For Kant

Is language the true barrier? Then why don't I write?
If thought is its own pretense, why does it delight?
Who am I to think me changed? The former or the latter?
And why is it so hard to keep myself from scatter?
Is Kant's frame enough or is it too little?
How can I go into this in any great detail?
"Sapere Aude!" he exclaimed,
And are the rest of us condemned?
The categories are our judges,
Juries quick in there to find us,
Human beast or Human being?
What is thought? What is meaning?
Verdict accepted and denied,
On time's anathema's we must glide,
Seeking no substance but our own,
To transcend that we had grown.


On a personal note: grow up, don't grow old.

Travelling Without Moving

I hear the distant rumble,
The dusk sky seem so bland,
Quiet in this weary breeze
Of a long afternoon.

It is coming!
No need to place my ear against the dry soil;
The itch has finally caught on,
Catching wild fire at the remnants of my heart,
Captured in that endless struggle between hope and peace.

The calling is within, now perhaps more than without,
A silent reminder of what never was,
As it slips its thorny caress around my breast,
My nakedness bathed in blues and crimsons,
I lie awake, awaiting the tomorrows.

The caravan, long delayed,
Still echoes its slow wheels,
Those chrome tinted spokes of promise,
Crushing underneath a yellow road afield,
Landing at the appointed gate until dawn.

For morning brings the crystal quality of dread,
That wanton old faithful,
And pondering remains, as I greet the new sun,
Where is my pilgrimage setting? How many roads?

The Invasion (a methodical pause)

I've scribbled this silly little ditty for Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompt on the topic of "Invasion". It's not surprisingly titled: "The Invasion".

I was there the night they came,
I searched they sky, I saw their plane;
Its form seemed to wildly shine
As it disgorged those conquerors of mine.

Look over yonder, behold their hair!
I cannot help but dare to stare,
The atmosphere suddenly electrified
And their presence there intensified.

I told Parker, and he could not believe:
"This is our time, our time to live!"
But even we, poor boys, had no clue
When we saw the British through.

Inner Voices

Those inner voices - what are they? How do we relate to them? How do they relate to us? What
kind of existence do they have, if any?

By inner voices I mean those quasi-collections of thoughts and emotions that act as representations of 'Significant Others' in our mind. Those we consult with, those who tell use to do this and not that, those who we imagine what they'd say and think about our choice of clothes. I'm not talking about a modern Jiminy Cricket or a Freudian super-ego, nor the detached voices that often plague a schizophrenia patient. Those voices represent others who we care about but they do so by being a part of ourselves, by being our own creation. They are an integral part of the human way to internalize others (and so play a pivotal social and ethical role within us) while also manifesting and testing desires and thoughts of our own (thus enhancing our creativity, our sense of order and our cohesive-seeming Self). Sometimes, they show that we are not alone in the dark.

But how is this phenomenon called? Why do some people get 'internalize' and not others? Are all
the representations the same (in essence, power, function, internalization status)? Where do they
fit in in relation to our 'own' internal monologue, our own main 'Stream of Consciousness'?

I'm looking for some answers.

Keeper of the Hollowed Tome

The empty pages are much sought after
(As the stain of steely ink does offer):
They keep our lore folded crisp
Lest recollection tend to lisp,
And future pass distorted truth
Limiting enlightened sooth,
Filling young with fancied notions,
Watch their heads! Their frantic motions!

Away with you, chars of black -
Let us not in this task grow slack,
The pictures tell a thousand words
Of plebs and snakes and mighty lords
Blessings, curses, all combine
In this sacred valentine -
Bloody language there to smear
an arc wide - and simply - disappear.

Not a Haiku

The leaves rustle softly,
Trees whisper in idiosyncrasy
And the brilliant shadow approaches.
I murmur angrily,
Clasping my good eye
(For the bad one is faulty -
It sees truth now:
Flickering along the edges of reason,
Resonating and dissipating in this hot summer breeze).
Where should I look for desire?
It has abandoned me at last;
At last I'm lifeless,
The least leafless in this long, oh too long autumn
That lasts and lasts,
Skewing like some Marxist's hopes
Around Christmas.
The mating season is over,
I limp away from its remains,
A hollow golden pond
And not a picnic blanket to spare.

What is Man anyway?

