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Showing posts from July, 2009

All too Human

discoveries. in front of one's death everything is vain. in front of a loved one's death everything is lost. everything is absolutely like love. no one really cares but you should. you teach to teach yourself and just hope someone learns from it, too; but if you don't, chances are no one will. body rules. hate keeps the blood flowing. faith must remain absurd otherwise it's no longer faith. truth only matters if it is your own. the goal of thinking is to make things impossible. the only independence worth its name is of thought. thinking cannot be taught but it can be shown. a thought spoken or written is reduced--or made awfully simple. give away all that you have, then take everything you can. death, like love, is the great individualizer. let no praise take the place of self-criticism. you are only as good as your last good work--and as bad as the last ugly one. love is impossible: but that's the beauty in it. work, the answer to boredom. simple joys remind us …

On Winning

I have made my days simple now: it's a matter of winning. If it is said that you win some and you lose some, very well then, this means that you can always try to win them all!--that that is not an excuse for not trying to win everything everyday. And I am not talking about the games people play. This is a matter of being able to stand yourself at day's end when everything is judged no longer financially or physically or emotionally but psychologically: whether or not I gained the edge: winning in flirting, playing with other people's heads, getting back in revenge, got the last word without speaking the first, cheated failure and left when the stage was clapping. Winning is a matter of knowing when to leave--or as Nietzsche would say, "Die at the right time!" That is when you win, by coming and leaving at the right time. Let your absence be your strongest presence; let your failure be your highest victory. The winner is not judged so by another: you are the onl…

Saturday

I remember the end
I'd fight for and die for,
crawling.
Now I walk--
easy never means
better.

*


I remember the joy of beginnings:
of wide eyes, open skies
and of hope.
Now the gate is strait:
I will not make it, I may not
be a saint.

*


I remember living once, twice;
a day I first loved, another I finally
died.
It is a matter of persistence;
waking up to the whirring sound
of eternal return.

*


I remember afternoons of glory.
Peace was her arms, my heart
her highest garden.
This wasteland of solitude is now my castle.
Nothing does grow, yet nothing
can leave me no more.



Questions

I've been getting rather very interesting questions in class recently.

To which I have mostly said first that I do not know, and then I follow it up with (and this is rather very new to me) my own view. And I don't usually do that because I can always answer by saying what this or that philosopher said or would say on the matter. I've seen this in my teachers. It is rather easy to extrapolate a philosopher's possible answer because a philosopher usually has one thought or idea, and that thought would mostly be all-encompassing; so it's a matter of locating where the question is in the "system" and leading it back to the one thought.

But having to think on my feet, and challenged by the question--and not just because I have to answer lest I look like a fool (a misconception I had when I was a rookie)--and simply forgetting what other philosophers said in excitement, I tried answering them--but again with much hesitation in that I do not claim I am right (als…

Men I Understand

I understand the stout yet gentle man across the bar, Sir Carlo, perhaps in his early 40s, who speaks perfect English, has a strong handshake and even remembers my name; he comes in every now and then for his favored Pale Pilsen, downing the bottles faster than I do and as if in a hurry, though he is just killing time before he picks up his overworked wife from the office, but sometimes, like last night, he was taking out some food for her though he let the package cool on the bar top because he was still silently enjoying his beer in a frosted mug and nibbling on potato chips. Him I understand.


I understand the successful and young fellow to my right, Sir Mark, a regular like me, though I haven't seen him as much as when both of us would meet almost every night, him in his usual spot across the flat screen television watching a Ginebra game (we're fans) and me in my own in front of the beer tap (we're fans), and again, him with his own set of problems and me with my fable…

The Storms of June

Beware the storms of June--that month of contest, sickness and pain.


June is the month of transition, the midpoint of the year, representing the span of a life or one of its stages. And transitions, while hopefully for the better, are always dangerous: you leave behind a place you have been used to and comfortable with, and leave for a new place where you shall be an exile in a lost kingdom. Such is the difficulty of leaving: something is left, something is gained. And when what will be left weighs as much or is as important as what will be gained, when parting is bittersweet but you know that you really cannot stay--now you have a decision to make.


I fear June.


I've found it to be one of the most difficult months (with December, the end of the year, and January, its beginning). It may sound mere mythologizing, but months have their own forces and powers, not solely coming from the weather they bring, say, like the might of June's thunderstorms or the eerie chill of December and …