Well, dear friend and reader, S.O.S. is nearing completion. This means that I'm back from the doldrums of the blogosphere, just in time to see off winter and welcome in the plethora of springtime inspiration and cliché rebirth. Speaking of cliché, read my latest entry...
The Ophthalmologist's Dirty Little Secret
Long before I could even think,
they placed over me the lens of credulity,
as common and routine
as a childhood vaccine,
nearly drowning me in the act,
to forgive my transgressions unforeseen.
From then on, when I came upon beauty,
the sky, a face, a particular melody,
I would thank him profusely,
for I truly believed
in the creator of which this lens conceived.
And long before I could articulate an idea
they prescribed the lens of national honor,
which filtered false sentiments of superiority,
reinforced by the pressing majority,
applauding our sunlight as the brightest,
our defects the slightest,
our war the noblest fight,
our sundown the starriest night,
and making us the apple of our creator's eye,
having won his blessings and favor
so that everything within these demarcations
is the chosen fruit of his divine labor.
And not long before I could thoroughly reason,
just in time for my scholarly season,
all the trained ophthalmologists around me
had prescribed the lens of ideologies;
the Us and Them schisms,
shimmering and alluring isms,
and other divisive tendencies,
whose highbrow dogmas gave me deep conviction,
and that basic sense of inclusion -
Ah yes! - the comfort of secular religion
and its widespread, reassuring delusion.
And not long before I had reached maturity,
they prescribed the lens of achieving,
honed through the science of insecurity,
whose measurements were generally misleading,
tactfully inexact,
and by means of comparison only.
"What's the conversion rate of success,"
I once asked naively,
"into overall well-being?"
"Nothing you can afford,"
they all laughed with averted eyes,
"you're better off just dreaming."
And every time I wiped the lenses clean,
I was more bewildered than before.
It wasn't until I took them out,
I quickly realized there was more.
To find Truth, you have to know lies
and see beyond the lenses on your eyes,
for everything that stands holds a claim
in that five letter trap,
that philosophical word game,
the unreliable map.
Truth as a word is but abstraction,
suffering gravely from its meaninglessness,
though it never fails to impress
those who aspire to someday being clever.
Like all slippery ruminations,
Truth, - how I cringe at the sound -
no different than the stumbling drunken abomination
when crutch-less,
falls flat on the ground.
Truth pales next to what is true,
real and tangible, like a Doric pillar,
whose atoms are finite,
whose existence is absolute and enduring,
and whose design is humble and steadfast,
supporting a civilization.
Even the wooden crutches under Truth's scrawny arms
have more truth than Truth itself.
They are the rapping as it hobbles
in search of an easy mark;
the crashing when Truth slips,
and splits its face on the concrete
with a muted thud.
"Real truth is objectivity,"
I woke up elated one day,
"the arbitrator of all relativity!
Like a camera lens it watches
and doesn't judge.
It connects the witness and the crime.
Truth is and I am.
I am and you are.
Truth is observation.
Truth is perception," I cried,
"Truth is perception."
It was as though I had discovered a hidden lens
that ophthalmologists had ever mentioned,
the ophthalmologists' dirty little secret,
determined to keep hidden
the lens of awareness and attention.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Saturday, February 22, 2014
For all the sleeping souls...
This is probably one of my favorite poems for many reasons, particularly because I have seen so much passion and potential in those around me throughout my life nearly ground to dust by the rat race of "work for money to eat - tired from work - submit to entertainment - turn off your mind - go to sleep - repeat" cycle. This is for all of you. Rise up and walk! Be great!
Del salón en el ángulo oscuro,
de su dueña tal vez olvidada,
silenciosa y cubierta de polvo
veíase el arpa.
¡Cuánta nota dormía en sus cuerdas
como el pájaro duerme en las ramas,
esperando la mano de nieve
que sabe arrancarlas!
¡Ay! pensé; ¡cuántas veces el genio
así duerme en el fondo del alma,
y una voz, como Lázaro, espera
que le diga: "¡Levántate y anda!".
