I wish I would have gotten to know you, I truly do. Wish I could have seen you ride around the cul-de-sac in your new bike, Birthday balloons would have surely drifted towards my yard on occasion. And that would have been okay. All of it. Running around, playing with grass, laughing like only little kids do.
No big words or metaphors needed. I met you for what seemed like two seconds. And then the next day, you were gone. Pried out of life's hands so suddenly, I wasn't sure how to react. When I arrived, you were no longer with us.
Dear, wherever you are, may the angels watch over you. Your departure was shocking. I'm still unsure how to react. Not sure I'll ever be. Rest in peace Matthew.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
The Last in Line
After the storm passed, I looked around and caught glimpses of things that once belonged to me. This pile of broken dreams and broken spirits laid to waste, seemingly there as stark reminders of nature's force. Amidst the desolation, there were fragments of memories too fluid to crystallize or melt away. The storm obliterated all.
How do we pick up the pieces of our discontent? The glass shards cut deepest where the skin is exposed; that delicate yet fragile layer of make-believe.
Here, beneath the rubble, we found subtle signs of life. We thought the storm had devastated everything. Here in the dead of winter, there was something we had missed. Its heartbeat was shallow yes, but there was life, looking back at us in open mockery.
Sleepwalking. We found ourselves in a spectral embrace too rigid to shake. Eyes wide closed, stumbling to find, nay, to touch, whatever strings remained. The lightning had made killing fields of our surroundings. The smoke wafted deep into our lungs. We could taste the killing that had occurred.
The situation while clear required deep thinking. Damaging winds and lesser demons hid within tunnels and around corners, chasing us, deeper into the chasm. These creatures of irreverence lashed at our ankles with deadly precision, hoping to find the exposed skin and bleed us out.
Had we lost their protection? Were their wings no longer flapping towards us? Their chanting had ceased and we were all on our own. These angels who once guided us, had disappeared full of melancholy and hysteria. We must have been the last in line; the ones that evaded their concerns and awkward glances.
Make ourselves whole again. Make ourselves into sparkling visions. Ones that bleed and still show signs of life. Ones that blur into images of unknown artists, coping, describing, creating. Unrelenting visions armored to the teeth, yet exposing open wounds.
The glass shards lay there underneath a pile of broken dreams. Coalescing into the mirror we once used to know.
How do we pick up the pieces of our discontent? The glass shards cut deepest where the skin is exposed; that delicate yet fragile layer of make-believe.
Here, beneath the rubble, we found subtle signs of life. We thought the storm had devastated everything. Here in the dead of winter, there was something we had missed. Its heartbeat was shallow yes, but there was life, looking back at us in open mockery.
Sleepwalking. We found ourselves in a spectral embrace too rigid to shake. Eyes wide closed, stumbling to find, nay, to touch, whatever strings remained. The lightning had made killing fields of our surroundings. The smoke wafted deep into our lungs. We could taste the killing that had occurred.
The situation while clear required deep thinking. Damaging winds and lesser demons hid within tunnels and around corners, chasing us, deeper into the chasm. These creatures of irreverence lashed at our ankles with deadly precision, hoping to find the exposed skin and bleed us out.
Had we lost their protection? Were their wings no longer flapping towards us? Their chanting had ceased and we were all on our own. These angels who once guided us, had disappeared full of melancholy and hysteria. We must have been the last in line; the ones that evaded their concerns and awkward glances.
Make ourselves whole again. Make ourselves into sparkling visions. Ones that bleed and still show signs of life. Ones that blur into images of unknown artists, coping, describing, creating. Unrelenting visions armored to the teeth, yet exposing open wounds.
The glass shards lay there underneath a pile of broken dreams. Coalescing into the mirror we once used to know.
Monday, March 14, 2016
The Tempest
Higher ground. We seek to understand the ins and outs of life. Time passing ever so fast that moments last less than the blink of an eye. Moments scream their misfortunes and disenchantment in the midst of blinding snow, so thick and irreverent, that all is lost in the translation.
There are days certainly where one tends to wounds and headaches born from less than desirable situations. Days spent listening to rain drops and soothing thunder. Days where dizziness lingers and one does what one can to compartmentalize and breathe.
It comes and goes in waves, this feeling of not belonging. It buries itself in the aftermath of our desperation, at times both hell and salvation.
Nonetheless, we travel onward, to the lesser of our evils. It is the cold reality we face. It is the undercurrent, keeping us afloat and simultaneously drowning us, keeping us pinned against the rocks. The sharpness of these, striking us in places kept guarded and thought impenetrable.
Still, we breathe. We give light to the canvas and make our mark like paint drops from an obscure painter. His brush heavy at times with the weight of our inconsistencies and unspoken truths. The painting becomes enigmatic, spectral in nature. It casts its shadow during those times of the day where we fail to remember.
These are the thoughts of wayward souls, drifting suddenly into the midst of blinding snow. Constantly seeking to understand our place in the world, be it barren, be it alone. We thrive by instinct and a keen sense of the wondrous and innately beautiful, seeking the light in the darkest corners of the tempest.
