Direction

There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

-Douglas Adams

So strange. People are so strange. For some of you, I have been working at the airport for awhile. It is driving me mad I think. People are so strange. I'm really indifference at times when dealing with people who can't really understand why things happen. I suppose though, that all of us have at one point or another wondered why something happens to them -- but then for some reason I tend to find a meaning or a purpose in getting delayed on my trip, meeting a certain person on a bus or waiting in line, and finding that magazine article that seems to give you direction for the next week in your life. At least that has been my experience at the airport.

I never really thought I would work for an airline, and I hope to not be for much longer. My initial thoughts were that it would allow me to enjoy one of the things I like most in this world, a bit easier, which is traveling. Instead, it has taken one of the things that defines me as a person and has belittled it, morphed it and made it somehow less romantic that I tended to make it before. Traveling to me is what I am here for. To be anywhere but where I am at. My friend B always has this quote "Be where your at" but for me, that is one of the most difficult things to accept. I keep moving around -- changing the pace of my life and the surroundings I am in. To me, it is the only real way to live -- understand and learn about not only myself, but this place and that.

There are certain places where I have felt really at home though. Sydney was one of them, and Adelaide another. I also feel really comfortable in a few U.S. cities like Portland and San Diego, but for some reason they just never really feel new, real or unique. Places are a mystery and living in one too long just does me in -- especially one that is tiring in its attitude towards the world (a perfect example of this is my current city, Phoenix, a deathtrap for those of upward mobility and world mobility). I long for some time in Paris, Singapore, Cape Town and maybe even London. I drool over living on a boat, sailing constantly around the world and wondering the shores, all the while keeping a notebook of my favourite spots, haunts and inspirational places. I make fanciful plans to travel to Iceland, Norway and Dubai (only one has came through so far) and long for the days when I can lounge my way around the equator.

A change in direction is in the works, drifting through my head and my surroundings. Lately, horiscopes have mentioned things like "a change of pace is coming" or "look out for a new career move" and even "your life is going to take a new direction". I keep waiting on these to come round, and yet, I ponder what those changes will bring in my life in way of new friends, places and ideas. I feel this year will be one of total discovery and challenge, as well as deep humility and change.

this is it.

aujourd'hui j'ai éprouvé quelque chose qui dans l'espoir de quelques jours i de comprendre.

j'espère que je pourrai vous rendre visite dans un proche avenir et nous pouvons penser de nouveau au jour que nous avons dépensé la marche au sujet de la ville, écouter chaque autres français et anglais terribles et penser à la façon dont glorieux il devrait fixer et observer la lune et tenons le premier rôle le mouvement après pendant que l'air de nuit refroidissait nos corps chauds.

meine andere Hälfte.

I used to think that time was meant to be spent as one sees fit, my time, my energy. It takes a lot of thinking – of self knowing to understand what it is that motivates a person to excuse yourself and understand that the time that is allotted to each of us is not only ours to spend how we wish, but also for us to share. Maybe it is nice to see films, read books and listen to the way things might or should be, but only on a surface level are things ever as clear as they actually are. I like to think about my personal ideas and my plans during the weekends, when I have a chance to catch up; to think clearly and not have to worry about being at work. I understand that the ways in which I grew up have come around to affect the ways in which I live. The Midwest has some strange way of turning what you used to think was terribly boring and mundane into what is now, maybe, seen as being exactly what it is that you will look for in 10 or 15 years. I see myself having a problem with this. On the one side, I will long ever so hard for routine, seasons, and the passing of time using my knowledge to understand where I’m at in the world and what brought me here. And then the other side is where I want to be gone from any place I am at, for want of a better place, or possibly, just new scenery. Routine is boring and life should move at a pace of leisure, expanding yourself in various locations, pulling from all corners of the globe, and finally meeting somewhere in the middle. I think I must have been separated at birth from another person sitting out there, thinking and writing the same things as I write; thinking the same things as I think and longing for the same things I long for. Maybe that is what we find in a mate. I feel it goes deeper than that, as if in a past life I met myself in this life. I understand things to be easier than they should be. I am in a constant state of déjà vu. I do believe I met an earlier version of myself the other evening while waiting for the bus. I was about 63 years old and had traveled the world, seen the sights and understood where that put me. I understood where my experiences had brought me, and why that was important to not only remember, but to talk about. How strange that on one night, I would get stuck at just the exact location that my earlier self was sitting, waiting for nothing in particular, just living. I think I will be happy as I get older. I think I will understand why and how.

buona sera voi.