-Gustavo Bécquer
From the sitting room in the dark corner,
perhaps forgotten by its owner,
silent and covered with dust,
one could see the harp.
How many notes rested in its strings
like the bird that sleeps in the branches,
awaiting the hand of snow
that knows how to pluck them.
Oh! - I thought - How often genius,
similarly, sleeps at the bottom of the soul,
and waits for a voice, like Lazarus,
to be told: "Rise up and walk!"
Del salón en el ángulo oscuro,
de su dueña tal vez olvidada,
silenciosa y cubierta de polvo
veíase el arpa.
¡Cuánta nota dormía en sus cuerdas
como el pájaro duerme en las ramas,
esperando la mano de nieve
que sabe arrancarlas!
¡Ay! pensé; ¡cuántas veces el genio
así duerme en el fondo del alma,
y una voz, como Lázaro, espera
que le diga: "¡Levántate y anda!".
-Gustavo Bécquer
perhaps forgotten by its owner,
silent and covered with dust,
one could see the harp.
How many notes rested in its strings
like the bird that sleeps in the branches,
awaiting the hand of snow
that knows how to pluck them.
Oh! - I thought - How often genius,
similarly, sleeps at the bottom of the soul,
and waits for a voice, like Lazarus,
to be told: "Rise up and walk!"
Thursday, May 9, 2013
"A Question I Never Considered"
I thought I was bright,
but it appears truth penetrates light.
I thought I was right,
but answers are as elusive as dreams.
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
I bet you'd love to smash that fly,
its twitching wings across the classifieds;
Whereas I'd just open a window, smile and say,
"The morning light is guiding and wide."
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
"I don't want to die," she said.
"I don't want to die."
We made love and I asked,
"Do you feel alive?"
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
"Everything I envy is waiting out there.
And all my uncertainty is nesting here.
I have nowhere to hide," she cried,
"Nowhere to hide."
"If it helps," I said, "I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry."
Her puzzled look seemed to ask, jaded and teary eyed,
"Why not, if the morning light is guiding and wide?"
but it appears truth penetrates light.
I thought I was right,
but answers are as elusive as dreams.
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
I bet you'd love to smash that fly,
its twitching wings across the classifieds;
Whereas I'd just open a window, smile and say,
"The morning light is guiding and wide."
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
"I don't want to die," she said.
"I don't want to die."
We made love and I asked,
"Do you feel alive?"
I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry.
"Everything I envy is waiting out there.
And all my uncertainty is nesting here.
I have nowhere to hide," she cried,
"Nowhere to hide."
"If it helps," I said, "I don't dare hang my clothes out to dry."
Her puzzled look seemed to ask, jaded and teary eyed,
"Why not, if the morning light is guiding and wide?"
Friday, July 13, 2012
A brief history of democracy as it is practiced today
In the late Middle Ages in Wales there was a farmer who acquired a large amount of animals, more than he would ever need for a modest and prosperous farm. He was able to purchase so many animals because he had accidentally wandered into some extra cash, Lord knows how. However, due to the rapid depletion of grazing space on his farm from his plethora of hungry animals, he decided to break down his iron gate so that the animals could roam free and eat all the grass and grain they pleased, even that of neighboring farms.
Quickly, the farmer began to receive complaints from neighbors that the animals were wandering onto people's properties, eating the feed for their own animals, scaring women and children, snatching food from tables, and even making their way into town where they sometimes stood smack dab in the middle of roadways, blocking the path of carriages for up to hours. The entire village was soon fed up and went to the farmer and told him to fix his gate so that the animals could no longer wander off his property.
The farmer, being a successful and clever capitalist, decided to use democracy to his advantage. He told the village to vote on how he should fix the problem, thus they would choose the best solution and the farmer knew that couldn't be held responsible for what would happen henceforth. He gave them the option of the screwdriver or the hammer. He told them about the wonders that nails have done in the past: how thanks to nails and hammers even our ancient ancestors could build houses and boats; that the hammer had existed for centuries and had served man well, so why use anything else. Then he preached about the technical ingenuity of the screw and the screwdriver, praising them as hallmarks of progress. He told them to think it over that night and the vote would take place the following morning.