There are days certainly where one tends to wounds and headaches born from less than desirable situations. Days spent listening to rain drops and soothing thunder. Days where dizziness lingers and one does what one can to compartmentalize and breathe.
It comes and goes in waves, this feeling of not belonging. It buries itself in the aftermath of our desperation, at times both hell and salvation.
Nonetheless, we travel onward, to the lesser of our evils. It is the cold reality we face. It is the undercurrent, keeping us afloat and simultaneously drowning us, keeping us pinned against the rocks. The sharpness of these, striking us in places kept guarded and thought impenetrable.
Still, we breathe. We give light to the canvas and make our mark like paint drops from an obscure painter. His brush heavy at times with the weight of our inconsistencies and unspoken truths. The painting becomes enigmatic, spectral in nature. It casts its shadow during those times of the day where we fail to remember.
These are the thoughts of wayward souls, drifting suddenly into the midst of blinding snow. Constantly seeking to understand our place in the world, be it barren, be it alone. We thrive by instinct and a keen sense of the wondrous and innately beautiful, seeking the light in the darkest corners of the tempest.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Before the Rain
The clouds rolled in wafting of damp air and the unusual possibility that rain may fall. It was one of those afternoons that crackled with electricity. A thunder cloud lingered nearby directing warm air currents and the occasional breeze. With it came the lingering smell of your perfume.
Not much was said that could not be understood. Your radiant self, your presence, the breeze weaving itself through your hair. It all made sense. In that moment, everything that could make sense, did.
For all we know, 20 years may have passed. My ears perked up to familiar French words and familiar jazz. It was all relevant, and it wasn't. The writer observed his surroundings, looking to make sense of the real and the dream.
Was the old couple our future selves? Every so often, I'd catch her glance. The silver-haired lady spoke with conviction, with passion and determination. She'd look back as if she watched a familiar figure. Perhaps someone who loved her long ago. Perhaps she found love, knocking at her door all those years back.
In front of me, I found happiness, I found zest, I found a passion not known to most. Yet, there it was, looking into my soul, deciphering my thoughts. And I would look back once in a while, to observe the silver-haired woman and wonder if they were one and the same.
Did the setting matter? It did not. We both knew, that the time shared was inexplicably much more layered. The subtleties around us were a reflection of this cascading connection. My counterpart. Drenched in curtains part beauty and part starlight.
The rain never came. Emotions swam. The writer observed and jotted down notes in the journal of the soul. Notes that matter. Notes that speak to what was shared. The eyes spoke volumes.
The embrace came after conversation and laughter; after a culmination of shared thoughts, shared desires and thing that resonate that cannot be ignored.
The embrace signaled so much. Eyes closed. Listening. Memorable. Deeply felt. A quiet dance.
It failed goodbye. It meant much more. The clouds rolled away giving way to the sun. The writer, with his heart joyous and true, just smiled. It was the greatest of afternoons.
Not much was said that could not be understood. Your radiant self, your presence, the breeze weaving itself through your hair. It all made sense. In that moment, everything that could make sense, did.
For all we know, 20 years may have passed. My ears perked up to familiar French words and familiar jazz. It was all relevant, and it wasn't. The writer observed his surroundings, looking to make sense of the real and the dream.
Was the old couple our future selves? Every so often, I'd catch her glance. The silver-haired lady spoke with conviction, with passion and determination. She'd look back as if she watched a familiar figure. Perhaps someone who loved her long ago. Perhaps she found love, knocking at her door all those years back.
In front of me, I found happiness, I found zest, I found a passion not known to most. Yet, there it was, looking into my soul, deciphering my thoughts. And I would look back once in a while, to observe the silver-haired woman and wonder if they were one and the same.
Did the setting matter? It did not. We both knew, that the time shared was inexplicably much more layered. The subtleties around us were a reflection of this cascading connection. My counterpart. Drenched in curtains part beauty and part starlight.
The rain never came. Emotions swam. The writer observed and jotted down notes in the journal of the soul. Notes that matter. Notes that speak to what was shared. The eyes spoke volumes.
The embrace came after conversation and laughter; after a culmination of shared thoughts, shared desires and thing that resonate that cannot be ignored.
The embrace signaled so much. Eyes closed. Listening. Memorable. Deeply felt. A quiet dance.
It failed goodbye. It meant much more. The clouds rolled away giving way to the sun. The writer, with his heart joyous and true, just smiled. It was the greatest of afternoons.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Softly as in a Morning's Sunrise
The colors are blinding as night gives way to the light in an unspoken language. Long ago perhaps, this language was spoken by all. I'd like to think that the moon spoke to the sun and the stars to the night; conversations that were whispered in soft melodic tones deep in the corners of our universe.
The morning dew colored with the sunrise, in a solemn embrace crystallized in time for all time. Its colors soft and gentle allow the morning to percolate and find its center.
This unspoken language registers still when we look to the stars in the dead of night, when we caress wet flower petals, when we look outside our window as the sun's rays reach out to us. We continuously identify with our spirit and our guiding force. Everything seems germane.
I'd like to think that the sun is longing to be embraced, its arms stretched wide across the sky, hoping to reach the moon and re-enact their dance; evangelizing its intentions.