I'm trying to write a proposal for a seminary paper for school and this is what I came up with so far:

Kant asked four major questions in his anthropological philosophy (or was it a philosophical anthropology?):

1. What can I know?

2. What must I do?

3. What can one hope for?

4. What is Man (which can be translated, I think, into 'What is a Human Being')?

Our query begins with Kant's fourth question and from which it expands it to ask if the technology that has been developed requires a significant change in the perception of 'What is Man'. This second question suggests an existing connection or some sort of correlation between technology and Man's essence (if one exists) or some other such answer to Kant's question.

This begs the question of what kind of technological change (quantitative? qualitative? both? neither?) should be in order for the perception of what Man is to change as well. An avalanche of questions seems to follow: What is the perception of what Man is today? What precisely do we mean by 'Technology'? Have such changes in technology and Man occurred before? Can these changes even be discerned (provided they exist)?

Each of these important questions should be asked in its own specific scientific, religious, cultural, economical, technological, social, psychological (and who knows how many more categories) context and frame of reference.

Given these questions and different possible answers and angles, can we provide a single momentous answer that would be both personal (as something I would have to connect and relate to) and general (as to aspire to get to the truth or truths of the matter)? This is also a methodological question, of course. Let us provide a methodological answer.

We will use a sort of thought experiment and examine a Human process that embodies within it several of these frames of reference all rolled into one. This is possible, to some degree, using literature and history. Let us imagine then a specific change in technology and observe its effects on Humanity.

A more than adequate example for this can be found in the 'Dune' saga by Frank Herbert. According to the story, a radical change in technology has occurred that has eliminated the use of 'Thinking Machines' - there are no more computers that are as at least as advanced as what we have today (this indicates in fact two changes in technology: the use of 'Thinking Machines' and the eradication of the same machines, but we will focus here on the second change and its effects and try to isolate them).

Given this immense change in technology then, how will (or did) it affect Humanity and the answer to 'What is Man'? This question may be answered by first listing the Human reaction, changes and adaptations through the years and next by analyzing the said behaviors and attitudes that were observed and extrapolating from there as to what is the Human image they wished to preserve (in essence, their answer to 'what is Man?').

To begin this arduous task, we will list in general the categories of Human responses to the technological shift which we can observe:

1. Social-Political.

2. Religious-Philosophical.

3. Technological-Economical.

A specific type of technology, that has many kinds and manifestations, can then be used as further example and a sort of prism by which we can learn about the Human response. By this, we mean the myriad of cognitive technologies developed to compensate for the lack of artificial cognition and to further explore the Human potential.

Lastly, these various Human actions (such as the construction of specific socio-political structures) and abilities (such as the cognitive technologies) that were put forth and created in relation or conjunction with the radical change in technology will be analyzed. This analysis, we hope, would bring us closer to understanding of the Human motif that stands at their base and runs through their very core and is the answer (to the perhaps un-answerable in any direct means) question of 'What is Man'.

This analysis will be performed from a philosophical point of view (designed to withhold judgment as much as possible but also directed to perceive and seek the hidden meanings in the Human behavior and thought) and be based upon the works of Kant, Heidegger, Foucault, Popper and others.

Featured Artist(s): The Dodos

Featured Artist(s): Yeasayer

A Lost Summer

It is known: what is is,
Their capital is gay Paris;
Children grow and up
No reason for it to stop.

The tiny country full of war
Fake humility drags on more
Rooted deep in the baseline
No less than comedy divine.

He came and went and locked the door
And nothing was just like before.
The colors swirl, no ounce I gain,
The touch of skin I now disdain.

A summer lost, so full of trifles
"You shall have no play of rifles"
Promised peace and chocolates there
By the desk in the back room where...

What happened? Do I dare?
How deep in the dark I stare?
A mustached man, a flash of pain
"The secret's ours, our domain".

Featured Artist: Amit Erez

I've known Amit Erez for more than two years now, thanks to the introduction of a friend. I consider new (and good) music one of the best gifts that I can receive and it certainly was like that in this case.

I admit, I do not go to as many shows as I would have liked, but I did attend a few of his. I especially like the intimate acoustic performances. It has a feeling of something new and fresh, yet with mature content and presentation.