“So far”.

such a thing so as to feel yourself become something different. transcending your earthly plane into a world of feeling and warmth. feeling your body move as you brethe.
you don't hear yourself, heart beating and all. i don't move in a world of men but live in a world of human connections and love. where if you try, if you honestly attempt to join with reality, you can make it to the top, to the apex of human emotion and matter. it hurts in a way that makes you crave for more, for that feeling ever single day of your life. and evey time you can't reach it, it is just out of your reach, you understand that maybe you just need to see your breathe on the cold windown and realize that we are alive, living, breathing and longing for love and warmth.

This next part is from Thoreau. Sometimes, it helps me to think about it. Sometimes, it just confuses me.

“…shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality is fabulous. If men would steadily observe realities only, and not allow themselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we know, would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments…children who play life, discern its true law and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure…”

Maybe this will help with what I was trying to explain to you the other night.

I have always had a bit of a problem connecting with reality. I am never too sure of how to explain it in terms that are rational, but I have several writings from when I’ve felt that disconnectedness the most that, well, don’t exactly make the most sense—but in a way make all the sense in the world. I don’t really know what triggers this intense feeling of needing to get away, to connect somehow with what is happening—what I’m experiencing or what others are experiencing. I think that escaping is always my answer to my issues and for a while I thought that was not a good way to deal, but as I’ve seen, it is one of the only ways I can re-connect myself with something that is real, something that is tangible. I might just need to take a walk or a hike or ride my bike or drive across town—sometimes I might need to go further from home, someplace new, maybe I need to take a journey to prove to myself that I can do it—that I’m in control of me—of my actions and my thoughts—proving something to yourself is sometimes the most difficult thing in the world. Especially when you have to prove something like reality or something like self-determination.


A little poem called “Embrace”.

it is just at the beginning
that we realize that it might
be the end.

at least we can come to the
realization that what we are
is not what we understand
ourselves to be
but always something greater
always something beyond
what it is that we see.



Another poem, called “Moment”.

understand that we have so much ahead of us,
so incredibly much and so little behind us,
so very, very little.



Entitled “I’ve lost my mind”.

When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained;
What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of Man, that Thou visitest him?
For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor.
Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet:
All sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field;
The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. [Psalm 8]


it seems that it is hard to deny that man is a most unusual species of being. many others are better adapted to their environment, faster, stronger, etc. what is it then that separates us from all others? some suggest that our most extraordinary characteristic is our capacity to conceptualize the world and to communicate those conceptions symbolically.

i think that it is the idea that we have no understanding of what we are. at the best level, we can attempt to explain things, but when you get down to it, we have no clue what is happening. we are so complex. we are so unique.

i don't know what to think anymore. it's amazing.


Just something.


love, ever unsatisfied, lives always in the
moment that is about to come.

Paris à la lune

I just finished Paris to the Moon, I took my time, trying to savour all of it -- keep it in my head. I think he lived the life that I would want to live in Paris, if marriage and a family come my way. The life of a writer, or an academic can not be beat in this world, I am convinced of that. And with that in mind, I keep my head above the water, looking for a better opportunity to continue my education, or expand my worldview by moving abroad, once again. I think my time here at the airport and in Phoenix has been important, if nothing else, to help bring me back down to some sort of reality about the world. But, after a couple of months here, I realize that it is this reality that I am constantly trying to escape, always looking over my shoulder at the other part of this world that I am so inclined to inhabit.

"There are two kinds of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he see with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to. If his peripheral vision gets diminished -- so that he quite literally sometimes can't see what's coming at him from the suburbs of the place he looks at -- his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country he has inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye. my head was filled with pictures of Paris, mostly black and white, and I wanted to be in them." Adam Gopnick in Paris to the Moon

I struggle to find a place in this strange place called Phoenix, and this book has not helped my need to live again overseas. Paris is calling me in some way, tugging at my mind every time I see something that reminds me of anything French. I can literally think myself to tears sometimes thinking about being somewhere else, with a lovely lady on my arm. I have such an over romanticised idea about life, but it is my life, and I can direct and form and shape it into one that isn't mundane and lifeless, but filled with places and things I love -- people in places I love. I look forward to the day I live in Paris. It might be a month, or it might be a year, but I know it is in my path.