The moon, illuminated and stoic, looks upon us with beguiling eyes, revealing our path and enhancing our deepest of emotions. Children of the moon and the sun both. We rise, we fall, we find beauty in the dark and the light; an amalgamation of our being, passionate and inquisitive.
Somewhere in the distance, starlight reaches us, a light borne from the past, speaking to us and allowing us to contemplate what we cannot understand. Starlight proliferates our sensations and our most deeply held secrets, weaving its way into our proclivities and mysteries.
It is befitting perhaps, that this unspoken language is barely recognizable anymore. As softly as in a morning's sunrise, it rises unbending, calling out to memories and long lost words in its textures and shades.
Perhaps it is only meant to be understood by some. Children of the moon and the sun.
The morning dew colored with the sunrise, in a solemn embrace crystallized in time for all time. Its colors soft and gentle allow the morning to percolate and find its center.
This unspoken language registers still when we look to the stars in the dead of night, when we caress wet flower petals, when we look outside our window as the sun's rays reach out to us. We continuously identify with our spirit and our guiding force. Everything seems germane.
I'd like to think that the sun is longing to be embraced, its arms stretched wide across the sky, hoping to reach the moon and re-enact their dance; evangelizing its intentions.
The moon, illuminated and stoic, looks upon us with beguiling eyes, revealing our path and enhancing our deepest of emotions. Children of the moon and the sun both. We rise, we fall, we find beauty in the dark and the light; an amalgamation of our being, passionate and inquisitive.
Somewhere in the distance, starlight reaches us, a light borne from the past, speaking to us and allowing us to contemplate what we cannot understand. Starlight proliferates our sensations and our most deeply held secrets, weaving its way into our proclivities and mysteries.
It is befitting perhaps, that this unspoken language is barely recognizable anymore. As softly as in a morning's sunrise, it rises unbending, calling out to memories and long lost words in its textures and shades.
Perhaps it is only meant to be understood by some. Children of the moon and the sun.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Gravity
William Shakespeare once famously stated in A Midsummer Night's Dream the following, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." What makes it such a stirring quote is how it is representative of many of Shakespeare's most moving written works; to ignore what can be seen and to gravitate towards what can be felt.
We live in a world where we've lost the ability to pay attention to the vibes around us. We are conditioned to fall in love with the physical versus substance. It is a failure in recognizing the world that dances around us without being grasped.
I began rummaging through Shakespeare's works when I was 15 years old. Immediately, I was attracted to the magical properties beneath the fabric of the storytelling; there is more to the world than what can be seen. There is an energy, palpable at times, elusive in other instances, that runs through the spider-web around us. I drank his writings and spent ample time reading between the lines, to attempt to comprehend the story behind the story at such a young age.
In some stories, it lasts mere days, take Romeo and Juliet. In others, it can last a lifetime. Time is of no significance when encountered with such force. And I think Shakespeare understood that. He paid attention. To write like William, he surely felt deep rooted passions in his life at some point both young or old. As a matter of fact, there are sonnets so full of passion, that they resonate with a mysterious muse, clearly someone he loved intensely.
He left us works of such passion and intense love that nowadays are simply ignored, left on the top shelf to gather dust and wasted years.
Cupid finds himself blind; his wings clipped, his quiver empty. Embrace the tempest that is what our eyes interpret. Find instead that elusive intensity and passion found all around us, in the dance, in the strings that connect us.
We live in a world where we've lost the ability to pay attention to the vibes around us. We are conditioned to fall in love with the physical versus substance. It is a failure in recognizing the world that dances around us without being grasped.
I began rummaging through Shakespeare's works when I was 15 years old. Immediately, I was attracted to the magical properties beneath the fabric of the storytelling; there is more to the world than what can be seen. There is an energy, palpable at times, elusive in other instances, that runs through the spider-web around us. I drank his writings and spent ample time reading between the lines, to attempt to comprehend the story behind the story at such a young age.
In some stories, it lasts mere days, take Romeo and Juliet. In others, it can last a lifetime. Time is of no significance when encountered with such force. And I think Shakespeare understood that. He paid attention. To write like William, he surely felt deep rooted passions in his life at some point both young or old. As a matter of fact, there are sonnets so full of passion, that they resonate with a mysterious muse, clearly someone he loved intensely.
He left us works of such passion and intense love that nowadays are simply ignored, left on the top shelf to gather dust and wasted years.
Cupid finds himself blind; his wings clipped, his quiver empty. Embrace the tempest that is what our eyes interpret. Find instead that elusive intensity and passion found all around us, in the dance, in the strings that connect us.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Dream Gypsy
I couldn't let go. Even if I wanted to, the solemnness was deafening; the absence of rain, desperate. I told myself to be still, to stay the course. Yet, there I was, declaring emotions held deep within the caves of my soul. It happened so swiftly and took so much force, that by the end, I was breathless.
Dream Gypsy. If I should write a book for you, the titular character would be named as such. You are new and old, reserved and earth shaking. Brash, yet vulnerable. Piercing my soul with such force, that I cannot fully comprehend the whys and I dare not even attempt to turn my head and look. And during that piercing, when your sword is removed, it takes with it a piece of my soul.
