quest - the bathroom remodel. "I shall improve the state of my hygienic facilities," he proclaimed. Now, the end is near. Faith had brought him here when logic had failed him.
A frenzy of activities heralded the auspicious start. In a rip-roar the old one-piece shower in the second bath was taken out and the new put in. It was supposed to be a like-kind replacement, but not so. That was the first fissure on the serene lotus leaf that was supposed to be his seat above it all. He was a wise man, one who knew his limitations. Some jobs are better left to the professionals like the one he found. But when the counters came out chipped and flimsy, it was time to change professionals, if the saint of monetary exchange instruments were willing.
A view on the state of affairs: the inoperable bath in the second and a torn up counter in each of his two bathrooms, dismounted six-foot mirrors digging a groove into his new carpet in the spare bedroom, things begin but do not end. Leaky shower stall in the master bath, the only means of daily cleansing, two of three lavatory faucets were out of circulation, but he was making progress. The specter of momentum was yet with him.
Progress it proved came slowly. The new plumber reinstalled the bathtub and fixtures he had gathered himself. There would be no more confusion as to what he wanted. But the polished brass faucet was met with the plumber’s stainless steel tub accessories and an argument with the new and soon to be ex-plumber. Karma with a contractor works in mysterious ways.
Enter third shower contractor, who seemed a nice fellow. Let his gang lay shower tiles and do the countertops and vinyl in both baths. There’s efficiency to this, like the decreeing of thunder, lightning and rain within a storm, though lifting the toilets is extra and he’ll have to repair the sub floor himself as well as reinstall the sinks, faucets and mirrors. No problem, he was quite handy around the house. Fear is not a higher human emotion.
The new tile and vinyl happened quickly. It won’t be long now. However, the countertops took eight weeks to order and so he waited with the composure of a sutra reciting monk. The day came and they went in as promised, but cracked, another eight weeks. Meanwhile, thank goodness he had disassembled the master shower doors and re-caulked the entire contraption. He can now wash the daily, mortal dust from him with impunity. He’d also put the faucet back in the second bath and one shower and lavatory are all he needed. A life of desires will only cause ripples in the pond of the human conscience.
What of the possibly even more important toilets? There were three in the house; he had checked all of them for leaks and replaced the entire mechanism in one of their tanks, new wax rings and fittings for all. He’d also replaced all inlet hoses to the faucets and toilets. Plumbing is not a problem either. He had textured and painted the bathroom walls and refinished the wooden towel and tissue holders and closet doors. All this he could do, as he was quietly content with his standing between impotence and omnipotence when it comes to mechanical repairs.
And time, the great river of the universe, flowed…
Ten months after he began, the counters were installed again. Back went the mirrors, sinks and faucets, but the cutouts for the sinks didn’t match. No big, he can also chisel and saw and finagle. Life is all about adjustments. On the last faucet, a leak was sprung, squirting water through the twenty-five year old valve. He was so close, but back to the hardware store. There shall be trials in life and the equal tempered of heart shall lift himself above mere physical struggles.
Some of life’s bigger questions - what is a faucet but a rubber valve beneath steel and plastic, a washer? Once upon a time, that meant a woman beating her cloths with river rocks by the stream. They still do that in Nepal. What was the historical equivalent of o-rings? And how does one wash himself in a water closet? There was no closet big enough to bend down in at his house. Drilling into a corroded screw and breaking his bit? It was only a bit. Male and female couplings, the sacred act of procreation, what does that have to do with plumbing? It was beyond his understanding. Buddha does not promise all answers.
Under the sink he goes, in a pose that would make proud his yoga master. He slithered like the life-given serpents with which he shared his earthly realm. There is universal balance to it. There is not enough room in there for a heavyset man whose Herculean arms and muscular fingers would find the confinement hard to contain. Contrarily, someone of much reduced stature may not have the strength to wiggle these pipes and bolts, to manage the ying and yang of it all. And when some trickle of water should befall him while lying face up? Why, it’s as a shower from heaven to wash away the sins.
And it’s in. They’re all in. Mirrors are up, baths have matching pieces, no leaks and all’s functional. Breathing a sigh of relief, the man crumbles in front of the altar of sanitation below his bathroom counters. Everything does have a place after all, but all is not what it seems.
Head against the counter, he tries to relax his neck muscles from staring up into the belly of the sink, the beast from the hell of upside-down sinners. His legs and back, attempting to find their way back to a position of normalcy from an afternoon of contortions crawling under, they remain semi-retracted and stiff. His arms still feeling the pull when he did all he could to turn the wrench in a place where it’s not meant to, lay a little limp by his sides. And those meditative fingers that are unable to fully extend for the time being from gripping his tools too tightly the past hours remain…gripped. One must expand and contract with the cosmic winds. The contraction is done, what of the expansion?
And that look of benevolence? His face is asleep, tired from making faces at those pipes and straining in sympathy with its fellow body parts. And within that look of nothingness, a silent cry of "by the gods, it’s done!" He’s contemplating the future, "Tomorrow, I move on to the kitchen." We have nothing to fear but our temporal needs.