Afr-ica

"Poor Africa, the happy hunting ground of the mythomaniac, the rock star buffing up his or her image, the missionary with a faith to sell, the child buyer, the retailer of dirty drugs or toxic cigarettes, the editor in search of a scoop, the empire builder, the aid worker, the tycoon wishing to rid himself of his millions, the school builder with a bucket of patronage, the experimenting economist, the diamond merchant, the oil executive, the explorer, the slave trader, the eco-tourist, the adventure traveler, the bird watcher, the travel writer, the escapee, the colonial and his crapulosities, the banker, the busybody, the Mandela-sniffer, the political fantasist, the buccaneer and your cousin the Peace Corps Volunteer. Oh, and the atoner, of whom Thoreau observed in a skeptical essay: “Now, if anything ail a man so that he does not perform his functions ... if he has committed some heinous sin and partially repents, what does he do? He sets about reforming the world.” Thoreau, who had Africa specifically in mind, added, “Do you hear it, ye Wolofs?”

To Ponder

I went out to buy transcendence
and came back with a telephone.
Anthony Weir

I am twenty-two years old and will wait no longer.
Scott Valentine

We are inclined to think of hunters and gatherers as poor
because they don't have anything; perhaps better to think of
them for that reason as free.
Marshall Sahlins

Once Known.

It became clear to me that I was privileged to be living in an African world that had not been written about. This was not the Africa of Conrad, or Karen Blixen, or Hemingway, or Even Laurens van der Post. No one had written about this particular Africa. That, I think, was my good luck. It was for me to describe this unknown time and place. There was a colonial hangover, and Africans were now being uncomfortably accommodated in the white clubs. But I was not a member of any clubs; I did not go on safari. I came to be fascinated by this Africa of hilarious dance halls and village feasts and bush schools. Crazed politicians ranted all over the countryside, and yet there was a power vacuum in which most Africans, rather enjoying the anarchy, felt free. In a cheerful, scribbling, self-deluded frame of mind, in this in-between period after colonialism and before politicians and soldiers tightened their screws, I felt safe.

Dorset

When I left the tropics after working for almost nine years in hot countries, I went to England and experienced a great shock. It seemed to me to be one of the strangest places I had ever been (and I had lived in Uganda and traveled the Congo and in upper Burma). This was Dorset. I was just about to write, "Hardy does not prepare you for Dorset." But of course he does. His work is very truthful to that county. I found the place dark and deeply rural, extremely beautiful, and often inexplicable. People did not seem so much to live there as to be holed up there. There was an uncertainty and a tribal mistrust of outsiders. And "outsider" did not necessarily mean an American. It might be someone from Yeovil or Salisbury. Everything I had expected to find in Africa I found on the edge of Marshwood Vale. I was fascinated, but also a little frightened. These are the emotions that produce fiction.

Look Thy Last on all things Lovely

After a time we moved from Dorset to London, but I never lost the feeling that I was a castaway. As a foreigner, I was determined not to die in Britain and be buried in a gloomy churchyard under a blackish dripping yew tree. One day I would sail away. I never guessed that I would leave alone, feeling as portable and insignificant as when I arrived. I landed in Britain on November 4, 1971 and left on January 19, 1990. The years that these dates enclosed were among the happiest as well as teh saddest I have ever known: joy bordering on rapture, misery at the very edge of despair.

Target.

I developed internal ways of stimulating my memory. It is possible for a writer to think creatively only if he or she manages to inhabit a mood in which imagination can operate. My need for external stimuli inspired in me a desire to travel – and travel, which is nearly always seen as an attempt to escape from the ego, is for me the opposite: nothing induces concentration or stimulates memory like an alien landscape or a foreign culture. It is simply not possible (as romantics think) to lose yourself in an exotic place. More likely you will experience intense nostalgia, a harking back to an earlier stage of your life. This does not happen to the exclusion of the exotic present, however in fact, what makes the whole experience thrilling is the juxtaposition of present and past – Medford dreamed in Mandalay.

I aspire, where material possessions are concerned, to the Buddhist condition of non-attachment. That is my ideal. I am not so acquisitive that I am possessed by these objects, though I do feel dependent on them at times. I think one must practice ridding onself of them, but that requires concentration and great mental poise – I was to learn how to give them away; it must be my confident decision. I don’t want them torn out of my hands. Obviously, the happiest person is that Buddhist who truly sees that such objects are illusion, and who owns nothing – all these possessions are in his or her memory.

