ir a principal |
Ir a lateral
I find myself wanting to be the hero. The savior. The righteous. The one that deserves all the attention. The one that has the others gasping in amazement. The strong. The one that the others raise up and thank for aid in time of need. The ego.
In the Bible, there is this verse in the book of Matthew, "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted." Words that indicate to me the simple truth that by making myself appear as someone great, worthy of all glory and power, I would in fact be projecting out an image, an illusion, which will be ultimately humbled, reduced to the nothingness it is. Yet to humble myself first does not mean to make myself appear worthless - and the exalting that results does not come out of lack. On the contrary, humbling oneself is a recognition of truth, of completeness, of not needing more to be. And when one is true, one shines. The darkness, the absence, is dispelled; rather it is recognised as unreal. The exalting then is not one built on the crumbling foundation of want, but one rooted within love. And love is who I am. I am no hero, no savior, no one that deserves all the attention, no ego. I am whole within.
University... I start Monday. Orientation this week has been a challenge. Power overwhelming. Except the space, that is the cheat code for invulnerability in Starcraft. It is free, yes, because it is up to me to organise my schedule and plan my time. It is up to me. There is guidance and support, but on a level that assumes my autonomy. Maybe it expects it. My education, what I make out of the lectures, tutorial and laboratories, is on my shoulders. I came to university to learn.
"Learning is not attained by chance, it must be sought for with ardor and attended to with diligence."
Abigail Adams' words lie below the picture of the snowy mountains on my calendar. Words of inspiration.
This month, that is the proverb that I have explored. University seemed a clear opportunity for me to attain this learning. I have been excited prior to orientation, and after the initial information overload that the experience offered, I have had time to accept what it is. So while there is plenty of reading to do, plenty of absorbing of information, plenty of questions to be asked and answers to be discovered, I realise this is happening. I am learning. High school was a stepping stone to this next part of the journey. My hand was held as I walked up the path, and now I have left go of the hand and taking the steps myself. And the hand still guides me, this time pointing ahead. I am grateful. I am getting an education, I have this opportunity to be shown new things about the world, to learn histories and les histoires. Am I ready? Yes. I've been gaining skills, broadening my horizon, readying myself to enter into the world of academia, where people aim to explore the world and discover, at least that is the aim. Not everyone goes to university for this reason. For me, I go, because I want to explore, to grow mentally and discover more about this world I live in. I want friendships to burgeon, love to be. I can hone my writing abilities, but not because they are not perfect at the moment, but because there are techniques and ideas that can sharpen my skills. I have this opportunity here, to discover. I can let it pass me by, but I do not. It is here, and I appreciate it. I am learning.
So while I now walk, one small step in front of the other, towards the true, I know that if I fall, I shall get back up again and continue. I do not need to fear falling, for I am guided and I am whole. My journey is known, it is sacred, and I am not alone in its creation. And I walk.
Kadabra carries one, Alakazam's got two. Abra, has none. He doesn't quite need them because if you equip Exp. Share then you can train him, and if he DOES happen to get into a battle with a wild Pokémon, then he can always teleport out of there. Then all you need to do, young trainer, is to get out of the tall grass, or out of the cave, or use an Escape Rope or Fly to your nearest Pokémon Center to revive the other members of your party.
Yes, I'm a fan. Cool wee games there (my bias expressed - there we go, this is no longer objective). Well, when I was younger I had the Gameboy Advance and I played Sapphire and I enjoyed training my little team of Mudkip (and its evolutions) and the other ones, all 'lesser' until Kyogre which I found helped me wipe the Elite Four, especially Drake, because Kyogre knew Ice Beam and against Dragon Pokémon, it was super effective :D
Twistedspoon is an interesting item that was carried by the Psychic Pokémon I mentioned at the start. For some reason, I suspect one of which may be the limited character spacing in the games, it is written as one word. A nice combination, because when I look at it now I am pleasantly reminded of my 'adventures'. You know what, the Pokémon phenomenon was a phenomenon! Back in my home country (Romania), at our school, shortly after the cartoons started, the local store started selling branded croissants which had two stickers, each being one of the 151 original Pokémon. To get the album itself, you had to buy six or seven croissants. After persuading my parents to give me money for that much, I bought the batch and got it! Of course, that meant 14 stickers too! And no duplicates, if I remember correctly. And, to top it off, I got #25 Pikachu, first, or among the first one in the class. I showed my friends, we were childishly excited. Woop! I was on my way to collecting 'em all!
The croissants seem to have been mass produced in retrospect, because I remember them tasting cheap and stale. The chocolate in the middle was too little reward for chewing through all the (unhealthy) pastry, so they went from okay to crap as more were consumed. Someone say Law of Diminishing Marginal Utility. But I had to finish my collection.