Dear Gypsy. Dedicated to you are some of my aspirations, my words, my desires, my most intimate of conversations and emotions. Days and nights have been witness to such a theater; to your vulnerabilities, to your deeply held secrets, your sadness, your torment.
Yet, here we are. With some direction, with a timeline. Life is short dear Gypsy. Life beckons. In certain ways, it becomes clear. In others, it becomes elusive. We both understand.
Your poignant smile always tinged with a sadness; one I long to remove. The loneliness can be daunting at times dear Gypsy. Yet, you are still, burning inside my chest. The sword, recently removed.
In dreams, in reality, let us find that elusive happiness. Let us find the whispers that speak to just us. The storm, the silence, the things that no one else can comprehend. There is a place for us in this world dear Gypsy. And while the first few chapters may be breathless, the final few are unforgettable.
Dream Gypsy. If I should write a book for you, the titular character would be named as such. You are new and old, reserved and earth shaking. Brash, yet vulnerable. Piercing my soul with such force, that I cannot fully comprehend the whys and I dare not even attempt to turn my head and look. And during that piercing, when your sword is removed, it takes with it a piece of my soul.
Dear Gypsy. Dedicated to you are some of my aspirations, my words, my desires, my most intimate of conversations and emotions. Days and nights have been witness to such a theater; to your vulnerabilities, to your deeply held secrets, your sadness, your torment.
Yet, here we are. With some direction, with a timeline. Life is short dear Gypsy. Life beckons. In certain ways, it becomes clear. In others, it becomes elusive. We both understand.
Your poignant smile always tinged with a sadness; one I long to remove. The loneliness can be daunting at times dear Gypsy. Yet, you are still, burning inside my chest. The sword, recently removed.
In dreams, in reality, let us find that elusive happiness. Let us find the whispers that speak to just us. The storm, the silence, the things that no one else can comprehend. There is a place for us in this world dear Gypsy. And while the first few chapters may be breathless, the final few are unforgettable.
Monday, March 7, 2016
Spellbound Well Into the Morning
The standard process by which we operate contains a fatal flaw. It is something ingrained deep within our circuits and our collective experiences; our inability to find passion in the most (to some) mundane of activities.
We live in such a hurry up mode, that most signals are missed when moving from one stage in life to the other. Even in our day to day, we focus on the to do's, we focus on the items we deem most relevant; be they work related, financial status, the number of likes on a particular photo, the quagmire that is social media. We are always looking for the new car smell.
But what about stopping, and sitting and finding joys in the small things in life? Sit at a cafe and linger for hours on end, with no destination in mind. Breathing, actually breathing. Not just looking, but truly opening our eyes.
The other night, I found myself star gazing well past midnight. And I found such joy in that moment, looking up on a clear cold night. Wondering if anyone else was finding the same joy I was.
Passion. It can be found in everything. A kiss, a glance, a cup of coffee, watching the ocean, walking through uncharted alleyways, reading, writing... Be passionate. If there's one thing that we truly have no real concept of, is our time on this earth.
Make the time you spend here truly memorable. Seek passion in all your affairs. Be around passionate people. Look for others that find the remarkable in the mundane; the magical in the absolute. Look behind the veil of words and interpret their true meaning. Be passionate when passion beckons. Follow it. Wallow in it.
Perhaps as I get older, I recognize this more and more. The need, the desire to be around it. Passion. Music. Deep conversations. Long nights. Early mornings.
There is a whole realm of possibilities that open up when one tinkers with and surrenders to passion. Don't become a bystander in life. Be the hand that moves the wand, and don't just cast the spell, but become spellbound by it.
We live in such a hurry up mode, that most signals are missed when moving from one stage in life to the other. Even in our day to day, we focus on the to do's, we focus on the items we deem most relevant; be they work related, financial status, the number of likes on a particular photo, the quagmire that is social media. We are always looking for the new car smell.
But what about stopping, and sitting and finding joys in the small things in life? Sit at a cafe and linger for hours on end, with no destination in mind. Breathing, actually breathing. Not just looking, but truly opening our eyes.
The other night, I found myself star gazing well past midnight. And I found such joy in that moment, looking up on a clear cold night. Wondering if anyone else was finding the same joy I was.
Passion. It can be found in everything. A kiss, a glance, a cup of coffee, watching the ocean, walking through uncharted alleyways, reading, writing... Be passionate. If there's one thing that we truly have no real concept of, is our time on this earth.
Make the time you spend here truly memorable. Seek passion in all your affairs. Be around passionate people. Look for others that find the remarkable in the mundane; the magical in the absolute. Look behind the veil of words and interpret their true meaning. Be passionate when passion beckons. Follow it. Wallow in it.
Perhaps as I get older, I recognize this more and more. The need, the desire to be around it. Passion. Music. Deep conversations. Long nights. Early mornings.