This isn't really a music blog. I'm not sure what kind of a blog is it anyway. I don't really know how to analyze the music, how similar (or not) it is to Elliott Smith's or others. I believe Amit Erez is an artist in his own right and does not need to draw constant comparisons to his peers. All I can do is convey my feelings and sentiments. Saying that, I would have liked his latest CD (titled Amit Erez) to include some new material, much like his wonderful EP (Black Light). Anyway, here's to the future.

Picture from the official MySpace here.
Clever & Strong (Live at the Barby, 6.2.2007)

Featured Philosopher: Michel Foucault

Michel Foucault, or as I prefer to call him (for unknown reasons), Jean-Michel Foucault, was a French political philosopher who lived from 1926 to 1984. His emphasis and interests were history and thought and how Power came to play,affect and be affected by them, which served as tools to elaborate his relativistic views. For example, by showing that the concept of "Madness" has changed through history and between societies, he has shown that that concept is historic and therefore, according to the Marxist way of thought, is artificial and can be changed. That also means that there are no mad men or women per se, but rather that each society determines the normality of its members in relative terms (and not absolute terms). Whilst his views can be shown to have several important contradictions, he did propose some interesting ideas that are still being used today (Post modernism).

"The History of Sexuality"
One of his most notable of works is "The History of Sexuality", published in three volumes during the 1980's. In the first volume, titled "The Will to Knowledge", he attacks what he perceives as a dominant Humanistic conception termed "The Repressive Hypothesis". According to this hypothesis, power (i.e. politics and much more) has repressed sex for the past three hundred years. Since the rise of the bourgeoisie, sex has been condemned as a waste of energy. As a result, it has been repressed, silenced, and confined to reproductive purposes. According to this hypothesis, we can achieve political liberation and sexual liberation simultaneously if we free ourselves from this repression by talking openly about sex and enjoying it more frequently. Foucault finds this hypothesis to be deeply flawed for several reasons:

1. Not only is talking about sex not forbidden, it is in fact encouraged by the power and its supporters in society (those political institutions that preserve the existing order of society such as the psychologists and the education system).

2. The basis of the Repressive Hypothesis is the Humanistic preposition that man has an essence, a hidden truth that explains and is his meaning and being. In light of the psychoanalytical studies, this essence is man's sexuality. Foucault rejects this and claims that sexuality is in fact a historical-social construct and therefore artificial. Further more, there is no universal hidden to man, but each man (or woman, of course) is shaped by the context of society in which he lives.

3. The Humanistic notion of a hidden truth is also perceived as dangerous by Foucault because it allows society to judge which sexuality is true and natural and which is false and perverse. The sick can then be taken care of in a myriad of ways (so-called benevolent and somewhat less than benign).

There are several criticisms on Foucault work, but I will leave that for next time.

References: Sparknotes and Wikipedia (for the picture).

Featured artist: Julian Velard

I don't go to nearly enough concerts as I should and want. I won't get into detail on the reasons, but it does have the advantage of making every (or at least most) event memorable and unique. One of these instances was on the Tel Aviv Jazz festival a while back. Though I do not recall the performer or what exactly the piece was, I do remember the atmosphere quite distinctly. Jazz is a form of life, especially in live performances, when the artists improvise and create on stage and the audience feels like they're part of an experience.

It's been a while since I've felt that particular way, though I've been moved by other kinds of music since. Jazz has its own distinct effect on me. Anyway, what brought this particular memory to me now was a young NYC (though currently in London) artist called Julian Velard. You can read about him here and just... feel for yourselves.

Julian Velard - Musta Been Somebody Else

Sweep Stakes

Kinda on the macabre side but bear with me...

Early Anwar goes to sweep,
To sift along the urban jeeps;
Hurrying the curbs to their termini,
Tiny speckled sweat determining.

The MP3 player in his pocket,
The seven colors in his heart;
He will be bashed again someday
Or maybe just explode.

Moderate Nicolai tends so well,
The coffers on the side to swell;
He hides behind the bus station
And with yellow liquid greets the nation.

His wife will not be coming back,
His children he devoured;
He saves his cash for rainy days,
A streetcar should have him.

Old Moses jostles slowly,
His vivid eyes are but a memory;
The street is wide and so-so long,
Now he's here and then he's gone.

I, Ol' Jack, have a few new friends,
So be prepared to make amends!
Did I rip these famous three
Or am I just the guy on 13B?

