My friend is like a teapot. Although this statement might resound of mockery I wish to express my most total honesty and purity of sentiment.
It is undoubtful that my friend has a most peculiar penchant for order and fairness, distributing advice when requested and giving moral support to the ones in need. How else could you look at a teapot! Its simplicity of design and clearness of purpose make it the perfect candidate for a comparison with my friend. Dispensing hot and nourishing juices when parched or cold, with the democratic detachment of feeling. The inanimate teapot, void of bias or preferences, is of use to whoever seeks its cozy embrace, without prejudice nor affectation.
In the same fashion my friend has the very same reliability by design. Whenever I need support and comfort I know I can rely on my friend to provide me with the perfect combination of hugs and good words.
My friend is like a teapot, rotund and jovial. That is not to diminish in any way all the other special propensions my friend possesses but to enhance a few my friend has in great measure.
That is to say my friend is rotund in relation to the aura my friend emanates in every direction and in equal proportions. And as all can bring testament to, my friend has a jovial soul, Young and hearty, quick to laugh and ready to engage.
My friend is like a tea pot. I challenge anyone to say the opposite.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Awake
How often are we truly "awake" and attentive in the literal present? Our minds drift and linger in moments past and anxiously await and plan our steps forward. Our emotions of past events tug us into reflection, and our vast to-do lists and smart phones catapult us into the future. We are constantly distracted and prevented from from focusing on the physical present. A chapter in a philosophy book once reminded me how appreciative I should be that I actually wake up in the morning. We often take the act of waking up for granted that it doesn't usually cross our minds that there is always a sliver chance that we will NOT wake up in the morning. So what do I do in my "awakeness". When we awake in the morning do we focus on how we are feeling in the present? Am I still tired? Am I content being awake? Within my loft, I lazily come into consciousness every morning and wish I would give myself the chance to reflect if I am enjoying the sun streaming through my window. Am I happy to be simply be alive? How am I awake in the present? With what attitudes do I embrace each day? Or do I choose to ignore it all together. I embraced the second day of spring, perturbed at the snow and sleet, took a shower, wrapped myself in my towel and proceeded to go back to bed for the rest of the day. Apparently, on that day, I chose to not be awake. Can I tap into my current emotions or do I shrug them off and place someone else's emotions above my own? Can I tap into my hunger and health or do I cast them away until my current task is done, just to lift my head up hours later and realized I've missed three consecutive meals? Can I even sit still and allow myself to mentally and physically rest?
Society at-large is way too overstimulated. The mere act requires an individual to have and relinquish control all at the same time. People meet for dinner and the party of four instantly becomes a table of eight -- 4 humans, 4 smart-phones, and numerous anticipated guests and a cyber-delegation of tasks. The invisible noise is obnoxiously deafening. To shed this life of complexity and adopt one of simplicity is my challenge. To simply be. For me. And for no one else.
Society at-large is way too overstimulated. The mere act requires an individual to have and relinquish control all at the same time. People meet for dinner and the party of four instantly becomes a table of eight -- 4 humans, 4 smart-phones, and numerous anticipated guests and a cyber-delegation of tasks. The invisible noise is obnoxiously deafening. To shed this life of complexity and adopt one of simplicity is my challenge. To simply be. For me. And for no one else.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
About Nature and Awakening
Tip-toeing snow on the morning ground. Rising and spreading your arms across the sky, embracing the clouds and the brightest light. From his shack the smell of a gurgling coffee pot. Alerting critters and larger woods dwellers that the master has finally risen.
On the shore of the pond drift wood tentatively crawls out of the waters incited on by the lapping surf.
The pond, a mirror held up to the almighty, as to offer itself to his vanity, is respectfully crowded by a flock of monochrome birds, gently caressing its surface and interrupting God's reverie.
As every other day in his 31 years, he woke up trying to remember where he was, who he was, what was he going to do with another day at his disposal.
During the early hours a dream came form the abyss to remind him of childhood, his young companions and a teacher who to his eyes enjoyed cruelty. A moment prior to the opening of the gates, his rush down the hallway to regroup with his classmates. The gates opened and the deluge of younglings, running towards their issuers. A cold touch upon the shoulder, the teacher, whispering in his ear: "wait". Rage.
Light. Every day remembering who he was, where he was. Awakening as at Birth. To open ones eyes in a foreign room surrounded by alien faces. Re-birth. Memories of who we once were galloping to rescue us from ignorance or to tie us down to yester mistakes? Infinite possibilities the memory of which might take us along our day, by the hand, ethereal guardian angel, to thread our new path our new tapestry, to write our memoirs for tomorrow's self to remember.
Detailed accounts of human history are full of menial details, repeated over and over by us. By you. Life is not a mystery. Presented to us without words, just given as it is. For Simon Weil "Suicide is the only philosophical question".
On the shore of the pond drift wood tentatively crawls out of the waters incited on by the lapping surf.