In the most common situation, the threat comes from more than one person – rarely is it one-on-one. The group of people in the car or speedboat, the phalanx of jet skiers, are nearly always male. Their response appears to be a reflex of violent envy directed against an isolated and vulnerable person – the skimpily clothes jogger, the madly balancing paddler, the panting cyclist. It is like an objection to the assertive freedom and health implicit in these pastimes, and it might be bound up with the suspicion – in a minority of cases a well-founded suspicion—that someone who exercises this way so publicly is showing off.

Hold on to what you know I suppose. It is clearly not ok to keep moving about so much is it? It is so not the norm, but maybe, I’m just making my own way through a world of weirdness and wonder. Just sailing along, sometimes alone, and sometimes joined by others.

Fresh air Fiend {friend}.

[Portions of this are from the Paul Theroux book entitled “Fresh Air Fiend”. Many of his writing seem to resonate with me personally, on a level that I can’t quite understand fully yet. Anyway, what he says in parts of this book especially seem to help me think about my journeys around the world and also coming back to the U.S. where, frankly, I’ve felt a little alien.]

For long periods of my life, living in places where I did not belong, I have been a perfect stranger. I asked myself whether my sense of otherness was the human condition. It certainly was my condition. As with most people, my outer life did not in the least resemble my inner life, but exotic places and circumstance intensified this difference. Sometimes my being a stranger was like the evocation of a dream state, at other times like a form of madness, and now and then it was just inconvenient. I might have gone home, except that a return home would have made me feel like a failure. I was not only far away, I was also out of touch. It sounds as though I am describing a metaphysical problem to which there was no solution – but no, all of this was a form of salvation….when I mentioned this notion of being a stranger to my friend Oliver Sacks, he said, “In the Kabala the first act in the creation of the universe is exile.” That makes sense to me.


The English writer V.S. Pritchett spoke about this condition of otherness in his autobiography, how it was not until he began to travel far from his home in south London that he began to understand himself and his literary vocation. He said that he found distant places so congenial that he became an outsider at home. Travel had transformed him into a stranger. He wrote, “I became a foreigner. For myself, that is what a writer is – a man living on the other side of a frontier.”

For various reasons, it is now not so easy to be a foreigner (I am using the word in a general sense). Yet it was very easy for me less than forty years ago, when I was an impressionable teenager and amateur emigrant. Then, a person could simply disappear by traveling; even a trip to Europe involved a sort of obscurity. A trip to Africa or South America could be a vanishing into silence and darkness.


“Connected” is the triumphant cry these days. Connection has made people arrogant, impatient, hasty and presumptuous. I am old enough to have witnessed the rise of the telephone, the apotheosis of TV and the videocassette, the cellular phone, the pager, the fax machine, and e-mail. I don’t doubt that instant communication has been good for business, even for the publishing business, but it has done nothing for literature, and might even have harmed it. In many ways connection has been disastrous. We have confused information (of which there is too much) with ideas (of which there are too few). I found out much more about the world and myself be being unconnected.
And what does connection really mean? What can the archivist – relishing detail, boasting of the information age – possibly do about all those private phone calls, e-mails, and electronic messages. Lost! A president is impeached, and in spite of all the phone calls and all the investigations, almost the only evidence that exists of his assignations are a few cheap gifts, a signed photograph, and obscure stains. So much for the age of information. My detractors may say, “You can print e-mails,” but who commits that yackety-yak to paper?


One of the paradoxes of otherness is that in travel, each conceives the other to be a foreigner. But even the most distant and exotic place has its parallel in ordinary life. Every day we meet new people and are insulted or misunderstood; we are thrown upon our own resources. In the coming and going of daily life we rehearse a modified version of the dramatic event known as first contact. In a wish to experience otherness to its limit, to explores all its nuances, I became a traveler. I was as full of preconceived notions as Columbus or Crusoe – you can’t help it, but you can alter such thoughts. Non-travelers often warn the traveler of dangers, and the traveler dismisses such fears, but the presumption of hospitality is just as odd as the presumption of danger. You have to find out for yourself. Take the leap. Go as far as you can. Try staying out of touch. Become a stranger in a strange land. Acquire humility. Learn the language. Listen to what people are saying.