At first people thought it was absurd to fix an iron gate with anything but a blacksmith. However, the farmer argued that a blacksmith was just impractical and wishful thinking, and since the farmer knew absolutely nothing about welding and there was no blacksmith living in the village, it would have to be the hammer or the screwdriver. To create support for the two options, the farmer promised two of his friends a small cut of the money he made from the extra animals if they would each campaign for one of the two choices. They agreed and got right down to campaigning. Before long, the lines were drawn in the sand. By nightfall, many people began to fervently defend the virtues of nails and screws.
Families became divided: Children were sent to bed supperless for going against their parent's choices; wives were beaten for deciding to vote opposite to their husbands; husbands were given undercooked food so that they would be too sick to vote the following day. Friends became enemies. Bar fights erupted more frequently than Mt. Etna. Even the farmer's two friends who were put in charge of the campaigns began to feel nothing but disdain for the other. Support for the two sides grew quickly. People donated money to the two campaign heads so that they could work solely toward winning the election. Even those who had next to nothing were giving their finest linens or what little food or animals they had to their respective campaigns. Musicians were hired on both sides to draw in the undecided voters. This carried on through a sleepless night. The spirit of competition was in full swing.
By sunrise, the debate was heated. The town was covered with makeshift signs, touting the greatness of each device. At 9 am, hundreds of villagers showed up to vote. After the votes were tallied, everyone gathered around to hear who the winner was. The broken iron gate was the last thing on anybody's mind at that point. What mattered was which device would prevail. The farmer's animals were wandering through the crowds as if they were curious onlookers. A man got up on a stool with a small piece of paper in his hand, overlooking the faces of fury and intense conviction.
A young child about 11 years old began shouting at the backs of the crowd. Silence grew as the people turned around to see the little blond boy. He began to call it all a big farce. He said that what they were doing was insane and that even an 11 year old could see that. He pleaded for reason, saying that there were more ways to stop animals from escaping, such as wire fences or stone walls, and that they were being deceived. He mentioned that the two campaign heads were lifelong friends of the farmer and that he really has no intentions of fixing the gate. He also pointed out the most ridiculous fact of all which was that any nails or screws would have to be welded, so it would make more sense for that same blacksmith, however far away he maybe, to just fix the iron gate.
After a short silence, a contagious laughter spread throughout the masses. They began to ridicule the child, calling him a stupid tawpie. Some began to hurl the feces at the boy that were left on the ground from the farmer's animals. A nail & hammer supporter picked up a rock that he could barely get his hand around and launched it at the innocent voice of reason. The rock caught the child right on the bridge of the nose and knocked him unconscious. The great cheer that followed the young dissident's demise could be heard echoing almost a mile into the surrounding forest. The crowd returned its attention to the speaker, anxious to hear the winner.
The man slowly unfolded the paper. The silence was deafening. Even the farmer's animals were quiet and still as if they somehow knew that the decision would affect them. The speaker looked up at the crowd and announced that the screwdriver was the winner. There was a great uproar on both sides; one in joy and celebration and the other in anger and bitterness. The farmer happily agreed that he would use the screwdriver to repair the broken gate.
After one year had passed, the farmer had yet to fix the gate. He spent most of his time justifying his inaction with excuses that weren't very clever, just clever enough keep the villagers from revolting against him and his overweight farm animals. He often said that he needed different size screws or that he was waiting on a new screwdriver to be sent in from a distant village. After another year had passed, people began to forget all about the elections and just got used to the inconveniences caused by the farm animals. They eventually found satisfaction in their complacency and couldn't imagine a life without the frequent annoyances caused by the farmer's animals.