Time passed, I finished it while I was still at school. Squirtle was the last one I needed. #7 had been elusive... but I managed to trade my duplicate(s) with someone to finish my collection. After that, I must've felt pretty cool finishing my sticker album! I had all 151 stickers, as well as the stickers at the back of Ash, Misty, Brock, James, Jessie, Prof. Oak, Nurse Joy, Officer Jenny...
After that achievement, which maybe lasted a day, focus shifted to something else. I still like Pokémon though. When I was at my grandmother's one year during this early fad, my friends and I got a notebook and we decided to sit down and design our own Pokémon, each with their own name (my favourite part was giving them names). We made about ten? Artistically speaking, they were not Leonardo Da Vinci's, nor any other painter's displayed at the Louvre. But they were cool, by our standards, or maybe without any standards and just mere observation. I apply the label 'cool' to them now because of my current feelings about the past. Back then though, how would I have felt? Creative :D
I played the GBA games after I arrived in New Zealand. New games are still coming out, as well as remakes of the old ones. I'll have a look at those ones too and if I want to play, I shall. It's exciting, feeling like a kid again.
It is possible to bend spoons. But Twistedspoons belong to Kadabras and Alakazams. To get the latter, you had to trade with a friend. I had no trade buddies, so I never got to Alakazam on the games. But I saw the pictures online and in the cartoons. Holding two spoons, he used psychic abilities like telekinesis during battles. The spoons acted like the focal points of his energy. My point? It is possible to bend spoons. And as the Matrix tells us, "There is no spoon."
Here's another exploration of a feeling I had tonight. It's occurred before, yes, and I think for the sake of my inner peace and sanity that I be honest with how I feel. The truth shall set me free? That may just be.
There are people in my life that I look to and feel blessed in their presence. The particular people I refer to here are ones that I do not normally spend my time with, but with who I have bonded previously through a unity of hearts, I feel. Description-wise, the feeling of being with these people (in this case there was one of them) is one of a different respect. Let me elaborate.
There have been experiences in my life where I was bullied and made to feel worthless, less than I am, different, hurt, imperfect. In appeasement, I accepted some of these, and as I grew, I also slowly ripped off some of these labels. One that I can think of remains particularly and powerfully entrenched in my mentality. I do not mention it out of fear. It is scary to admit it. Not because it is embarrassing, but because the truth of it haunts. In some ways it feels like denial, living a lie, but in another way, it feels to me like a lie itself. I am partly scared of accepting it, but also scared about what accepting it can mean. I think for myself, I can be comfortable with it, so personally it does not bother me, but when it comes to those around me, particularly my family, I do not feel like they would share my burden. Maybe it would lift off if I told them, but I am unsure as to what would happen. No, I wouldn't be kicked out of my house or anything like that, but I feel like them knowing would shatter their ideal of who I am. That ideal is an illusion of course, but by breaking that... what is left? I worry for them worrying about me.
The interesting addition to this is that I don't even know if the label itself is true. It could be true, that is what is scary, but there is also an element of it 'just' being a label and thus non-representative of truth. The label is derogatory, yes, even though I know that what it really points to isn't. But the label is just a label, a categorisation, a boxing of the unboxable. So of course, that makes it untrue. But the implication is that me abiding by this label would be like me surrendering to a lie in itself - while at the same time, not 'exposing' part of this truth may be witnessed as refusal to accept, resistance. Complex-sounding. Paradox? I just feel this to be a challenge of identity. I don't accept the derogatory nature of the label, of course not, but the label alone could have some significance.
The aforementioned people can enter the commentary here. They don't know about the label as having had this effect on me, but why I respect them is because I feel for them a certain brotherhood. Let me explain. The people smile. They opened up to me in the past about things about in their lives that they held dear or about when they were hurt and I offered my support and understanding. I cherish those conversations, because those exchanges facilitated relationship growth. So now when those moments have passed and I talk to them, I feel a certain respect that they shared with me, that they were open. Brothers uniting in time of need. Acceptance. Love. That's what I want, and it is simply incorrect to believe that there is a lack of love in my life. But there is this piece left, this shard of darkness that is quite apparent and puzzles me. This label, which is not mentioned, but is heard. You may know it, maybe not. What might you grasp from this is that I feel I am at crossroads. Unsure where to go. What do I do?