He sits there still,
Watching the dawn that never comes,
A yellow river at his feet,
A multi-hued shirt in hand,
Or maybe just a used fuse.

The Organs Campaign - News from the front (lower extremities)

Another organ has succumbed to the devious debilitating sedition plaguing this body. My left knee has joined the ranks of the rebels, which now include the brain, the heart, the kidneys, the eyes, the ears, the liver, the union of the digestive system, the spine, the teeth and certain rogue elements of the immune system. Long live the revolution! On the bright side, there are rumors of some still loyal finger nails on some of the toes. Also, this gives me the opportunity to look in closely at the leaflets of the secret "Bionic Man" project I've been getting in the mail. Either way, the journey to a total spiritual existence (with some nice finger nails) continues.

My Eros and Thanatos

A little love song for my angioma :-)

I feel your warmth enveloping,
How fortunate to witness the developing,
Inner crust there riddled
Burning slowly as Nero fiddled.

How I long to touch you,
To caress the filaments through,
Your small being encapsuled
Getting ready to assault.

Time, the great river,
Is but a trickle to thy reaver,
Biding carefully each drop
As I listen for each plop.

When will I see you, my love?
How frequent should I check above?
I long to finally wake this dream
And be with you, my aneurysm.

The boy in the back room

Here's something I've been working on these past few weeks. It's titled "The boy in the back room".


I - April 2013

"... anyway, would you prefer a multi focal"?
"That's not very funny, you know. It's my brain. What is a Dysrhythmia anyway? I mean... J. Lo's ass!".
"Pardon? Did you just say...?"
"Err... yeah. I made it up. Do you like it?"
"I'm not exactly sure what to make of it. What does it mean anyway?"
"It's an exclamation, just like 'Jesus Christ' or something".
"How un-demeaning... for both. What's the reference? Hollywood glitz meets what exactly?"
"C'mon, it's just Jenny from the bloke"
"You're kidding, right? Tell me this is your sick little way of dealing with your stupid tumor."
"It's not a tumor. And it is funny and you can easily use it as an f-word substitute in civilized places".
"Because the reference to Ms. Lopez's behinds is much more subtle, yes; I see your point."
"Anyway, I'm not the sick one with the WW2 memories."
"Thanks for bringing that up. I was just getting used to being the only normal guy around".
"Anytime".
"Besides, I told you, I don't know if it is World War 2, World War 1 or whatever".
"You'd think the black and white would be a dead give away".
"You're certainly on a roll today, aren't you? It's not in black and white".
"Whatever man. Anyway, this is my stop. I'll catch you tomorrow at school".
"Sure. See ya' then".
'J. Lo's ass indeed', Patrick thought to himself. His school buddy Terrance was
certainly a strange one at times. They'd taken few courses together but that seemed more than enough to create a mutual base of friendship. Terrance had his quirks (what's with all matching pens, notebooks and book covers? Is indigo a sign of success in studies?), but then so did Patrick. Carrying his MP3 player around, even when going to take out the trash, seemed a bit unusual in his neighborhood,
but he didn't care too much about that. His music collection was one of his chief sources of comforts these days, though, admittedly, Patrick bitterly thought, a very significant source of grief as well. The damned contraption refused to sync with his computer, and when it finally did, there was always a song missing or the wrong album artwork displayed. 'J. Lo's ass!'


II - September 29, 1975

"5 minutes to curtain, Mrs. D.!", the man behind the door said.
"Thank you, Angelo", the smoky voice rasped. Looking at the mirror was an acceptable agony now. After so many years on the stage, there was a certain defiance in the eyes, the ever so slightly wrinkled smile twitched a bit as the ever red lipstick did its bit and the powder covered the rest of the "imperfections". 'Well earned imperfections'. The thought flattered and disappeared quite quickly.

A long road to get to this moment, to this glitzy cabaret. Faded memories of that long deserted house with its surrounding bushes and pink and red flowers still lingered, even now. The years of service in the front lines, that lucky escape on that cold morning partly hidden in Sgt. Hathaway's arms, the very long self-imposed exile, they all had a purpose, a meaning. Not only did they lead here, to this night, but they would also pave the way for a more secure tomorrow, and based on the arrangements that were made and a few hopes, a more private and comfortable existance.
"You're on, Mrs. D.".
There was still tonight though. The smile returned to the somewhat weary and now semi-mystified eyes.
'Break a leg, Blue Angel'.