As for the young boy, he quickly realized that you can't use reason in politics. He saw how easy it was to mislead people through misinformation, however democratic it all may seem. Taking the weary man's attitude of If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, he eventually found a cozy place among the English nobility, who like him were deformed at the nose, where he lived out the rest of his days, safe in the knowledge that there will always be two types of people in the world: those who want to live in illusions and the illusionists who fulfill their unconscious desire for solidarity in mass docility.
Hungry Cows
Hungry Goat
Quickly, the farmer began to receive complaints from neighbors that the animals were wandering onto people's properties, eating the feed for their own animals, scaring women and children, snatching food from tables, and even making their way into town where they sometimes stood smack dab in the middle of roadways, blocking the path of carriages for up to hours. The entire village was soon fed up and went to the farmer and told him to fix his gate so that the animals could no longer wander off his property.
Chickens on Neighboring Farms
The farmer, being a successful and clever capitalist, decided to use democracy to his advantage. He told the village to vote on how he should fix the problem, thus they would choose the best solution and the farmer knew that couldn't be held responsible for what would happen henceforth. He gave them the option of the screwdriver or the hammer. He told them about the wonders that nails have done in the past: how thanks to nails and hammers even our ancient ancestors could build houses and boats; that the hammer had existed for centuries and had served man well, so why use anything else. Then he preached about the technical ingenuity of the screw and the screwdriver, praising them as hallmarks of progress. He told them to think it over that night and the vote would take place the following morning.
Scheming Medieval Farmer
At first people thought it was absurd to fix an iron gate with anything but a blacksmith. However, the farmer argued that a blacksmith was just impractical and wishful thinking, and since the farmer knew absolutely nothing about welding and there was no blacksmith living in the village, it would have to be the hammer or the screwdriver. To create support for the two options, the farmer promised two of his friends a small cut of the money he made from the extra animals if they would each campaign for one of the two choices. They agreed and got right down to campaigning. Before long, the lines were drawn in the sand. By nightfall, many people began to fervently defend the virtues of nails and screws.
"wishful thinking"
Medieval Hammer
Medieval Screwdriver
Families became divided: Children were sent to bed supperless for going against their parent's choices; wives were beaten for deciding to vote opposite to their husbands; husbands were given undercooked food so that they would be too sick to vote the following day. Friends became enemies. Bar fights erupted more frequently than Mt. Etna. Even the farmer's two friends who were put in charge of the campaigns began to feel nothing but disdain for the other. Support for the two sides grew quickly. People donated money to the two campaign heads so that they could work solely toward winning the election. Even those who had next to nothing were giving their finest linens or what little food or animals they had to their respective campaigns. Musicians were hired on both sides to draw in the undecided voters. This carried on through a sleepless night. The spirit of competition was in full swing.
Typical Medieval Wife-beater...
Just Kidding! It's more like this...
Actual Medieval Wife-beater
By sunrise, the debate was heated. The town was covered with makeshift signs, touting the greatness of each device. At 9 am, hundreds of villagers showed up to vote. After the votes were tallied, everyone gathered around to hear who the winner was. The broken iron gate was the last thing on anybody's mind at that point. What mattered was which device would prevail. The farmer's animals were wandering through the crowds as if they were curious onlookers. A man got up on a stool with a small piece of paper in his hand, overlooking the faces of fury and intense conviction.
"Faces of fury and intense conviction"
A young child about 11 years old began shouting at the backs of the crowd. Silence grew as the people turned around to see the little blond boy. He began to call it all a big farce. He said that what they were doing was insane and that even an 11 year old could see that. He pleaded for reason, saying that there were more ways to stop animals from escaping, such as wire fences or stone walls, and that they were being deceived. He mentioned that the two campaign heads were lifelong friends of the farmer and that he really has no intentions of fixing the gate. He also pointed out the most ridiculous fact of all which was that any nails or screws would have to be welded, so it would make more sense for that same blacksmith, however far away he maybe, to just fix the iron gate.
