the area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
experience-
some lose all mind and become the soul:
insane.
some lose all soul and become mind:
intellectual.
some lose both and become:
accepted.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
Place Called Home
She gave me her address.
"3251 Fletcher Dr."
" Look for the bamboo on the fence." She added.
V lived on the outskirts of Silver Lake filled with industrial warehouses and auto garages with cars that were never going to get fixed. I drove by some modern apartment buildings, an eyesore against the dilapidated backdrop.
Fletcher Drive. I turned right and spotted the bamboo covered fence and her car parked near by.
-
"Hey I'm here."
"Alright, Ill be right out"
She lived in the second floor of a house on a hillside that was turned into a multi-residential housing. It wasn't quite ghetto but it wasn't fancy either. There were kids playing on the street and felt their burning glares as I stood waiting for her to open the door. She fiddled around with the old lock before the door gave way.
"Hey, I hope it wasn't hard finding this place", she said as she opened the door a bit wider to let me through.
Without waiting for an answer she directed her attention to the kids.
"Hey guys, still coming to movie night?"
"Yea." They answered still staring me down.
There was a faint smell of marijuana from the neighbors on the first floor as I followed her up the stairs.
"Come in, Sorry about the mess."
She had couple clothes hanging off the chair and there was an opened bottle of wine next to some dirty dishes from her solitary debauchery last night. But overall, her place was neat. Her knick-knacks had a place they called home.
I took my shoes off and placed it next to her Chuck Taylors.
"Did you want anything to drink? Water? Juice?" She politely insisted the social constructs that befell on everyone who invited anyone over for anything.
"Make yourself at home, get anything you want. I'll be right back."
She had music on. There was a faint acoustic guitar strumming through the air. I cautiously looked around and saw a retro 16mm film projector in the corner of the room. It was a vintage memorabilia. An analog tactile machine that was obsolete except in the hands of enthusiasts. I hoped it was used for the movie night she threw for the neighborhood kids.
V was a collector of old and odd things. There was a record player with Neil Young still attached on the turntable. Artwork that balanced hope and misery hung on the walls and I found myself staring deeply into a portrait of a hand appearing out of the darkness. Next to it scribed the words "You are not a machine."
I made my way to her bookcase. A copy of Charlotte's Web caught my eye.
1984 - George Orwell
The Fountain Head - Ayn Rand
Positions for Tantric Sex.
It shocked me just as much. She didn't seem like the type, probably a gag gift.
There were photographs of her smiling with other people in her life that knew her differently as I did. A giant golden letter V held the books up and I had a staring contest with an wooden owl next to it. She had collected things over the years that defined who she was and wanted to be. Even down to the floral salt and pepper shaker, she placed parts of her into the most ordinary objects. This was her home, her hidden den, her sanctuary from all the mundane and mediocre lives that she faced outside these walls.
I spotted an old teal trunk under a dresser. A life-boat that brought her here or helped her catch air. She lived her life that she distinctively called her own and I discovered myself deeply immersed in her world.
SS
"3251 Fletcher Dr."
" Look for the bamboo on the fence." She added.
V lived on the outskirts of Silver Lake filled with industrial warehouses and auto garages with cars that were never going to get fixed. I drove by some modern apartment buildings, an eyesore against the dilapidated backdrop.
Fletcher Drive. I turned right and spotted the bamboo covered fence and her car parked near by.
-
"Hey I'm here."
"Alright, Ill be right out"
She lived in the second floor of a house on a hillside that was turned into a multi-residential housing. It wasn't quite ghetto but it wasn't fancy either. There were kids playing on the street and felt their burning glares as I stood waiting for her to open the door. She fiddled around with the old lock before the door gave way.
"Hey, I hope it wasn't hard finding this place", she said as she opened the door a bit wider to let me through.
Without waiting for an answer she directed her attention to the kids.
"Hey guys, still coming to movie night?"
"Yea." They answered still staring me down.
There was a faint smell of marijuana from the neighbors on the first floor as I followed her up the stairs.
"Come in, Sorry about the mess."
She had couple clothes hanging off the chair and there was an opened bottle of wine next to some dirty dishes from her solitary debauchery last night. But overall, her place was neat. Her knick-knacks had a place they called home.
I took my shoes off and placed it next to her Chuck Taylors.
"Did you want anything to drink? Water? Juice?" She politely insisted the social constructs that befell on everyone who invited anyone over for anything.
"Make yourself at home, get anything you want. I'll be right back."
She had music on. There was a faint acoustic guitar strumming through the air. I cautiously looked around and saw a retro 16mm film projector in the corner of the room. It was a vintage memorabilia. An analog tactile machine that was obsolete except in the hands of enthusiasts. I hoped it was used for the movie night she threw for the neighborhood kids.
V was a collector of old and odd things. There was a record player with Neil Young still attached on the turntable. Artwork that balanced hope and misery hung on the walls and I found myself staring deeply into a portrait of a hand appearing out of the darkness. Next to it scribed the words "You are not a machine."
I made my way to her bookcase. A copy of Charlotte's Web caught my eye.
1984 - George Orwell
The Fountain Head - Ayn Rand
Positions for Tantric Sex.