[Too many times I find myself re-reading these words, as well as a nice little book called “The Art of Travel” and too many times I find myself seeking out other people that have a passion for being away, like I do. It is difficult to find these kinds of people, but when I do, it is as if my entire life has been leading up to that exact moment where I can share the most mundane story about some place in the world, and it seems to be exactly the thing the other person needed to hear – our stories interconnect and it is with that connection we begin to build our next adventure, our next trek and find the next person in line.]

reading.

15 May 2007

You know, there is something new out there happening. Every now and then it comes around – blows in with the wind or rides in on the tide. It’s a change or a movement of some sort that allows us to say something we mean, to do something that we wouldn’t normally do or maybe it just allows us the ability to think without the overpowering effects of the world laying down on us. There is no good reason for why this happens, but it does and it is accepted. I find myself in this world where sometimes, I don’t necessarily feel like I’m living in. There are moments of complete transcendence beyond this plane of life that is here and now to a place that once was perhaps. I think the past has a lot to offer us – I mean there is no way to deny what has happened and there is no way to necessarily change what has happened, but yet, there are dwellings on the past that are the types of dwellings that people are able to use to write, to think to process and proceed in life with some sort of idea of what is happening or what is supposed to happen, even when that “thing” doesn’t happen. We can blame the present and maybe worry about the future, but the past is one thing in life that is certain and unfailing. It pushes us steadily along our way, drifting through the river of despair, love, happiness and whatever else luck seems to throw our way. What do we do with those thoughts that are hidden deep inside our mind from all others? Those ideas and wants that we dare not share with the closest of friend, the most trustworthy of companions? Is that what life is truly made of? Not the actuality of it all, but the hidden aspects of reality? Its possible. The future of our lives are, some might say, shaped by our actions now, which is mostly true, but then there are also those times that are just random, mysterious things that happen without no real reason for them coming to life. Its these times that we realize where our true selves are, where are beings are hiding, running through the underbrush of the forest while the other part of us is casually walking towards them. It’s the underbelly of life that presents us with the most possibilities – with the most problems and deficits – with the greatest chance to adapt and form a thought around it – to move through it while hurting and crying out for it to go back where it came from. Everyone knows but no one dares speaks of it. It is allusive and yet, always near. A warning from within what we have is always subject to change and disappointment. The best we can do is try and achieve a level of knowledge or cleverness that will enable us to recognize when these aspects of our personality are about to surface in full form – giving us the ability to use it to help us grow and learn from it – to force it to the surface and trust it, look at it and ourselves and be critical but also understanding. It is in those most sincere and honest moments where we can truly and fully recognize our true selves in the person that we have become. We can see the person we will become and the person that we will suppress – the person others know and the person others think they know. It will hurt – we will cry – but slowly begin to acknowledge that it was worth the pain – that we will continue on with this life in one form or another and it is up to us to decide for ourselves what that form will be, what form we will take. Difficult, sure, but what part of this isn’t?

short.

I often pray, though I’m not really sure Anyone’s listening; and
I phrase it carefully, just in case He’s literary.


Mignon McLaughlin

movement.

I'm not even for sure how to begin such a thought, except to say that it made me angry, and sad at the same time. I watched this film called Bobby tonight, about the assissination of Bobby Kennedy in 1968 in Los Angeles, as he was about to run for president. The movie made its way into my soul, in some way that a movie hasn't in a long time. Maybe its the ways in which the political and social problems of the time reflect our own current issues at home and abroad -- or maybe it was trying to understand why someone would kill such a person. A man who attempted to bring the country together as some form of community -- to act true, whole, and just in the face of an American society that was tired, depressed and angry. He makes me understand the power of words, the power of people to work for change, to imagine that things can be better than what they are. He, this man from the past, restores my faith in America, and in some manner, makes me understand that I am, at least sometimes, ok with my nationality, my heritage. Sitting in a theatre with my friend M, from the U.S. and the rest Australians, we couldn't help but wonder what sort of feeling they left with -- not being able to fully understand the position we are in as Americans abroad, looking back home with often feelings of disdane and disgust, but also looking back home thinking that we can actually make a difference -- that we can change our society.

