Pigeons

Perhaps it was a bit of naivete in thinking that one could be a writer.  As with everything in life, one must first see things through the eyes of a child--and play like a child--if one is to even stand up and walk.  But when one walks, we see higher--and we see from above.  Perhaps that is why pigeons don't care where they shit; they have learned that nothing is sacred.  One must beg the question, then, are pigeons nihilists?

When intuition dresses up as inspiration?

"Of that saturday night, what was first witnessed was the rain.   Nothing was made of it--merely rain.  It wouldn't be until the twilight hours of Saturday morning where time, and everything that the rain meant for me would complete the foreshadowing of earlier hours.

It didn't mean anything when that left strap was buckled onto the right side of the watch at that moment.  A watch is always aware of time--unless the battery dies.

A watch, a coat, and the rain...

After the alcohol levels had risen--for alcohol animates itself inside our bodies, loss of consciousness envelops....

I wouldn't have realized that in a matter of seconds, that watch would go into new hands.  And with that, it marked an end."

In a rationalistic age--such as that of today--what is left of one's ability to walk in the world with wonder?  We move our hands through air--nothing, in a sense, but there is something there.  Life does hold its secrets, its long silences, but when it does decide to speak, its words come in the way of incidents...objects of insignificant value.  But who is to judge?  A certain intuition lights a fire within oneself, our minds sharpen...and we "see".

En época de esquizofrenia.

Este post no tiene nada de sentido--igual que todos los posts anteriores.

Escribir en español me da la oportunidad de ver las cosas con otros ojos...según así dice el dicho.  Pero si por ahí tengo algunos lectores escondidos que sepan hablar y leer español, den un paso electrónico hacia delante, y júzguenme en mi escritura.

Igualmente, del lado científico, supuestamente dicen que otras partes del cerebro se activan al hacer las cosas en otro lenguaje.

...una forma de esquizofrenia(?).

Irony and the Wild Animals of Facebook

If honesty in today's world stands for anything, it is that it stands on its own two feet and covers itself in a blanket of irony--because it is cold.  Honesty has its place and its time; a well timed honest remark can incite the passions.

Facebook is no place for honesty.  I mentioned in a previous post that what fancies me at the moment is keeping an open tab on my browser for the infamous facebook.  It's a grimy place, full of irony, sarcasm, and an occasional worthy article on my feed--and sometimes, what is most amusing of all, is my "friends'" desire to seem smart, funny, and "human".  There is never a lack of someone wanting some attention:  a majestic daily ego boost for one's health.

In all honesty, I enjoy the drama that unfolds through facebook.  It is its reason for existence.  What has become questionable for me is the lack of courage from my "friends" to post something meaningful and worthwhile.  It is a social network at the end of the day.  There is a lack of taste; they put their boots on but don't walk out the door.

Sometimes I post quotes here and there, but nobody bites.  They just like.  Is that what the facebook world has come to?  We put on our boots, our clothes, and our coats--it is still "Winter" here in New York--only to go to the zoo that facebook is, and simply refuse to see the irony of it all:  an animal amongst animals who goes by the title of "human".

Life after College

I studied philosophy and religion during my undergraduate studies, and as much as they taught me about how to think of myself, I know nothing of how life is going to shape itself in the coming years.  Will life take on an existential route?  Will I take a leap of faith in Kierkegaard's sense?  or will I go the way of art and express things of the everyday in an attempt to show that there is something to be said of nothing.  I don't want to be a hipster.  

A love of music, of books, of film, of writing, and a secret penchant to having an open facebook tab on my browser are all my fancies right now.  

I think, I write, and I waste time--and I work because I have to.  

A philosophy of meaninglessness.

Serious endeavors.

There are moments to speak and moments to stay quiet.  In matters of taste, one must be tactful in how one says things--even in silence.  

I sometimes sit like a parrot in front of the television or the computer screen in order to have something to talk about.  What the herd likes to listen to is what is common in life:  ideas, manners of speaking, and the willingness to not step into the foul line (excuse the baseball metaphor).  But as spectators in matters of baseball, we are on the fringe...and outside the foul line. 

And just as in life, we are outside of our lives while the little voice inside our heads keeps on moving like a machine.  Perhaps the only truth to be found in baseball is the cliche:  keep your eye on the ball.

...and a further truth:  this post is about nothing.

Reflections on "The Alchemist"

This book tells of a young shepherd who at a basic level becomes dissatisfied with his place in life.  It is a tale of a journey and of a transformation.  It is a tale of treasure and personal growth.

One of the reasons as to why I think this book is loved by so many people is because of its religious undertones--Christianity is still one of the bosses of the world.  Despite its openness towards religions, the recurring theme is the desire to approach--and find--God.  But perhaps this not as bad as it looks.

Had god not been placed as the underlying factor in this book, I am quite sure the religious sector in society--which is still the majority considering that not all choose to wear this marker on their sleeves--would have merely dismissed it as a self-help book masked as fiction.  The irony here is that I've come to consider all works of fiction as self-help books.  Even the pessimist, in choosing to fall into the comforting hands of the written word, wants to feel that life has meaning.  So he reads and reads; negativity has its positive value.

The book borders on the conceptual framework of a life of complacency and that of one led with meaning.  Meaning triumphs in the end; complacency is left to die...and its epitaph says: be a hipster.  But if you read carefully into the text, silence and equanimity of mind are the main contributing factors.  God is merely the icing on the text and the problem is that most will only stop when the icing is gone.