The pond, a mirror held up to the almighty, as to offer itself to his vanity, is respectfully crowded by a flock of monochrome birds, gently caressing its surface and interrupting God's reverie.
As every other day in his 31 years, he woke up trying to remember where he was, who he was, what was he going to do with another day at his disposal.
During the early hours a dream came form the abyss to remind him of childhood, his young companions and a teacher who to his eyes enjoyed cruelty. A moment prior to the opening of the gates, his rush down the hallway to regroup with his classmates. The gates opened and the deluge of younglings, running towards their issuers. A cold touch upon the shoulder, the teacher, whispering in his ear: "wait". Rage.
Light. Every day remembering who he was, where he was. Awakening as at Birth. To open ones eyes in a foreign room surrounded by alien faces. Re-birth. Memories of who we once were galloping to rescue us from ignorance or to tie us down to yester mistakes? Infinite possibilities the memory of which might take us along our day, by the hand, ethereal guardian angel, to thread our new path our new tapestry, to write our memoirs for tomorrow's self to remember.
Detailed accounts of human history are full of menial details, repeated over and over by us. By you. Life is not a mystery. Presented to us without words, just given as it is. For Simon Weil "Suicide is the only philosophical question".
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Reflection vs. Sorrow
Solitude in its healthy state is intended as a temporary condition. Solitude in which one can step away to gain clarity is something we all crave. However, solitude in a suspended form may lead to sorrow, loneliness, and a cloak of emptiness. We expend much energy undulating between both extremes throughout the symphony of our lives and hope to never land permanently at either polar position. There is a quiet surrender where we just enjoy the music and soak in the movements as they are delegated and carefully choreographed by some proverbial composer. When the music stops, we will inevitably return to it for another listen, another interpretation, and perhaps experience emotions varying from its inaugural recital. We will tune our ears to hear things we hadn't heard before and will ignore things we targeted in the past. When a piece of music begins to reveal new and refreshing things, it is a symphony we will continue to revisit. Yet when it gets worn out and stale, we put it away to be replayed at another chapter. The monologue of the cello calms my soul this evening.
Solitude is comforting like an old friend, more than an old friend, it protects us, isolates us from discord and chaos.
Entering his apartment darnkes welcomed him. Occasionally disrupted by remote lighting, followed by the gentle rumbling of a storm.
As he stepped in, the familiar smell of silence. Covering momentarily his ears and closing his eyes, he travelled to a distant universe, across galaxies, nebulae and cosmic dust. Eons of incommensurable distances traveled beyond time and light, before the early universal sounds of creation and being.
He finally arrived home. Alone. An empty space to inhabit and cherish him. His Own to make and dis-make. Getting to his desk he sat and thought, for the first time in ages, about the sound of his own ideas, of his own flesh and blood, pumping through miles of veins and soft tissues.
Mozart's Requiem. The CD tray closing, the choir chasing unheard godly harmonies.
Lighting and storm. The pearled windows "screziate dalla foga femminile della tempesta".
Maybe it was time to think about his mother. The storm in so many respects reminded him of her. The bouts of darkens followed by a renewed sense of purpose and life. A sudden burst of rain, hitting violently the windows with gentle watery dots, unharmful. Life given with thrusts of temperamental rectitude.
He noticed the clock and wondered why he wasn't home yet. What could have delayed him, options kept him from surrendering to his own anxieties.
Lately life seemed without purpose. A machine spinning in distant regions, requiring an allegro motive of hassle, orchestrated by a drunken blind man.
Feeling distant and remote he lay in bed. His eyes closed he perceived the room, the emptiness around him, his own being expanding over the boundaries of his own body. An extra corporeal experience where dimensions mattered little. A boundless spirit soaring over the atomic structure of watery molecules.
Why was his ego shrinking? The previous night's argument forced him to retreat within, leaving him to pick up the pieces of the torn pages scattered across the room like insects crawling for the closed security of corners and crevices.
Night and so soothing a hue.
newly crestfallen dew.
incredulous ending.
Entering his apartment darnkes welcomed him. Occasionally disrupted by remote lighting, followed by the gentle rumbling of a storm.
As he stepped in, the familiar smell of silence. Covering momentarily his ears and closing his eyes, he travelled to a distant universe, across galaxies, nebulae and cosmic dust. Eons of incommensurable distances traveled beyond time and light, before the early universal sounds of creation and being.
He finally arrived home. Alone. An empty space to inhabit and cherish him. His Own to make and dis-make. Getting to his desk he sat and thought, for the first time in ages, about the sound of his own ideas, of his own flesh and blood, pumping through miles of veins and soft tissues.
Mozart's Requiem. The CD tray closing, the choir chasing unheard godly harmonies.
Lighting and storm. The pearled windows "screziate dalla foga femminile della tempesta".
