And So It Goes.

There is no doubt; no more search. I’ll become a Mathematician, Slowly, step by step.

Finally, I found my goal, and I’ll reach it anyway I can.

It’s nice to breathe again…

I Wonder.

 

     The first person who suggested to me that we might play a part in the destruction of our planet was a Sunday school teacher. His name was Michael Marconi. He used to ride around on an old bobber. It sputtered and thundered like a storm in hell. He wasn’t my Sunday school teacher. When I met him my belief in the almighty was already fizzing away. Three years later that belief was completely gone. He was gone by then, too – ran over by a pickup truck. He didn’t survive. No more Sunday school. No more sputtering and thundering on his bike. Goodbye.

     A few years before his accident he said, “The Earth is a living organism, alive and well, but humans – much like cancer – might play a part in its death.”

     His words didn’t mean much to me that day, and pretty soon they were lost somewhere in this vast sea of memories I carry around. By all means I had completely forgotten about him. Once again, he was gone.

     Eight years after his death I boarded a plane. It flew me from east to west; NY to LA. Down there was The Earth; an embossed, multicolored plane – beautiful in every way.

     Imagine my surprise when right then and there, stuck in that metal tube with wings, about thirty thousand feet from the ground, I remembered Michael Marconi’s words once again, “The earth is a living organism…” His words became my own. I repeated them, quietly, once again; then I said, “He was right.” I said it once again, and, quietly, once again.

     Was he was right?

     From way up there anyone can tell that The Earth is alive and well; an organism, massive and diverse. From way up there you can see The Earth’s face. It seemed alright, “alive and well;” green patches everywhere. They were immense. There were brown patches as well. They were rugged and hypnotizing. Snow-capped mountains could be seen down there, too, right along deep holes on the ground. There were rivers everywhere, flowing and snaking their way. There it was, The Earth, “alive and well.”

     Then the plane began its descent.

     Down there was LA, growing, “alive and well:” A stark contrast from the rest of The Earth; a wart, you could say, an infection spreading on the face of The Earth. LA was full of sharp lines, hard concrete and waste; there were buildings, people and cars everywhere. An oozing stench along with smoke emanated from everywhere. Every other city is the same: blemishes, cancerous moles growing on the face of The Earth. Babies growing, people smoking, engines sputtering, etc, etc, etc: humanity at its best, eagerly leaving its mark on The Earth.

     I’ve repeated Marconi’s words a few times since then: “humans – much like cancer – might play a part in its death.”

     In a letter I wrote a while ago I said,

     Earth possesses something akin to an immune system. It’s what humans know as evolution. It rewarded giraffes with ridiculously long necks, and gave cheetahs their absurd speed; thereby making their lives a bit easier to live. What has The Earth’s immune system give Humans? AIDS, depression, obesity, a bigger brain and the means to more efficiently kill themselves. Is the Earth is trying to cleanse itself?

     Is The Earth alive and well?

On Healing.

 

                Classes are over; this means winter is here. It snowed for the first time here a few days ago, and now there’s ice everywhere. It’s all so slippery and dangerous… I hear it snowed in Las Vegas, too. Some people say that’s a sign of the end times. I just think there’s a first time for everything. No need to worry.

                Here’s something unexpected: my leg healed. I can tell because even with this cold temperature surrounding me on all sides I feel no pain. It has been a while since I felt that way; so what do I do? I begin a new running program once again. This time I’m going to run faster than before. My goal is to run a half-marathon in 1:10:00 or under. I’ll probably run that fast by July or august of next year (2010). Hopefully I won’t injure myself again. Hopefully I’ll take it easy this time. Hopefully running will go well for once.

                I went for a long run today, y’know, to see where I am physically, and things went pretty well. I ran every mile under 7:15, and I finished the last mile in 6:50. When I was done I felt pretty well… refreshed. Sure I had a few blisters the size of nickels on my feet, my face was burned from the cold, and I almost slid on the ice a few times, but nothing hurt… today everything was beautiful and nothing hurt… haha

And now a sweet graph depicting my aforementioned long run, click it:

 

 

Haha…

We’ll See.

 

     Here’s the problem: you believe in happiness. Don’t worry, I believe in it, too; just not the way you do.

     What I want to tell you is this: your search for happiness will betray you, and it will bring you closer to misery. It’s a misguided attempt. Why? Well, you think of happiness as a defined state; a state reached only after checking off yes-or-no boxes on a list. That list goes something like this:  Do I have more money than what I need? Yes? No? Am I content with my physical appearance? Yes? No? Do I suffer from some mental illness? Yes? No? The list goes on and on. You simply tabulate your answers at the end, and, according to you, the result determines how happy you should be. This is a very dangerous thing to do.

     When you told me about this I thought, hmm, that’s not right. Most of the conditions in your list depend very highly on acquisitions and wasteful consumerism. You want a big house, some cars, food to last a lifetime, cable TV, a food processor, pots and pans, heated floors, a ridiculous amount of clothes, coffee mugs… the list goes on and on. You think these things will make life easier for you; after all, western society says they will do so. I, on the other hand, think that’s very wrong.

     This is what I want: a small place, two rooms would do well, a workplace close to home, so I can bike or walk there, a few jeans that I can wear over and over again, health insurance, coffee in the morning, exercise after work, quiet nights and some problems to work on. I’m sure I’m leaving a few things out, but not a lot. We are nothing alike.