There is a whole realm of possibilities that open up when one tinkers with and surrenders to passion. Don't become a bystander in life. Be the hand that moves the wand, and don't just cast the spell, but become spellbound by it.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Fire to the Rain
A week. A mere week. Time has a peculiar way of compartmentalizing, or in some cases, taking a lifetime of memories and consolidating them into mere days. It's haunting truly, to look back and relive these moments of such exquisite pleasure, in such a small window. The simple things.
Life trickles by unnoticed at times. You get used to things. You get used to normalcy, an order to things. Which is why when something magical just so happens to register, it registers with thunder; it registers with fire and with rain.
It is possible that the entire time, you've been seeking it, subconsciously. Wishing that this magic materializes in the most unexpected of times. Under a blanket of stars. Intoxicating.
This magic is enthralling. It takes a hold of you with such force. Your entire being shakes, you lack focus. You long for more. And you hope it never goes away.
How does one deal with this newly found force? Why is it here, when life gets in the way?
Perhaps, it is meant to be a part of life rather than an illusion. Perhaps it is no mere illusion, but rather the recognition of something greater, a signal, a beacon. It illuminates every crevice of your soul. How else to reconcile the subtleties of it all; the spark, the glances, the vibrations, the meaning between the lines, the forcefulness of such things.
I long to revisit this force, in my dreams, my thoughts and in reality. Because that's where I feel it belongs; this magic, this sweet perfume of collective words, unspoken, yet so very real.
The rain, a mere background for the spectacle of unspoken words. The fire, a force of change, burning away old and jumbled memories, giving way to the recognition of something that cannot and should not be ignored. The universe has a funny way of correcting things.
The coals whisper as the rain drops fall one after the other. They whisper in the dead of night. Remember this. Remember how we set fire to the rain. Give time to time. Remember. And let us set fire to it once again.
Life trickles by unnoticed at times. You get used to things. You get used to normalcy, an order to things. Which is why when something magical just so happens to register, it registers with thunder; it registers with fire and with rain.
It is possible that the entire time, you've been seeking it, subconsciously. Wishing that this magic materializes in the most unexpected of times. Under a blanket of stars. Intoxicating.
This magic is enthralling. It takes a hold of you with such force. Your entire being shakes, you lack focus. You long for more. And you hope it never goes away.
How does one deal with this newly found force? Why is it here, when life gets in the way?
Perhaps, it is meant to be a part of life rather than an illusion. Perhaps it is no mere illusion, but rather the recognition of something greater, a signal, a beacon. It illuminates every crevice of your soul. How else to reconcile the subtleties of it all; the spark, the glances, the vibrations, the meaning between the lines, the forcefulness of such things.
I long to revisit this force, in my dreams, my thoughts and in reality. Because that's where I feel it belongs; this magic, this sweet perfume of collective words, unspoken, yet so very real.
The rain, a mere background for the spectacle of unspoken words. The fire, a force of change, burning away old and jumbled memories, giving way to the recognition of something that cannot and should not be ignored. The universe has a funny way of correcting things.
The coals whisper as the rain drops fall one after the other. They whisper in the dead of night. Remember this. Remember how we set fire to the rain. Give time to time. Remember. And let us set fire to it once again.
Monday, February 29, 2016
The Elusiveness of the Wolf
An attempt at understanding signals can be construed as an exercise in torture or worse. There are subtleties that envelop what we do in such ways, that they render us unable to speak, unable to move. We feel as if suspended in air, a cautionary tale for other wandering souls, looking for ground beneath their feet.
As the world churns along, we become desensitized to innate nuances, gut feelings once considered emphatic and deliberate. The more likely scenario is that we are herded like sheep, unable to discern the sheepherder from the wolf.
This is one of those crossroads where it seems unlikely that either decision will be the correct one; the proverbial lesser of two evils. But why do we find ourselves in such a dilemma? Typically, our actions leads to other actions, which inevitably present themselves in either rewards or consequences. But is it truly this black and white? Is there room perhaps for shades of grey to manifest themselves?
Perhaps as we lose our primal sense of self, the task becomes harder to scrutinize; the magnifying glass foggier with time, elusive.
Social media has become a beacon for tag lines of such vitriolic nature that one has to wonder, do people truly believe in what is spewed out of their mouths? We are constantly bombarded by opinions which range from idiotic to slightly idiotic. The range truly does not deviate from this path.
For every 400 times I stumble upon either a tagline or a self-indulgent summary, one does wonder... to quote the awesome 80's band Queensryche,
"Is there anybody listening?
Is there anyone that sees what's going on?
Read between the lines, criticize the words they're selling
Read between the lines, criticize the words they're selling
Think for yourself and feel the walls become sand beneath your feet"
- Anybody Listening - Queensryche
Say it over and over again, until it becomes who/what you are. Be the one that is able to identify with the subtleties and nuances of the universe. Charge the gates of your castle. Focus. Regain what we are desperately losing; our sense of self, our instincts. Join the collective efforts to improve our condition not by smiting the weird and unhinged, but by grasping to what still remains and inviting those with similar focus into your circle.