The heart, a muscle that pumps blood and circulates it for us. Love comes from here? Does it run in the blood, from my aortic pump down through my arteries to my other organs? That's a journey that happens as I write this, and I'm not controlling it one bit. I like that. I don't circulate my blood, so I don't love either. It is choiceless, autonomous. Those three words then, the ones that are commonly spoken of as special, are a bridge. Uttering them means crossing the gap. But before uttering them, the bridge must already be there, traversed, for love knows no bounds. If love is, it is, and bringing it through the filter of words will not transform it. However, we may realise its presence once we utter them.
Avec condition
He lives in a box, in a field, of glass.
Scared it will shatter and slice him open, he does not like to move about much. He does not want to prod at the glass or go up for air. He is afraid of shards, reflections cutting deep. Deep enough to wound. Deep enough to kill. Yet inside he is using up all the oxygen and he cannot breathe for too much longer without getting out. The life he lives is a trap, a trap that promised love but delivered only a Valentine heart and a few red roses which soon withered anyway. In a desert, roses don't grow, they wither. In a desert, there is no water, so the roses wither. In a desert, without water, there is little oxygen, and so all he can see in amongst the dunes of sand are mirages. Dreams: open arms, innocent laughter, smiling, are merely chalk drawings on the sidewalk, to be washed away by rain. If he holds his hand out and opens his parched mouth, will his thirst be quenched by water that is not there to quench his thirst but to wash away the mirage? In a field of glass, in a desert of dreams, on a wall, in a box, he lies. He lies. And he doesn't even know it.
Sans condition
He lived in a box, in a field, of glass.
One day, before the oxygen ran out, he smashed the glass open. The shards glittered in the air as sunlight smiled. The first impact meant he was cut, a few bruises; conversely, the reflection perished, shattered under the feather of freedom. He had gained wings of liberty, able to soar beyond the yonder's reach into heavenly realms, distanceless. Here, the walls are crumbled and any dreams, any mirages, any illusions, are gone. Everything he is, is love, and so he sees, he feels, he breathes, he touches, he smells, he hears it being whispered in the wind, being grown within the glade. At the mouth of a river, water gurgles downstream, cascade-bound. And here he is, standing looking at the rush rush by, aware. Palms cupped, he lifts up a goblet filled with fresh water up to his parched lips and drinks. There is no thirst, for he has what he needs. He can breathe amongst the pines, the firs, the aspens, the poplars too. They share their oxygen with him who needs it. He smiles a grin of thanks. In such a place of peace, he is true. He is true. And love knows it too.
Do you ever find that there is a period of time when a certain feeling slowly builds up within you and it lingers there until you focus on it, at which point it flees out of the spotlight?
I was watching Bones, episodes 8, 9, then 10 of season 3, and what I have observed in the background is a certain uncertainty (oxymoron). I'm seeing bones and murders being solved on screen and I don't really know what my reaction should be. Yes, I know it's fiction, but television does a good job of fooling the unprepared minds into thinking it is reality. Still, it raises the idea of the murders actually happening in real life (since when was life not real?) and how I would feel about them. Let's run the list:
Bones, flesh, bloody chunks of people - disgusted, horrified at times, apathetic at others when I feel disconnected from the television.
Motives for the murders - scared, *roll eyes*, deranged.
Method of solving crime - looks fictional, fake, because things appear deliberate, but it does raise the question as to how real the methods that Booth, Brennan and the team use, could be.
Background stories of characters - bored at times because patterns appear, eg. lots will murder out of jealousy, lots will lie about the murder then be caught. Oh, am I expecting entertainment out of these cases being solved? It seems so. Murder is a serious thing and it doesn't appear quite so serious on television. Probably because on television it's not meant to be. Maybe television does not show an accurate portrayal of real events.
And there we have it, the conclusion that was drawn. I remember that my English teacher last year said that the purpose of television is advertising. I was taken aback when I heard that, not having thought until then about it. There's 20 minutes of commercials in every hour. 20 minutes of my time in which I would be told about amazing deals on wine at Foodtown, Woolworths and Countdown, some new Dora the Explorer toy that can speak a few meager phrases in Spanish, Yellow chocolate (which incidentally I now want to try), a great mobile phone deal that indicates also at the bottom of the screen that I need to make a long commitment to the service provider, an incredible watch, a fantastic gold necklace that she'll love me for, a cup of soup to cure my three thirty-itis, SkyTV, MySkyHDI, TiVo and then an upcoming programme that I must watch on the same or the partner/sister/parent/insert other family member here channel at 9:30 on Tuesday. Bombardment? Entertainment? I should be entertained by the television programme so when they slip in an ad hook I can have a break from the entertainment and turn my eager shopper dial to the on position so I can be baited and caught like a colourful fish that just can't wait to swim in all the crap that is advertised. Attention? Television wants my attention... it's not a crime. But it's unconscious. I'm not aware of it. But in saying that, I am aware it happens now. The challenge is to be aware of what happens in the moment and let it be. A response can then come.