Child
After a short silence, a contagious laughter spread throughout the masses. They began to ridicule the child, calling him a stupid tawpie. Some began to hurl the feces at the boy that were left on the ground from the farmer's animals. A nail & hammer supporter picked up a rock that he could barely get his hand around and launched it at the innocent voice of reason. The rock caught the child right on the bridge of the nose and knocked him unconscious. The great cheer that followed the young dissident's demise could be heard echoing almost a mile into the surrounding forest. The crowd returned its attention to the speaker, anxious to hear the winner.
Feces that were thrown at the boy
The man slowly unfolded the paper. The silence was deafening. Even the farmer's animals were quiet and still as if they somehow knew that the decision would affect them. The speaker looked up at the crowd and announced that the screwdriver was the winner. There was a great uproar on both sides; one in joy and celebration and the other in anger and bitterness. The farmer happily agreed that he would use the screwdriver to repair the broken gate.
After one year had passed, the farmer had yet to fix the gate. He spent most of his time justifying his inaction with excuses that weren't very clever, just clever enough keep the villagers from revolting against him and his overweight farm animals. He often said that he needed different size screws or that he was waiting on a new screwdriver to be sent in from a distant village. After another year had passed, people began to forget all about the elections and just got used to the inconveniences caused by the farm animals. They eventually found satisfaction in their complacency and couldn't imagine a life without the frequent annoyances caused by the farmer's animals.
As for the young boy, he quickly realized that you can't use reason in politics. He saw how easy it was to mislead people through misinformation, however democratic it all may seem. Taking the weary man's attitude of If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, he eventually found a cozy place among the English nobility, who like him were deformed at the nose, where he lived out the rest of his days, safe in the knowledge that there will always be two types of people in the world: those who want to live in illusions and the illusionists who fulfill their unconscious desire for solidarity in mass docility.
Boy who became a nobleman/illusionist
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"La piel que habito" (The Skin I Live in) by Pedro Almodóvar
About a week ago, maybe less, maybe more, who really remembers anyway, I went with the ever-so-lovely Bea la bella to see Pedro Almodóvar's latest release, La piel que habito. After a nice stroll through the Parque del Buen Retiro, a large park of endless trees, paths, statue fountains and flowers, we made it to the theater. Having never seen an Almodóvar flick in Spain, I was particularly excited about what lay before us. I was imagining the colors, the passion, a shirtless Antonio Banderas, and the accompaniment of cellos, all classic of Almodovar's beautifully dark films. We took our seats (assigned seats, that is; going to the cinema is like going to a baseball game) and got Pedrofied.
Dark it was. For me, a very humorous dark. A plot that teeters the brink of absudity and genius, it is great for anybody who likes Fargo or movies with forced sex changes. I don't want to give any more of the plot away because its unfolding is half the fun of the film. Some could call Banderas' character sick (as I'm sure Bea la bella would), but others could see him as a man capable of love, lost in a quest for vengeance. I won't digress into any Wrath of Khan parallels for your sake, but I must say that Ricardo Montalbán's strategy for revenge is uncalculating and barbarically simple next to Banderas' sadistically erotic version of 'eye for an eye', or more appropriately, a 'vag for a cock'. With a quality supporting cast, and a few reocurring Almodovarians, La piel que habito examines what makes us who we are, why we do the things we do, and how deep within us lie our true selves.
Dark it was. For me, a very humorous dark. A plot that teeters the brink of absudity and genius, it is great for anybody who likes Fargo or movies with forced sex changes. I don't want to give any more of the plot away because its unfolding is half the fun of the film. Some could call Banderas' character sick (as I'm sure Bea la bella would), but others could see him as a man capable of love, lost in a quest for vengeance. I won't digress into any Wrath of Khan parallels for your sake, but I must say that Ricardo Montalbán's strategy for revenge is uncalculating and barbarically simple next to Banderas' sadistically erotic version of 'eye for an eye', or more appropriately, a 'vag for a cock'. With a quality supporting cast, and a few reocurring Almodovarians, La piel que habito examines what makes us who we are, why we do the things we do, and how deep within us lie our true selves.
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