Our instincts. Use them. Listen to that innate voice that does not self-indulge, but rather it smooths out the wrinkles to persevere and conquer. I am the wolf.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
The World Needs Luke Skywalker
It has been 30 years since we last saw the green Jedi light-saber being twirled around by one Luke Skywalker. Our last glimpse of him
puts him next to his comrades celebrating the fall of the Empire. Sure, we all
experienced the entire prequel trilogy, and while Anakin showed glimpses of heroism,
we still hearkened back to the days of old; the boy from Tattooine.
What is it about Luke Skywalker? He has become a
mythological character, our Achilles or Odysseus. The last 15 years have
resulted in a surge of heroic characters and trilogies. Take your pick of
Spider Man, Superman, Avengers, Iron Man, Captain America, X-Men and so on.
They’ve all come and gone, yet, the void remains. In those same 15 years, we’ve
experienced terror across the globe in many forms, some more sinister than
others, all leaving their mark.
To explore that void, we must go back to our childhood,
that supernova of pop culture that was the 80’s. I was too young to remember
Episodes 4 and 5, but 1985’s Return of the Jedi left an indelible mark in my psyche. Luke was the representation of hope, goodness, redemption, heroism. He
was Odysseus and Achilles and maybe even Superman.
That’s the thing about Luke. He was an amalgamation of
all of these virtues. TV made Star Wars characters into household names. Vader
and Skywalker and Solo and Leia; these were intermingled with Magic and Kareem
and Bird and Ripken. Who didn’t want to be Luke Skywalker, mechanical hand and
all? We all did, though we always had a few dark side seekers, lovers of all
things Vader.
We need our heroes now more than ever. The dark side has
spread its doctrine to every corner of the globe. The world needs hope, it
needs its mythological representation of hope to return.
It is perhaps apropos, that we will see one Luke
Skywalker return come December 18th. Perhaps he’ll sport a beard or a goatee.
Perhaps he will no longer be young. Yet all that know him will see him as just
Luke. The eyes of childhood will look upon their hero and rejoice once again.
The world needs Luke. The world needs light. May the
Force be with us once again.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Stations
I have these recurrent dreams where I am chasing drug dealers on foot. At times I have a gun in my hand. Other times, I simply chase. My brain is saturated with episodes of an HBO series known as "The Wire". I cannot stop watching. I go to bed at crazy hours of the night because I simply cannot look away.
In between episodes of the aforementioned show, I've been caring for my father at his home. Things did not work out as previously planned during my stay here in Florida, with my mother landing in the hospital due to severely elevated blood pressure. Nonetheless, these past two weeks in Florida have been a godsend. I've spent time with my parents, my brother and nephews, milking as much time as possible from those encounters.
You see, the element of time is an unforgiving bastard. It steals moments from you when least expected. It speeds up when you least want it to. It drives the engine of despair to a grinding halt at times rendering you obsolete to anything but pain.
My dear father has improved his condition since the stroke, but we are far from declaring victory. His speech is still sluggish, his left arm and leg remain impaired. His mind muddled at times, unsure of the day of the week or the calendar date. Yet, his memories remain a spectacle to cherish.
During my Mother's stints at the hospital this week, Dad and I have shared coffee together. I've cooked for him, I've bathed him, I've tucked him in, I've cared for him. And in that sliver of time, that precious window, we have shared memories; of his childhood, his life being brought up in a small wooded house, surrounded by coffee, cows, fruits and all manners of trees. He talks about his legendary pub crawls in Puerto Rico with old friends and long gone family members.
With each sip of coffee, more conversations arise, around music, about long-lost muses, politics, tranquil waters and the art of making chicken soup. I cherish each sip. I watch him intently, this tower of a man who has built his life upon hard work, sacrifice and a relentless drive to better his condition for the sake of his own.
His eyes are dim at times, darting around as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. I weep inside. He praises my sandwiches and frequently mentions restaurants he wants me to visit during my stay. Of course, he wants to tag along.
It's hard to understand unless you have lived your life beside his; unless you have admired him up close and personal. It's heartbreaking. At other times, it angers me, to see him in his state. Yet, he remains ever wise, and ever quick to quip about me forgetting to dry his back or failing to get him a beer.
I haven't written in quite some time. Yet this week, my mind was filled with things I needed to jot down. Observations.
I sit close by his side, and we talk like father and son. I look towards the sky and nod appreciatively. I understand my station.
In between episodes of the aforementioned show, I've been caring for my father at his home. Things did not work out as previously planned during my stay here in Florida, with my mother landing in the hospital due to severely elevated blood pressure. Nonetheless, these past two weeks in Florida have been a godsend. I've spent time with my parents, my brother and nephews, milking as much time as possible from those encounters.
You see, the element of time is an unforgiving bastard. It steals moments from you when least expected. It speeds up when you least want it to. It drives the engine of despair to a grinding halt at times rendering you obsolete to anything but pain.
My dear father has improved his condition since the stroke, but we are far from declaring victory. His speech is still sluggish, his left arm and leg remain impaired. His mind muddled at times, unsure of the day of the week or the calendar date. Yet, his memories remain a spectacle to cherish.
During my Mother's stints at the hospital this week, Dad and I have shared coffee together. I've cooked for him, I've bathed him, I've tucked him in, I've cared for him. And in that sliver of time, that precious window, we have shared memories; of his childhood, his life being brought up in a small wooded house, surrounded by coffee, cows, fruits and all manners of trees. He talks about his legendary pub crawls in Puerto Rico with old friends and long gone family members.