Oh it's 3:32. No three thirty-itis :)
Greetings are in order. Hi. Salut.
Headphones on, here's an attempt at channeling emotion into a piece of writing. Self-conscious this one. The consensus that I've discovered indicates that one needs to be in a place of sentimental disturbance for one to churn out a particular strand of art. For example, that one needs to be sad in order to funnel the feeling into a piece of art which will embody the tristesse that they initially felt. A case of lightening a load, or rather transferring energy from the body into an object where one can clearly see it, thereby looking at a reflection. Is art a mirror? Could this piece of writing that I see as pixels on a light screen be a mirror of my inner questions? Sure. I'll go for that. I've heard many a time before how the world is our mirror. We see outwards what we feel inwards. A case of projection. Call it, if you like, your own special pair of glasses that you wear and perceive the world through. Your oyster. If it tastes like crap, it might just be your taste buds. Or not. It could be your act of projecting crap onto the oyster. Like you have a grapefruit before you eat the oyster. Nasty aftertaste? My point is, we have what we ask for. Ask and ye shall receive. Oh that phrase is in a plethora of books, Bible included.
The paragraph above is infused with a myriad of words and phrases, some that clash. Some invoke the senses, some bore, some may remind of a self-help book, some of a French dictionary. In any case, I wish to know if consistency is a factor that needs be considered. Should I have to explain how I feel in a particular way and be consistent with that throughout the piece? No. Got the answer. The reason being that I feel all the emotions that I describe above; it feels all over the place when I take a step back and see it as a whole picture. It's the details that come together to form the mixture. There's a worry that it might be too mixed to discern the individual details and to some, maybe, I say maybe, it might be too difficult to make out any patterns at all. Blah blah blah.
The point? Umm... little focus. On and on and on, place to place, word to word, until a trail appears. My headphones are off and I can now speak. Hear my voice:
Learn from this. Know that your attention is where you will get your results. The world is your canvas, your sight is the picture. The paintbrush and colour palette are in your hands, and all you have to do is see what you want to paint. You don't need to know how. And if you now know that you can paint on the canvas anything - anything - that you want, then paint that. See it, feel it. Focus on it. Make it the centre and then watch, notice, appreciate, how the world spins its web of rainbows onto the canvas, your oyster, your world, your experience.
Seek and you shall find. Ask and you shall receive. Knock and the door will be opened.
What you have sought has always been found. What you have asked for has always been what you have received. The doors that you have knocked on have always been opened.
So far, now near.
The distance grows shorter, the tide creeping upon the beach then
falling back.
You see, the waves emerge in the distance,
Armed waves, white foam of thunder, ready to smash, slam, swipe, swell, singe
And they come in waves, the squadrons;
As they get closer, you can see the soldiers
No faces, but they're there, advancing, flags held up high beyond sight.
Those were white.
The shore is silent, awaiting.
War,They hit, they smash, slam, swipe, swell, singe,
Here as they did there, indifferent.
In war, there is no celebration of life.
Here, there is life, and it goes on,
Unlike war.
The battle moves with the moon, up and down.
Terrain is conquered, lost.
Castles and other temporary constructions are destroyed and
reduced to lumps, to be evened out and rebuilt
In circles.
When the moon is at its bright height and round
I stood awatch, the waves coming on and on.
Poor visibility? Darkness hid the illusion of distance
but what I needed to see was there.
Note here that this is a sight I met in childhood:
Evening, staring out towards the sea, waves coming forth
crawling onto land and spilling their lonely secrets upon surfaces and
unsuspecting beachgoers.Alone, that's how I felt, because I couldn't see anything past the blanket of night.
Alone, the feeling.
The answer, alone.
You, look. In the word. Alone. Look. Pair the L and split.
Oh, it fits :)
The sight is here.
It is a feeling of sadness, of being small.Tiny.
Tiny.
Everything is. The waves, the moon, the darkness, the light, the sand, the water, the wind, the unmentioned.Yet we weave all these things together into our own blanket and we hide either under it or from it. We think we are insignificant, minuscule, wee (in more than one sense). We could just as well appear to be that. If I think I'm bigger than that, then I'm delusional. If I think I'm unworthy or pathetic, then I'm delusional, too. If I simply am, the world around me is too. I appreciate the sight because I have learned that while the waves crash ahead and everything is large and small, I am witness to it. It occurs, and I can see it, witness it in its presence. Its emptiness, its hollowness is not a feeling of lack. It is a feeling of completeness. Nothing, yet everything.