I don't know if we can, but I have to say that I am angry that we, as the "youth" of America and the world did not stand up for what we felt was and is wrong more. That we didn't fall behind mass protests, that we didn't unite ourselves despite our differences to show the government that we don't approve of things, that we don't understand why all this destruction and death is happening, and that unless they give us better reasons, truthful answers, then we will continue to oppose. It is not only our lives that are being affected, but those of people around the world. It is so easy to just think of ourselves, but as RFK reminded me tonight, that is where the trouble comes. That is what our problem is. We are transfixed on personal gain, goals, and wealth and our focus has turned from our neighbour to our bank account, our myspace page, our email and our t.v. shows. Our lives are running out of control with options. We've lost sight of the bigger picture, the overall scheme of things -- and our problems form within around fueling our problems throughout.

I don't know how to change these things. I don't have an answers or even clear ideas, but I do know that there are people who care and listen and understand -- who want the same changes now that Americans wanted in 1968. That our parents and grandparents are an important part in this fight, not only because they know the effects such actions abroad have on the home front, but because they have the money, the influence and mroeso, the will to help make something happen. These are decisive years my friends, and it is going to set a tone for many to come. We need to rally ourselves, band together as brothers and sister, and respect, understand and fight for something more that capitalist ideals, but those ideals that we hold closest to us as a society. Those basic needs like food, shelter, taking care of our own and learning how to be citizens of the not just the U.S. but the world in general. Our future will depend on us, now. No one is going to make us do it, no one is betting that we will, no one is going to hold our hand and tell us exactly what to do. We have to make this up as we go -- write our own history, find our own truths, and make our country and our world a place where people can afford to live -- where people are proud to live -- and where people are happy to befriend and visit. This place we call home is changing, and we can only hope it is for the better.

passion. or something like that.

Every year I sit and watch these awards, and every year, god help me, I still want to be there; be in the know and in the crowd with such classy and distinguished people. Watching everyone tonight I realize how Hollywood is still and will always be the American dream, but is not only just the classic American dream of “go west” but the dreams of people around the world trying just to get to America. I think one of the few things I took away from my first stint in L.A. is that you have to make yourself ok with money, with spending money on movies and al that comes with that. Someone has to provide the entertainment for the masses, and I feel, somehow, that many of the films and actors nominated this year transcend the entertainment/art boundary. That is always the challenge, to make films that are just as beautiful as they are entertaining.

[pause.]

I feel evermore as if my life is just getting started. As if, somehow, I will fin a way to bridge, mesh, include all of my passions of film and people, society and culture. For what are the best films made but ones that are able to reach the soul, the very depths of a being. To help escape the world we live in, but also promote change, ideas and understanding. So many of my thoughts as of late, come from recently seeing Babel, where I was reminded of how easy our lives have become, how over the years we want more convenience, less stress, more freedom, and fail to think about those in the world who struggle each day emotionally, physically, mentally and are constantly overwhelmed with life in general. It’s thoughts and ideas like this that constantly inspire – to push for my life to make a difference of some sort on this world. I suppose it’s what anyone would want in their life, except that it takes something new, different and burning inside a person’s body and mind to achieve the change we hope for. It’s always my hope to become who I am supposed to become & to use what I’ve got. So cliché to follow your dreams, I suppose I’m just going to make them up as I go along.

[end.]

too much thought.

if i were to loose sight of you
or of what we are
trying to do
would you still be there
in the end?

At My Window Sad and Lonely

At my window, sad and lonely
Oft times do I think of thee
Sad and lonely and I wonder
Do you ever think of me

Every day is sad and lonely
And every night is sad and blue
Do you ever think of me my darling
As you sail that ocean blue

At my window, sad and lonely
I stand and look across the sea
And I sad and lonely wonder
Do you ever think of me

Will you find another sweetheart
In some far and distant land
Sad and lonely now I wonder
If our boat will ever land

Ships may ply the stormy ocean
And planes may fly the stormy sky
I'm sad and lonely but remember
Oh I'll love you
Till I die

--Woody Guthrie

Characteristic Form of Life.

Today I learned this little piece of information:

"Land is developing seven times faster than the population is increasing, and by 2050 it is thought that 307 million Americans will live in 8 supercities."

Now, I'm not for sure if this is a startling fact or not, given that in 2050 I will be about 69. Yeah, I'm not really looking forward to that, but what did strike me is that a majority of the people will be living in cities, and who's to say, but maybe the people still living in the rural or what is left of the rural areas will be the ones with power. Maybe they will be the ones that are keeping the place running by planting food and trees and keeping the rest of the population alive because of their "sacrifice" of living in the "bush". I don't know, it just all seems so strange to hear people projecting what is going to happen in years to come when we really have no idea what-so-ever what is going to happen this year. I'm tired of hear things like "if current trends..." or "today in Iraq".