It shocked me just as much. She didn't seem like the type, probably a gag gift.
There were photographs of her smiling with other people in her life that knew her differently as I did. A giant golden letter V held the books up and I had a staring contest with an wooden owl next to it. She had collected things over the years that defined who she was and wanted to be. Even down to the floral salt and pepper shaker, she placed parts of her into the most ordinary objects. This was her home, her hidden den, her sanctuary from all the mundane and mediocre lives that she faced outside these walls.
I spotted an old teal trunk under a dresser. A life-boat that brought her here or helped her catch air. She lived her life that she distinctively called her own and I discovered myself deeply immersed in her world.
SS
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Weapon and Poison
"Some books seem like a key to unfamiliar rooms in one’s own castle.
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief." -F. Kafka
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief." -F. Kafka
Friday, June 6, 2014
Comfortable Determinism
"Don't let yourself gently settle into a path of least resistance, of comfortable determinism. So many futures die because you passively neglect them."
Thursday, June 5, 2014
LIFE
"To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, to draw closer, to find each other and to feel. That is the purpose of life."
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Let There Be Light
The Kadupul flower is one of the rarest flower in the world. Once a year, at night, behind the curtain of darkness, the bulb explodes into a firework of petals. And just like dissolving sparks in the sky, the thin white petals wither away by dawn. The Japanese call it the "Beauty Under the Moon" and to witness one in person is supposed to bring you great luck.
-
Besides falling asleep under the stars, David's favorite part of the day was the early hour of morning. There was peace during the daily inauguration of the sun and it brought great joy to him to see the world around him light up as if God was raising the dimmer. "Let there be light.."
Out here, he was at the mercy of the elements. He realized early on that too many men lived their lives as masters of this world. Yet pride is a delusional illusion, for man-kind is slaved to giants of mother earth. A single press of her thumb can crush humanity back to the stone-age. He knew how easy it was to fall under hypnosis surrounded by phallic monuments of man. He believed that comforts of modern society weakened the spirit and instilled a dangerous sense of pride. The regular pilgrimage to the wilderness helped rid of this blindness and humbled him to kneel.
A few years ago, he hiked down the Grand Canyon. It was a two day trek and right before reaching the bottom, he was stuck on an overhang. Like a puck in Plinko, he had zig-zagged his way down the canyon only to find himself 20 feet from the bottom. Fate had cheated him and and angered him to act hastily. He could not admit defeat especially when he was so close. He pulled out his climbing gear and anchored himself to a tree. Before stepping off, he tugged at the rope for assurance. He grappled his way down only to realize he didn't tie enough rope to make it back up. His impatient spur had cost him a six hour detour through thorn covered shrubs and cacti. Bloodied and badly beat, he stumbled back to camp. His own pride betrayed him and had almost killed him.
David emptied his canteen onto the smoldering coals which hissed and coiled its last breath. Stretching his arms towards the sky, he looked out towards the vast landscape. The canyons that were dripping in gold yesterday had cooled to a smoky gray. There was 25 miles of frozen rock and ice between him and the base of Lenin Peak. He pulled out his map and surveyed the tundra ahead of him. Following the river up, the map marked a cliff 15 miles away. The cold crisp air stung his lungs and invigorated him. He needed the extra adrenaline; the journey would be an uphill battle.
SS
-
Besides falling asleep under the stars, David's favorite part of the day was the early hour of morning. There was peace during the daily inauguration of the sun and it brought great joy to him to see the world around him light up as if God was raising the dimmer. "Let there be light.."
Out here, he was at the mercy of the elements. He realized early on that too many men lived their lives as masters of this world. Yet pride is a delusional illusion, for man-kind is slaved to giants of mother earth. A single press of her thumb can crush humanity back to the stone-age. He knew how easy it was to fall under hypnosis surrounded by phallic monuments of man. He believed that comforts of modern society weakened the spirit and instilled a dangerous sense of pride. The regular pilgrimage to the wilderness helped rid of this blindness and humbled him to kneel.
A few years ago, he hiked down the Grand Canyon. It was a two day trek and right before reaching the bottom, he was stuck on an overhang. Like a puck in Plinko, he had zig-zagged his way down the canyon only to find himself 20 feet from the bottom. Fate had cheated him and and angered him to act hastily. He could not admit defeat especially when he was so close. He pulled out his climbing gear and anchored himself to a tree. Before stepping off, he tugged at the rope for assurance. He grappled his way down only to realize he didn't tie enough rope to make it back up. His impatient spur had cost him a six hour detour through thorn covered shrubs and cacti. Bloodied and badly beat, he stumbled back to camp. His own pride betrayed him and had almost killed him.
David emptied his canteen onto the smoldering coals which hissed and coiled its last breath. Stretching his arms towards the sky, he looked out towards the vast landscape. The canyons that were dripping in gold yesterday had cooled to a smoky gray. There was 25 miles of frozen rock and ice between him and the base of Lenin Peak. He pulled out his map and surveyed the tundra ahead of him. Following the river up, the map marked a cliff 15 miles away. The cold crisp air stung his lungs and invigorated him. He needed the extra adrenaline; the journey would be an uphill battle.
SS
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