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I Write, Therefore I Am
Aloha Loyal Readers (or not),
 Back again with another installment of my frivolous journals. Why so much to say or write them down? Why splatter the brain on a white sheet of paper or a black screen of binary bits? Perhaps this prodding:
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them! - Oliver Wendell Holmes
Perhaps I'm drawing more familiar with the concept of mortality. Unwilling to depart the world eventually without recording some fragments of my overactive mind, a terrible thing to waste, it's my attempt to show here I lived. I thought therefore I was. Billions pass this way, civilizations come and go, but ideas can last forever.
The work of art I do not make, none other will ever make. - Simon Weil
Perhaps it's the greatest gift I can give, to share discoveries and rediscoveries, of wisdom past and commentary present, of life more than the everyday, a glimpse into the human condition. It's the world seen through the plastic lens of my Polo glasses; it is part of me. Most of you entrenched in the daily grinds don't have the luxury of time I'm fortunate to temporarily acquire, and so I serve as surrogate to your curiosity. It scarcely qualifies as philosophy and may be a poor interpretation of art.
Or perhaps I am using you as test audience for my wishful writing career, something I came here to do, to sharpen my pencil as it were. How am I doing? I never did ask if you were willing participants. Please, drop me a hint and I'll absolve you from the involuntary duty. It's not my goal to bore or belabor you.
I sit in the petite upstairs den; the bark of neighbors' dogs intrudes from every open window. But open they must be, or the humidity of this place would prove most unsettling. It's been raining for two weeks, not a constant downpour but intermittent showers, heavy nevertheless, overshadowing our voices. Everything is wet! But between foreboding clouds of gray the everlasting sun casts its spears into the ground now and then, opportunities to check the mailbox, roll out the garbage bin or give Ehukai his dinner.
It's a strange scene, different moods looking out each of our panoramic upstairs windows. To the left a dreary, drizzly, soggy frame, misty and dim, to the right shiny leaves waving in the sun and miles of open sky as if rain was never a conception. This in the same day at the same time as microclimates pass through our homestead, we're treated to all.
Woke up to another rainbow, half to be exact. Cut off at its peak, the other half never materialized. I stared at it to probe its secrets, to see through it...and did. It knew my intentions. Vague and intense all at once, it vanishes from my vision, melting into the clouds behind it. Look away and it's back, light and color playing tricks on my eyes. Add another mystery for science to solve, just particles is light or a wave of energy? Like an object of desire out of reach you can only behold casually, reach for it and it will disappear, withdraw your hand, it lingers ever present. Ay, there's the rub.
I'm no writer, no formal training, lacking a dazzling vocabulary and sometimes even imagination. However as you have seen, I'm easily inspired. If I could only press paper to head and have feelings magically set to ink, I may yet properly convey that sublime elegance I spoke of. I have the privilege of being able to write in two vastly opposed languages, but in neither to my full satisfaction. Such is my dilemma. And yet there's much to say and it's not too late to start. Someone once said, "We write not to be understood. We write to understand." Maybe.
Once upon a time I wrote as a child, unabashed and forthright. One of two articles published in a local paper was an essay on my outward indifference of not having dad nearby. It was okay to feel and dream and wonder and tell about it, when I knew nothing. Then I became a man and the artist was dead, buried in years of struggle, education and refinement, in sensibilities and "maturity." It took half a lifetime to remember the youth, the natural being, to discover how to be fully human.
Perhaps it's natural progression, the years are required to shed the certainty and fearlessness held in youth, didn't know better then. The older we get the more we have and less we can afford to lose, yet it is now we find the courage to lose the pretenses and falsehoods we've grown accustomed to. It's a new kind of confidence that experience bestows upon us, a newfound security to realize and be what we truly are, to find our older souls. And a voice no longer silenced.
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound. - Oliver Wendell Holmes
There are voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Silence is golden, and terribly lacking in today's world. Wounds from "blows of sound" lay undressed and festering in the population gnawing at our psyche, its symptoms the unkindly manner in which we regard each other. People are too busy to hear their inner voices or even recall their existence. Each of us at times may want some noise of his own, but when it comes not of his choosing as it often does now it is pollution on his soul.
Solitude is ever harder to come by, a relic past. We live and work in the same places and even vacation at the same spots. Ah, but we desperately long for it. No car commercial shows its sparkling new gem in smoggy commute; it's always some pristine country road, "closed course," says the fine print. There's a reason the best-selling SUV's are shown exploring the wilderness, no one in sight. And resort ads of empty beaches, deserted lagoons and secret waterfalls offer the chance to "get away from it all." What "all" are we getting away from?
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
T. S. Eliot ended his masterpiece "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" with this passage. He too, it seems, preferred silence and solitude.
So here we are, two people searching for the same, a peaceful corner of the world away from dogs, kids, yard machines, power washers, circular saws, dirt bikes, giant trucks, tour planes and helicopters, anything fueled by gasoline, electricity, or milk. Is it so much to ask? And here I am, spilling random thoughts in a journal of life, another week gone by. Only ten months to go before we flight paradise. Back to Contents |
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