everything’s random. . .

I reaaally don’t know why I’m back…almost one month have passed since I have made my last post but just right now as I was scanning through my e-mail and I didn’t noticed that I have received a Christmas greeting! From none other than my favorite novelist…well then I guess this person never ceases to amaze everyone by his works and his way of thinking…and I don’t even need to mention his name. Let me share to you a short story that he had given to me… 

On Christmas Eve, the king invited the prime minister to join him for their usual walk together. He enjoyed seeing the decorations in the streets, but since he didn’t want his subjects to spend too much money on these just to please him, the two men always disguised themselves as traders from some far distant land.

They walked through the centre of the city, admiring the lights, the Christmas trees, the candles burning on the steps of the houses, the stalls selling gifts, and the men, women and children hurrying off to celebrate a family Christmas around a table laden with food. On the way back, they passed through a poorer area, where the atmosphere was quite different. There were no lights, no candles, no delicious smells of food about to be served. There was hardly a soul in the street, and, as he did every year, the king remarked to the prime minister that he really must pay more attention to the poor in his kingdom. The prime minister nodded, knowing that the matter would soon be forgotten again, buried beneath the day-to-day bureaucracy of budgets to be approved and discussions with foreign dignitaries.

Suddenly, they heard music coming from one of the poorest houses. The hut was so ramshackle and the rotten wooden timbers so full of cracks, that they were able to peer through and see what was happening inside. And what they saw was utterly absurd: an old man in a wheelchair apparently crying, a shaven-headed young woman dancing, and a young man with sad eyes shaking a tambourine and singing a folk song. ‘I’m going to find out what they’re up to,’ said the king. He knocked. The music stopped, and the young man came to the door.

‘We are merchants in search of a place to sleep. We heard the music, saw that you were still awake, and wondered if we could spend the night here.’ ‘You can find shelter in a hotel in the city. We, alas, cannot help you. Despite the music, this house is full of sadness and suffering.’ ‘And may we know why?’ ‘It’s all because of me.’ It was the old man in the wheelchair who spoke. ‘I’ve spent my life teaching my son calligraphy, so that he could one day get a job as a palace scribe. But the years have passed and no post has ever come up. And then, last night, I had a stupid dream: an angel appeared to me and asked me to buy a silver goblet because, the angel said, the king would be coming to visit me. He would drink from the goblet and give my son a job. ‘The angel was so persuasive that I decided to do as he said. Since we have no money, my daughter-in-law went to the market this morning to sell her hair so that we could buy that goblet over there. The two of them are doing their best to get me in the Christmas spirit by singing and dancing, but it’s no use.’ The king saw the silver goblet, asked to be given a little water to quench his thirst and, before leaving, said to the family: ‘Do you know, we were talking to the prime minister only today, and he told us that an opening for a palace scribe would be announced next week.’ The old man nodded, not really believing what he was hearing, and bade farewell to the strangers.

The following morning, however, a royal proclamation was read out in all the city streets; a new scribe was needed at court. On the appointed day, the audience room at the palace was packed with people eager to compete for that much-sought-after post. The prime minister entered and asked everyone there to prepare their paper and pens: ‘Here is the subject of the composition: Why is an old man weeping, a shaven-headed woman dancing, and a sad young man singing?’ A murmur of disbelief went round the room. No one knew how to tell such a story, apart, that is, from the shabbily dressed young man sitting in one corner, who smiled broadly and began to write.

Based on an Indian story.

Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa

Lord, protect our doubts, because Doubt is a way of praying.  It is Doubt that makes us grow because it forces us to look fearlessly at the many answers that exist to one question.  And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect our decision, becasue making decisions is a way of praying.  Give us the courage, after our doubts, to be able to choose between one road and another.  May our YES always be a YES, an our NO always be a NO.  Once we have chosen our road may we never look back nor allow our soul to be eaten away by remorse.  And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect our actions, because Action is a way of praying.  May our daily bread be the result of the very best that we carry within us.  May we, through work and Action, share a little of the love we receive.  And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect our dreams, because to Dream is a way of praying.  Make sure that, regardless of our age or our circumstances, we are capable of keeping alight in our heart the sacred flame of hope and perseverance.  And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, give us enthusiasm, because Enthusiasm is a way of praying.  It is what binds us to the Heavens and to Earth, to grown-ups, and to children; it is what tells us that our desires are important and deserve our best efforts.  It is Enthusiasm that reaffirms to us that everything is possible, as long as we are totally committed to what we are doing.  And in order for this to be possible…

Lord, protect us, because Life is the only way we have of making manifest Your miracle.  May the earth continue to transform seeds into wheat, may we continue to transmute wheat into bread.  And this is only possible if we have Love; therefore, do not leave us in solitude.  Always give us Your company, and the company of men and women who have doubts, who act and dream and feel enthusiasm, and who live each day as if it were totally dedicated to Your glory. Amen. 