Apparently, there are about 10 million vegetarians in the U.S. today. That number seems small, when you think about all 300 million of us. Gross. That's a lot of beef, pork and chicken being consumed. I don't eat meat, and as one of the 10 million people, I suppose I am always looking for a reason why that I can use to explain to people why. I have yet to come up with anything that seems to hit the mark, and today I also read this little piece of information that didn't seem to help my case:

" The notion of granting rights to animals may lift us up from the brutal, amoral world of eater and eaten -- of predation -- but along the way it will entail the sacrifice, or sublimation, of part of our identity -- of our own animality. (This is one of the odder ironies of animal rights: it asks us to acknowledge all we share with animals, and then to act toward them in a most unanimalistic way.) Not that the sacrifice of our animality is necessarily regrettable; no one regrets our giving up raping and pillaging, also part of our inheritance. But we should at least acknowledge that the human desire to eat meat is not, as the animal rightists would have it, a trivial matter, a mere gastronomic preference. By the same token we might call sex -- also now technically unnecessary for reproduction -- a mere recreational preference. Rather, our meat eating is something very deep indeed."

So, I ask myself, "am i not eating animals for a moral reason?" I don't know. I can't deny the evolutionary changes our bodies have went through, and the purposes of certain sets of teeth, etc. The ways in which people crave meat and sweets (also evolutionary because sugar = energy.) I kept reading and found this:

" Morality is an artifact of human culture devised to help humans negotiate human social relations. It's very good at that. But just as we recognize that nature doesn't provide a very good guide for human social conduct, isn't it anthropocentric of us to assume that our moral system offers an adequate guide for what should happen in nature? Is the individual the crucial moral entity in nature as we've decided it should be in human society?"

I say no. I say that maybe human are adapting, evolving to eat less meat because people now recognize that with a more leisurely life style, eating lots of red meat is not that great for us. As we become more dependent on machines, our bodies might become more dependent on plants. Just a thought.

I think it was Descartes that said something like "animals can't feel pain because they have no soul." Well, I'm not sure we can prove that or not, given that the soul is kind of hard to define in humans, let alone in animals, which we can't communicate with. Its interesting to think about the ways in which we have given in to so many things in society, in life that might just not be so. The way in which we give in to shopping centres, food, etc. might actually be killing us all slowly.

Ok, let me get to my point. We all seem to have some kind of focus in life. Something, someone, some place that we can't not have. We need it to live. We don't just need food and water, but apparently, these other things as well. Those things are killing us instead of helping us live. They are driving us to places we don't want to go and making us do things we don't want to do. They are forcing our minds to give into our bodies, and I always think it should be the other way around. We are humans, and yes, we are adapting as I write this, but we also have to realize what it is that we are adapting to. Is it something that we can go on living with, or is it something that we need to stop, stand back and take a look at? Maybe both. Maybe it is sustainable, maybe it will turn out, in the end to be good, or maybe not. Who's to say. Again, predicting the future out of current trends is dangerous I feel, but then again, so are a lot of things in life.

In the end, I want to say it all comes down to love. But then again, that would be kind of anthropocentric of me, wouldn't it.

its always something.

such a thing so as to feel yourself become something different. transcending your earthly plane into a world of feeling and warmth. feeling your body move as you brethe.
you don't hear yourself, heart beating and all. i don't move in a world of men but live in a world of human connections and love. where if you try, if you honestly attempt to join with reality, you can make it to the top, to the apex of human emotion and matter. it hurts in a way that makes you crave for more, for that feeling ever single day of your life. and evey time you can't reach it, it is just out of your reach, you understand that maybe you just need to see your breathe on the cold windown and realize that we are alive, living, breathing and longing for love and warmth.

condições de tempo

eu estou receoso das coisas às vezes. e frequentemente, eu não me acredito. eu quero saber, se minha vida trabalhar para fora em uma maneira que esteja cabendo ao universo, os deuses, fate. eu escuto o vento mudanças. diz-me que alguns estão vindo logo. a lua é tonight subtle, esperando o alvorecer para quebrá-lo e introduzir afastado no oeste.