III - April 2013

He was having that dream again. His sub conscious, probably a bit too amused with itself, offered the experience with a glint of lucidity, which Patrick seized at. This time he would be more than just observer of his own dreams, he would try to direct the flow of thought to a direction his Id had been most reluctant to go - understanding.

The familiar bush fenced house materialized, as expected and Patrick caught a glimpse of a woman staring out one of its windows. He didn't recognize her, but he
was accustomed to that by now. The woman seemed fairly tall, blond and with an anxious look on her face. She was muttering something to herself but he couldn't make out the words.

Next was the bus station, but no - it was a railway station now. A creeping feeling of dread and a strong desire to flee began to overwhelm him, as he was struggling with his breath. Trying to relax, he thought about the
meditation technique Lilly Yang tried to teach him that sunny day outside the Social Studies library. Taking three deep breathes he closed and eyes and opened them again. He was still at the train station, a low hum in the background. "Hey you, you're gonna buy that newspaper or not?", cried the seller.
Patrick looked down: "War", shouted the headline of a skinny 1.5 Deutsche Marks paper. The hum was louder by now and he could almost make out the words. This was new, he noted. Why, though; what's different? What am I to do? "Can't help it", suggested the newsstand guy and faded away.

He was in Paris now, he was sure. Although he'd never been there, Patrick had a feeling of certain familiarity with the streets, the light, even the smell of freshly bakes croissants. With a start, he was awake. "Like moth to a flame".


IV - April 27, 1992

'Another damned curtain call. Damned that Roger and his "club"'.
"It's Mrs. D, you moronic little man! Don't you know who I am?!". There was no reply. The small snickering sound in the distance was certainly no reply to be considered. Adjusting the long shawl over the shoulders had a comforting feel to it. So had the extra lipstick - the best rouge this part of town. And it came with a price, as always. One of the mirror lights flickered for a minute. The delicate circuitry would need to be
adjusted, again.

"Mrs. D, can I come in? It's Jenny". The voice sounded slightly excited, even muffled as it was through the door. "Of course dear, come in, come in".
Upon first meeting Jenny, one would almost always think her out of place here. A slim, short woman with now graying auburn hair, she may have passed for pretty in her days. Those years she would hardly talk about to anyone but a select few. The memories pained her too much, she said, though it may have been the lack of any new notable ones in the years that followed that mattered. To her, the glory of the 40' and the 50', and, though she would vehemently refuse to admit it, the 30', has never truly passed from the world; at least not completely. Some, she seemed to believe, still lingered behind. That was one of the main reasons they connected so well. That, and the ever kindled, low flamed as it was, torch she was still carrying. They had a few conversations about it and Jenny did seem to understand and accept how things actually were though, most of the time anyway. And Jenny did look after her Mrs. D.

"You have to be careful, Mrs. D. Mr. Newsom there is... talking".
"That Roger always talks. He knows who I am, eventually. You know me Jenny".
"Of course I do, Mrs. D", Jenny said quietly. "I... You know you can count on me. Besides, I... I don't know... Mary and Joseph, Mrs. D. I don't know what to do".
Jenny was paler than usual, that was becoming evident now. Her lips were quivering slightly as she struggled for a deep breath of air.
"Mary and Joseph? What's wrong, Jenny? I haven't heard you invoke them since the airline strike of 73' and that was just because... Dear god, what happened? Tell me!".
"She... she is...". Jenny struggled for breath. "Jack Snipes from the Mission read the evening post and he knew how I'd felt, that is how I am and... you and..." Jenny could speak no longer.
"S-she is dead?"
Jenny managed a nod.
The view outside looked colder now. The easy lights and spiraling neons leading men to the "Diva’s Club" shone on just as darkly, luring the wanting patrons into the willing honey trap. But the taste has turned very bitter.