Crash and burn
All the stars explode tonight
How’d you get so desperate
How’d you stay alive
Help me please
Burn the sorrow from your eyes
Oh, come on be alive again
Dont lay down and die

Hey, hey
You know what to do
Oh, baby, drive away to malibu

Get well soon
Please dont go any higher
How are you so burnt when
Youre barely on fire
Cry to the angels
Im gonna rescue you
Im gonna set you free tonight, baby
Pour over me

Hey, hey
Were all watching you
Oh, baby, fly away to malibu
Cry to the angels
And let them swallow you
Go and part the sea, yeah, in malibu

And the sun goes down
I watch you slip away
And the sun goes down
I walk into the waves
And I knew love would tear you apart
Oh and I knew the darkest secret of your heart

Im gonna follow you
Oh baby, fly away, yeah
To malibu
Oceans of angels, oceans of stars
Down by the sea is where you drown your scars

I cant be near you
The light just radiates
I cant be near you
The light just radiates

Broken this fragile thing now
And I can’t, I can’t pick up the pieces
And I’ve thrown my words all around
But I can’t, I can’t give you a reason

Here I go, scream my lungs out and try to get to you
You are my only one
I let go, there’s just no one, no one like you
You are my only, my only one
My only one
My only one
My only one
You are my only, my only one

On this coldest of january nights

We drive out past the runway and watch the planes go flying by

The runway lights are the deepest blue like the colors of your eyes

So close them tight and kiss me one last time

If you could go anywhere right now

Where would you go? 

And would you miss me when you get there? 

No place that I would rather be.

Please don’t let me go falling from the sky

The "fasten seatbelt" sign just needs to go out

If only you could be right here by my side

Home wouldn’t seem so far from here

Passport, customs, carry on, remember

To shut off all of your electronic devices

Fell asleep on tuesday woke up monday afternoon

I slept right through your international date line.

A boy was watching his grandmother write a letter.  At one point, he asked:

“Are you writing a story about what we’ve done?  Is it a story about me?”

His grandmother stopped writing her letter and said to her grandson:

“I am writing about you, actually, but more important than the words is the pencil I’m using.  I hope you will be like this pencil when you grow up.”

Intrigued, the boy looked at the pencil.  It didn’t seem very special.

“But it’s just like any other pencil I’ve ever seen!”

“That depends on how you look at things.  It has five qualities which, if you manage to hang on to them, will make you a person who is always at peace with the world.

“First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps.  We call that hand God, and He always guides us according to His will.

“Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener.  that make the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he’s much sharper.  So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person.

“Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes.  This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice.

“Fouth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside.  So always pay attention to what is happening inside you.

“Finally, the pencil’s fifth quality: it always leaves a mark.  In just the same way, you should know that every thing you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action.”

Cassan Said Amer tells the story of a lecturer who began a seminar by holding up a twenty-dollar bill and asking: "Who would like this twenty-dollar bill?"

Several hands went up, but the lecturer said: "Before I give it to you, I have to do something."

He screwed it up into a ball and said: "Who still wants this bill?"

The hands went up again.

"And what if I do this to it?"

He threw the crumpled bill at the wall, dropped it on the floor, insulted it, trampled on ti, and once more showed them the bill-now all creased and dirty.  He repeated the question, and the hands stayed up.

"Never forget this scene," he said.  "It doesn’t matter what I do to this money.  It is still a twenty-dollar bill.  So often in our live, we are crumpled, trampled, ill-treated, insulted, and yet, despite all that, we are still worth the same."

To whom? To what point and extent are you the boss of me? We really should set limits for everything…then again these "set of limits", stop and think…maybe these laws are the boss of us. All these dos and don’ts are very annoying at times but we tend to follow them for the simple reason that it is the law…and breaking the law is against authority. forget the people that creates them, it’s like it has evolved into something fearful and keeps us everything in place…chaos is being supressed. I could not believe that a rule agreed by people itself and then printed in a plain paper is the only one holding us back from returning the beast that we ones were (figuratively speaking…then again, we have out own "figures" of speech.)

Flaws…there are flaws. Every law…every rule that is made, hey, people made it…of course there are holes. Solution: cover up the hole. From a plain piece of paper that was once a single piece of paper, it was then again piled up by another piece of paper…tiresome as it seems, and yes we are now very tired of reading it…the constitution, the laws of this and that…god! never ending flaws.

Bottom line…authority keeps our morals…it’s like being tied with a very long piece of rope, yet they call you a free man. weird…very weird.

It’s all blank…although you really…badly want something out but then you can’t. It’s all blank. Too many things that I want to do or type or read but just can’t happen to let it all out. Maybe I’m not fit for the job…thinking. Then I stop. Can’t seem to calm the traffic, you go for a smoke then It’s going to be all blank again. From the moment you light the tip of the cigarette taking all your effort to breathe. Delete. No…that’s not I’m going to say either. I’m just typing random here, trying to pick up the thoughts, thinking that I might have something useful. Delete. Stop. Read. Review…this thing here is going no where, I could go on typing thinking about something but can’t seem to put something that’s why it would be called blank…why not random or whatever. It’s all blank because the moment you think of something too deeply, you’ll have to stop. Because it doesn’t have any point of moving on if you’re just doing something for the sake of doing something…blank. and boring. Read. Stop. Post.

Things just got way out of hand.  And no, not drunk at all…just had a drink the normal rhum as usual…the cheap one.  He really did not know, just got out of hand.  Then he had to call, the same call over and over and over since August. Long hours past, goodbyes, kisses, and hugs, went flying away like bats on a 3 am flight to Mars. Smoke like he always did…zzz. Woke up. Then it got out of hand.  Toxic spreads like disease, and no, he’s not drunk at all…not at all. Something’s not right, then he let it out. puking out to death. puke like he’s pulling his guts out. Still something’s not right. Blood…all over his shirt, coffee spills…and blood as if mixing a cocktail. Sight’s fainting, what’s happening? Something’s not really right, and no he’s not drunk at all. He had to fall…never to wake up, not even coffee can wake him up now. It’s okay, it’s all over now…tears will follow soon. (my eulogy to Rodolfo Lui)