With each sip of coffee, more conversations arise, around music, about long-lost muses, politics, tranquil waters and the art of making chicken soup. I cherish each sip. I watch him intently, this tower of a man who has built his life upon hard work, sacrifice and a relentless drive to better his condition for the sake of his own.
His eyes are dim at times, darting around as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. I weep inside. He praises my sandwiches and frequently mentions restaurants he wants me to visit during my stay. Of course, he wants to tag along.
It's hard to understand unless you have lived your life beside his; unless you have admired him up close and personal. It's heartbreaking. At other times, it angers me, to see him in his state. Yet, he remains ever wise, and ever quick to quip about me forgetting to dry his back or failing to get him a beer.
I haven't written in quite some time. Yet this week, my mind was filled with things I needed to jot down. Observations.
I sit close by his side, and we talk like father and son. I look towards the sky and nod appreciatively. I understand my station.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Asleep
I've abstained from writing for quite some time. I was unsure as to whether I'd be able to convey thoughts and interpretations in a clear and concise voice. Dare I say, words failed me. Perhaps it was I that failed them. This inability to function as a writer cannibalized my emotions until there was barely nothing but a void. Emptiness.
October 29th, 2014. That was when Superman found himself in a hospital bed, barely unable to move or convey words comprehensively. A stroke to the right side of his head rendered him immobile. Asleep. Distant voices and ghostly images became familiar. His head swollen with despair and unimaginable pain. Almost too much to bear.
The nights of October 31st, November 1st and 2nd will never abandon my memory. These were the nights I stayed with him overnight in a hospital room. I watched him sleep, watched him struggle to make sense of it all. In that despair, I wilted physically and mentally. The darkness of those nights enveloped us without restraint like a cloak of desolation. I faltered at times to think clearly, to function coherently as it all unraveled. He simply slept, only to be awakened by pain, discomfort or primitive impulses to get up from the bed. The times that he remained awake for a few minutes, he simply pondered. The agony of the situation etched on his face, this visage I have known all my life to be one of extraordinary love and compassion towards family, friends and mere strangers.
Helplessness can be an overwhelming agent. You want to do more, to see him up, without pain, without discomfort. You give what you can mentally and physically. Never an overtly religious person, I clung to faith. I sought for it in that darkness. I implored for his well being, for no more pain. I never got angry or questioned the implications of the situation. I simply prayed and sat by his bed, watching my old man as he once watched me many moons ago.
It has certainly taken a lot of out of me these past couple of months. You change. Things like these often do change you. It has taken a lot to write this, to revisit recent scars of the soul.
He is now home and under therapy, recuperating. Looking forward to seeing his grandchildren in a few days. The darkness has subsided. Christmas nears.
On November 1st, around 2:30 AM, just days from his stroke, in one of those small windows of time where he remained awake, he thanked me. I asked him what for. He responded, for taking care of me.
There was nothing I could say back to the greatest man I have ever known. My Father.
October 29th, 2014. That was when Superman found himself in a hospital bed, barely unable to move or convey words comprehensively. A stroke to the right side of his head rendered him immobile. Asleep. Distant voices and ghostly images became familiar. His head swollen with despair and unimaginable pain. Almost too much to bear.
The nights of October 31st, November 1st and 2nd will never abandon my memory. These were the nights I stayed with him overnight in a hospital room. I watched him sleep, watched him struggle to make sense of it all. In that despair, I wilted physically and mentally. The darkness of those nights enveloped us without restraint like a cloak of desolation. I faltered at times to think clearly, to function coherently as it all unraveled. He simply slept, only to be awakened by pain, discomfort or primitive impulses to get up from the bed. The times that he remained awake for a few minutes, he simply pondered. The agony of the situation etched on his face, this visage I have known all my life to be one of extraordinary love and compassion towards family, friends and mere strangers.
Helplessness can be an overwhelming agent. You want to do more, to see him up, without pain, without discomfort. You give what you can mentally and physically. Never an overtly religious person, I clung to faith. I sought for it in that darkness. I implored for his well being, for no more pain. I never got angry or questioned the implications of the situation. I simply prayed and sat by his bed, watching my old man as he once watched me many moons ago.
It has certainly taken a lot of out of me these past couple of months. You change. Things like these often do change you. It has taken a lot to write this, to revisit recent scars of the soul.
He is now home and under therapy, recuperating. Looking forward to seeing his grandchildren in a few days. The darkness has subsided. Christmas nears.
On November 1st, around 2:30 AM, just days from his stroke, in one of those small windows of time where he remained awake, he thanked me. I asked him what for. He responded, for taking care of me.
There was nothing I could say back to the greatest man I have ever known. My Father.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
The Flaws in its Sunrise
Here we are, at the doorstep to another adventure in Paris. A place that elicits such emotions out of me on a personal level, as a citizen of the world and as just another human being. I understand. Nothing is flawless. Some carry an idealistic notion within themselves where nothing is truly flawed. While I do not count myself as those that carry such notion, it is worth mentioning that perhaps it is ok to focus on the positives, the magical and the truly inspiring.