"Mr. err... Mrs. D.? I...". Jenny stammered. Funny, it wasn't like her to make such a mistake, not after so long. "She was the last, you know? There will never be the like of her again."
"No, I guess not".
"I'm sorry, Mrs. D. 'tis the passing of things".
"Yes, yes, of course. In a way, she lives through us though, right? What she stood for, you know".
"What she stood for? She didn't stand for the like of... I mean, You can't really know her... you couldn't really know her like I did. She's nothing like you".
"Well, no but -- what's gone over you Jenny? I've never heard you talk like that".
"It's just that you don't understand, that's all".
"Help me understand then, Jenny".
"You -- I've known you for years with your shows and make up and hair pieces and what not. But she, she was a real lady. A true woman. The 'Blue Angel' they used to call her. I... I've...". Jenny wept silently, unable to speak.
"You've loved her, didn't you Jenny?", understanding dawning suddenly. "You were in love with her".
The shock was quite apparent by now.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. D", Jenny managed, "I'm not like you. I've got Harry and the kids".
"No, I think I'm right. You are like me more than you'd like to admit. Who would have thought? I always knew you were a fan. I mean, that's how we met at first, on the line to the box office. But it's more for you, isn't it?"
"More?", said Jenny. "It's not more. It's special. It's just me and her. You could never get her like I do. You could never love her like me".
Jenny stiffened suddenly. "Yes, I loved her. I still do. You -- You can't know, you weren't there. It was a different time and She was different and even I was different".
Jenny wasn't crying anymore. Wiping the remains of her tears, she was nodding her head continually, muttering to her self. "Yes, I loved her. There. I loved Harry but she... To hell with Harry. I loved her. I love her".
"Here Jenny, won't you sit down. Let me help you".
"No, don't touch me. Don't touch me. You mock me. I see you", Jenny raved. "I see you. You think you can touch her like that, with that dress and make up and hair? You know nothing. Nothing!", shrilled Jenny.
"I only want to help you. It's a terrible shock for both of us. Let me help you Jenny".
"No! Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"
Coming to Jenny's side, Mrs. D. tried to calm Jenny down futilely. "I said don't touch me!", cried Jenny, pushing away, moving askew the carefully placed hairpiece.

"What the hell are you doing, Jenny?"
"What I should have done a long time ago, when I first saw you defile her image".
"Defile?! Jenny, I really don't know what's gone over you but you really need to sit down and have a glass of water or something".
"No, I'm fine", Jenny breathed. "The world is empty tonight, so what is one less diva in the sky?".
With that, Jenny pushed and heaved, struggled and clawed. A few seconds later, she was of the room as well.

The story in the next day's Bay Guardian amounted to a small rectangle in the back pages, titled "The Fall of the Diva". Roger Newsom took some small comfort in the mention of his time honored establishment. 'Bad press is good press', he thought.


V - Late April 2013

"You're still thinking about going ahead with it, aren't you?", asked Terrance.
"No. Well, yes. I have to now, don't I?", said Patrick.
"I don't see why really. Switching majors this late is never a good idea. And this Psych crap! I mean man, I know you dig the chicks there and all, but come on! You need a graduate degree to actually work in it, you know".
"I know all that already, Terr".
Patrick wasn't sure how much to tell his friend. Close as he was to him, even learning some of the details of his more hazy dreams, or as Terr called them (mistakenly, but why correct him?) "Your film noir experience", there were some things he was holding back. Things like his growing acrophobia he was barely able to mask anymore. That was one of the chief reasons he did not apply for Psych courses already. The ultra modern design of the faculty included a spectacular
view of its surroundings, but for him it was like going through vertigo just thinking of those stairs.

"Anyway, what do you think of my theory? Doesn't explain everything?"
"Ah, yes. I can understand why you'd prefer to send it as an e-mail. Very scientific of you, J. Lo's ass. You didn't even check the facts".
"What do you mean?", asked Patrick, nervously going in his mind over the long and repeatedly re-drafted mail he'd sent.
"Well, for one thing, you got the date wrong".
"What?"
"She died on May 6th, 1992 and you were born on April 28th 1992. I know I'm better than you in Math, but even you can see something just doesn't add up right here".
"Umm, no, I didn't know that. Damn.", said Patrick, genuinely shocked. He'd gone through it all, it all fitted so well but the date was something he did not even look very deep into. He'd known it was late April-early May. He just knew.