Maybe it was time to think about his mother. The storm in so many respects reminded him of her. The bouts of darkens followed by a renewed sense of purpose and life. A sudden burst of rain, hitting violently the windows with gentle watery dots, unharmful. Life given with thrusts of temperamental rectitude.
He noticed the clock and wondered why he wasn't home yet. What could have delayed him, options kept him from surrendering to his own anxieties.
Lately life seemed without purpose. A machine spinning in distant regions, requiring an allegro motive of hassle, orchestrated by a drunken blind man.
Feeling distant and remote he lay in bed. His eyes closed he perceived the room, the emptiness around him, his own being expanding over the boundaries of his own body. An extra corporeal experience where dimensions mattered little. A boundless spirit soaring over the atomic structure of watery molecules.
Why was his ego shrinking? The previous night's argument forced him to retreat within, leaving him to pick up the pieces of the torn pages scattered across the room like insects crawling for the closed security of corners and crevices.
Night and so soothing a hue.
newly crestfallen dew.
incredulous ending.
Embracing the Palimpsest
While one might perceive the proverbial white canvas of life as a delicate object, the actions we approach our respective canvases are actually much bolder than we admit. The painter within me cannot start with a blank canvas and systematically orchestrate my final image in one fell swoop. Instead I quickly obliterate the empty space and begin to occupy the boards with a concoction of superimposed silhouettes of color, thoughts, images, and evoked emotion that allow me to sift through layers of life reflections and gain clarity on whatever thought I am entertaining during that period in my life.
In parallel to our lives, starting at birth we brush on our existential layers with the same forceful nature. We charge out the gates within a conscious oblivion, dogmatic haphazardness, and awkwardness. We process and archive our experiences into our souls, the crevices of our mind, and perhaps into our physical. It is through the progression of time, we can become introspective about our processes and reflect which layers we will intentionally keep buried, scrape away, and/or re-veal/recover. The persistent reflection, regurgitation, and resurrection of insight, experiences, and lessons is what allows us to embrace and really appreciate the palimpsest and unpredictabilities of life. The bitter, the ecstatic, and everything in between. It is within the palimpsest we find passion, purpose, and potential. Clarity within the chaos.
In parallel to our lives, starting at birth we brush on our existential layers with the same forceful nature. We charge out the gates within a conscious oblivion, dogmatic haphazardness, and awkwardness. We process and archive our experiences into our souls, the crevices of our mind, and perhaps into our physical. It is through the progression of time, we can become introspective about our processes and reflect which layers we will intentionally keep buried, scrape away, and/or re-veal/recover. The persistent reflection, regurgitation, and resurrection of insight, experiences, and lessons is what allows us to embrace and really appreciate the palimpsest and unpredictabilities of life. The bitter, the ecstatic, and everything in between. It is within the palimpsest we find passion, purpose, and potential. Clarity within the chaos.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"In principio c'era la luce"
The beginning is a delicate time.
Uncertainty of purpose, finding your own way with shuffling and unsteady foot. Seeking grace and solace within the feeble boundaries of introspection and self discovery.
A slow cooking concoction of thoughts, desires, visions, dreams.
Steering clear from pollutants and distractions we start this Blog.
The blank, white canvas presents itself to the painter as a nude, available, daunting muse. The first lines, which define the space are almost offensive to the immaculate perfection of the blank picture.
Why and how.
To work yourself, to push the words out in the open, thus moving away from the original, the open possibility.
All and everything in display and yet just a breeze, gentle and soothing, rustling hills and woods. Words layered one next to each other in unresolved continuity. Leading the reader over the sensible path of grammar and syntax without concern for truth nor rectitude, just a thought leading another hoping for an answer.
I hope one day to describe in detail my hopes and dreams, visions and desires. To own them, so to speak, with the literal self. The task is perilous, full of dangers and traps. Will it end in banality, convention, cliche, claustrophobic dead ends?
"In the beginning there was light"
This is my first try, forgive me for my inexperience.
Uncertainty of purpose, finding your own way with shuffling and unsteady foot. Seeking grace and solace within the feeble boundaries of introspection and self discovery.
A slow cooking concoction of thoughts, desires, visions, dreams.
Steering clear from pollutants and distractions we start this Blog.
The blank, white canvas presents itself to the painter as a nude, available, daunting muse. The first lines, which define the space are almost offensive to the immaculate perfection of the blank picture.
Why and how.
To work yourself, to push the words out in the open, thus moving away from the original, the open possibility.
All and everything in display and yet just a breeze, gentle and soothing, rustling hills and woods. Words layered one next to each other in unresolved continuity. Leading the reader over the sensible path of grammar and syntax without concern for truth nor rectitude, just a thought leading another hoping for an answer.
I hope one day to describe in detail my hopes and dreams, visions and desires. To own them, so to speak, with the literal self. The task is perilous, full of dangers and traps. Will it end in banality, convention, cliche, claustrophobic dead ends?
"In the beginning there was light"
This is my first try, forgive me for my inexperience.
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