I'd like to think I am aware of the world's problems at a micro level. How can you not be at this stage where everything is televised, tweeted, and so on...? I know the problems that plague cities such as Paris, like other major European cities. The stigma of poverty and cultural indifference permeates the air, and if you let it, can sweep you into its own tumultuous machinery of self-loathing, pity and remorse.
But that is not why I am here in one of the most truly awe-inspiring places on Earth. I am here to escape the day to day, to a place which clings to me as if part of my very air. It is an ethereal feeling that I long for, one I have yet to find elsewhere. There are magical properties in the breeze, in the sky, in the smells coming from all directions. In some cases, you feel as if you've time-traveled to a realm of magic and mystery.
On my last trip, I visited several of the more renown churches in the city, each with its own character, its own aroma. Faded memories permeated these structures and the musty air reminded one of ancient times where historical events took place. Weddings, baptisms, funerals; these are the common visitors that have strolled their halls and have approached their altars. What I witnessed was distinctly different. Prayer. In the middle of the day. In nooks and crannies, near the altar, everywhere. Faith, in a world that's almost forgotten the word's significance. To believe without evidence, whether physical or by other means. To hold onto hope when none should exist.
The events of these past few months, the Ukraine/Russia struggle, the massacres in Gaza, the many lives lost in recent air strikes and accidents, have impacted me one way or another. And perhaps as I get older I become more sensitive to the struggles of others. At the same time, I cannot let these things unsettle me.
Why Paris? Because it does not pretend to be something it is not. It is flawed, it harbors poverty, it can be culturally indifferent. It is also magical, magnificent, spellbinding in a way almost too complex to put in words. I long to be there and count the raindrops and watch the sun rise and surrender myself to hope. A solemn feeling of hope, that things will get better, before they become progressively worse. That perhaps it is not too late for us still.
For now, I will crash weddings as I did the last time. I will sit and watch the sky change colors. I will walk through cobbled streets that lead to unexpected paths. I will drink copious amounts of wine and wallow in the pursuit of happiness, even if it's for a mere seven days while speaking broken French. Life is short.
I'd like to think I am aware of the world's problems at a micro level. How can you not be at this stage where everything is televised, tweeted, and so on...? I know the problems that plague cities such as Paris, like other major European cities. The stigma of poverty and cultural indifference permeates the air, and if you let it, can sweep you into its own tumultuous machinery of self-loathing, pity and remorse.
But that is not why I am here in one of the most truly awe-inspiring places on Earth. I am here to escape the day to day, to a place which clings to me as if part of my very air. It is an ethereal feeling that I long for, one I have yet to find elsewhere. There are magical properties in the breeze, in the sky, in the smells coming from all directions. In some cases, you feel as if you've time-traveled to a realm of magic and mystery.
On my last trip, I visited several of the more renown churches in the city, each with its own character, its own aroma. Faded memories permeated these structures and the musty air reminded one of ancient times where historical events took place. Weddings, baptisms, funerals; these are the common visitors that have strolled their halls and have approached their altars. What I witnessed was distinctly different. Prayer. In the middle of the day. In nooks and crannies, near the altar, everywhere. Faith, in a world that's almost forgotten the word's significance. To believe without evidence, whether physical or by other means. To hold onto hope when none should exist.
The events of these past few months, the Ukraine/Russia struggle, the massacres in Gaza, the many lives lost in recent air strikes and accidents, have impacted me one way or another. And perhaps as I get older I become more sensitive to the struggles of others. At the same time, I cannot let these things unsettle me.
Why Paris? Because it does not pretend to be something it is not. It is flawed, it harbors poverty, it can be culturally indifferent. It is also magical, magnificent, spellbinding in a way almost too complex to put in words. I long to be there and count the raindrops and watch the sun rise and surrender myself to hope. A solemn feeling of hope, that things will get better, before they become progressively worse. That perhaps it is not too late for us still.
For now, I will crash weddings as I did the last time. I will sit and watch the sky change colors. I will walk through cobbled streets that lead to unexpected paths. I will drink copious amounts of wine and wallow in the pursuit of happiness, even if it's for a mere seven days while speaking broken French. Life is short.
Friday, May 16, 2014
The Return
Do I return to you? Unchanged, unfazed by the aftermath. Do I embrace you as I once did? You smearing your lipstick on my neckline with no second thought. It simply was. It was more than simple really. The love notes, the close encounters. Fantasizing about your smile and hair tosses. Looking deeply into your soul, with the clear and utter understanding that we belong to one another.
Was there ever truly a goodbye? Was there a finality to the pulse and the breathing? There were never such things. These are elements out of our immediate control. Time. Longing. You are beautiful. An open letter full of the sweetest lines ever written.
I return to you. My one and only Paris. See you in August..
Was there ever truly a goodbye? Was there a finality to the pulse and the breathing? There were never such things. These are elements out of our immediate control. Time. Longing. You are beautiful. An open letter full of the sweetest lines ever written.
I return to you. My one and only Paris. See you in August..
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