"Oh, apparently, and get this - I've found it on some obscure hard core fan site - there were rumors about her death a few days before it actually took place, but those were almost immediately denied by the family", said Terrance, rather triumphantly.
"But I've felt it. I felt that the date was approaching. How else can you explain the sudden increase in dreams I've experience, not to mention their content?", Patrick exasperated.
"Stress. Simply stress and fatigue", said Terrance. "You obviously have some Mrs. Robinson issues," smirked Terrance to a blushing Patrick. "Admit it, you always had a thing for older and powerful women".
"O.K, O.K. Suppose the date thing is wrong and the rumors were correct?", asked Patrick. "I mean, it's all so vivid".
"Two things. You're a student for electrical engineering without any apparent artistic streak in you".
"I'm not sure I entirely agree there, but O.K. What's the second thing"?
"You can't carry a tune if your life were dependent on it".


VI - December 2015

It was snowing early this year, global warming notwithstanding. The street lamps seem to sweat as the melting whiteness drizzled around them, adding to the occasional human breath vapor. The relatively dark corner, packed with overflowing dumpsters and dotted with broken bottles, was quiet, at least.
The nearby club, radiating now more in neon than fame, lent few of its voracious chords at this time.

Yes, some peace at last. An opportunity to light a hasty smoke and think. Those images were swarming his mind again, making very little sense: a house he could dimly make out among thickets of geraniums, a semi deserted bus stop with the sign "BERLIN -45" partly smudged by traces of smog and what he could only term as 'the peek'. It was a memory, he was quite sure enough of that, of a door quietly
opening to reveal someone waxing the hair of their legs.
His own.

Facing mortality

They say that when a man is faced with mortality, whether his own or someone close to him, he may react or respond to it in fairly predictable stages. I'm not sure about the order of things, even here, but I know there is denial, guilt, fear, depression and finally acceptance. So they say.

Am I still in denial? Is this my "regular" depression or a more serious than usual bout of pain? How does my anxiety relate to it all? How much of it does it really matter?

I've recently, perhaps too recently to be writing this post, received rather alarming routine check-up results which continue to point to the deteriorating chronic failure of my kidneys. In addition, they've found an abnormal cluster of blood vessels in my brain. So who's going to 'off' me first? I know the brain thing sounds promising (it's a regular time bomb in there) but so does the 'creeping death' style kidney. My bet is on a third, as of yet undiscovered failing organ (or maybe just a car accident? that could be disappointing after all this medical stuff...).

So yeah, I have to deal with my own mortality. The thing is, between Eros (which stands for the will for life in classic psychology) and Tanatos (same thing only for death), I've always found a certain appeal for the latter. I do not want to die, but how bad do I want to live? What do I have to live for? The answer for these questions is not so obvious to me.

I have one thing to draw comfort and hope from - I know that other people in far worse conditions than myself have found the strength to face their hardships and with a will for life greater than I have thus far felt. Perhaps I should take this as an opportunity to change and challenge what is left of my life, to truly live before I truly die.

Here is a link of a man I admire very much, and not just because of the reasons he'd made the recording, but because of how he lives. Here is Professor Randy Pausch in the famous "Last Lecture".

The Greener Grass

Let the normals have their fun
Laughing clearly on the midnight run,
Criss-crossing fast parades
Masked in custom masquerades;
The greener grass a lonely witness
As they slowly bake to crispness,
The dullest music pours aloud
The little hearts it then enshrouds,
Pausing smiles and driving sorrows
Slipping by their stainless hollows;
Emptiness is held within
Right beside the biggest green,
Bringing chill I feel so well
Venting through this cushioned hell;
My story ends and theirs begins
As the gallows test its springs
And there, at last, strive to remember
We will never see September.

The Pack

I wrote this for my parents' wedding anniversary. There's a wider context for the theme and imagery used...

The trees whistle softly
Attending to my lowly ditty;
Pray, rest beside me for a moment
And this story I will relate.

Here they met so long ago
Two cubs we'll come to know;
On yonder meadow they did wed
And by the elders tied the thread.

They paced the hills and flew the mountains,
Exploring dales and vales uncounted.
They knew the moon and stars and sun
And on and on they ran and ran.

Through the annals the pack they grew
That grizzled wolf and bride, those two;
Cubs they bore under the trees
Yawning playfully in the breeze.

The pack is now a veritable clan,
A great host has joined the run;
Its howling fills the darkest night
In union seeks to cast its light.

And there you'll find them still,
Finding warmth to banish chill,
Together with their mighty pack
To the summer lands and back.