     After you heard me talk about a few of the things I want you said I wasn’t driven enough; that I should always want more than what I need or have. I almost went into a homicidal rage when you said that. It’s ok. I’m a pretty peaceful guy. Instead I said, hmm, who knows, maybe you’re right.

     The truth is, however, I don’t think you’re right. I do want more, but not from outside. I want more from me; from inside! I want to teach myself much more than what I know. I want to be healthy and strong, maybe compete in a race and win by a lot. I want to write funny stories that you’ll read and re-read. I want to create something interesting even though I don’t yet know what that is.

     I want lots of things! I want to be worth something, not in net gains, capital or liquidity, but as a human being. The only way I’ll get there is by learning a skill, honing it and helping myself and humanity as much as I can. You probably think I’m a fool. It’s ok; we’ll see where things go from here.

     You say that my philosophy won’t feed my children; that my kids won’t be comfortable with so very few things; that they’ll need a big house with lots of space and lots of rooms; that whether I want to or not my kids will want me to have money and stability somewhere down the line. I agree with the stability part.

     Here’s something I don’t say a lot: I don’t want children of my own, not for a long while. Here are some reasons for that: I find the idea of bringing more life into this overcrowded place a bit selfish and unkind. I’m not yet ready to teach and raise a child. I have other priorities, a few things I want to do for myself before I can dedicate my time to someone else…

     Kids are a very important in your list. You already know how many you’ll have, and even chose some of their names. You also decided what they’ll do with their lives, but I’m sure you’ll be surprised there. You’re setting yourself up for a very sad outcome. Be careful with your list. It might do you more harm than good.

     Here’s something to think about: physically, we’re healthier and live longer than ever before. Here’s the kicker:  we are also more depressed and mentally unbalanced than we’ve ever been. Why? We feel empty and disconnected, even from ourselves. Our search for meaning and happiness makes us sad or insane. It’s probably because we think of happiness as a fixed, reachable place; like Fiji or Hawaii. More often than not our search for happiness leads us to talk-therapy and pills. Is that’s wrong? Probably… Happiness isn’t to be reached. It’s to be experienced in small dosages here and there. The more of those you have, the better off you’ll be. Good luck with everything.

Revolt?

     I don’t know when, but it’s coming: death I mean! It’s coming and it breaks my heart. What a silly thing to be bothered by. Why worry. After it happens I won’t complain. No one knows what will happen then, but I have a hunch: nothing, that’s what! Be careful of anyone who says otherwise.

     Hey, here’s something neat: do you know about amoebae? If you don’t, it’s OK. Don’t feel bad. They’re not important if you pay taxes and have a family and drive a car and such. They’re a biological step back in our evolution. Here’s the neat part about them:  some of these little single celled organisms decide – at some point in their lives – to come together. Guess what happens then: a completely different and new organism is formed; a multicellular one. Isn’t that nice?

     Hey, Remember Voltron? Remember how he used to be formed? A few small robotic lions would assemble themselves together, and, voilà, Voltron was formed? Well, amoebae do something like that. Why do they do it: hey, why not. Dying together is better than dying alone.

     Late at night this is what I think about: one day every living thing on Earth will be gone. Goodbye. So long. Goodnight! How do you want to die? Alone? Sometimes I forget i might not have a choice.

     Who knows, maybe the amoebae know something I don’t. Just like I know about Voltron, cars and songs, and they don’t. Imagine that.

     You know what I think: amoebae Just hate being alone, and they especially hate dying alone. Maybe an enlightened amoeba comes along and says: dear friends one day we’ll die. Goodbye. So long. Goodnight! No one wants to die alone. Amen to that, and, voilà, they bunch together to die as one. Imagine that!

     Here’s something everyone should know: our bodies are a more complex version of the organism the amoebae form. If you look closely, we are a twisted knot of microscopic organisms that came together as time passed, and, voilà, here we are. How nice for them: forming us and dying together as one. I have the feeling that our formation wasn’t the plan all along. The organisms that form us simply banded together because they didn’t want to die alone. Imagine that!

     Here’s the heartbreaking part: humans can’t bunch together and form a biological entity like amoebae can. With rare exceptions, we are often born alone, and we live our lives alone, but this is what we do: we fool ourselves into thinking that one day we’ll find someone, a perfect match, with whom we’ll die as one. Sorry, no chance! We’re too complex for that. Here’s what happens instead: one day death comes – It’s coming already, – and we die alone. Surpriiiiiiise!

     It’s alright! I’ll pretend not to know a thing about that; about dying alone and not finding the one. Baby, if you read this, pay no mind. You are the one. Wink wink. I just go off in rants from time to time. For you I’ll still try. Imagine that!

     This is what I tell myself sometimes: Keep moving; keep the car running. Always be ready to go. Death is coming to take you away. Goodbye. So long. Goodnight! Enjoy the show: life I mean. Don’t waste your love. Don’t drink or do drugs, don’t hate, be kind, don’t yell and so on. Be as peaceful as you can. Imagine that!

     Today when I saw her I thought: don’t expect too much from her. Understand her: just like me, she feels alone. It’s a big galaxy with so many stars. She can’t help to feel alone. Remember, one day she, too, will be gone; just like the amoebas and stars. Goodbye, so long. Goodnight! Star dust to star dust. It’s been fun all along.

Crows and Lust?

 

 

 

     Crows feast on frogs.

     Guess how they do it?

     When a crow spots a frog from way-the-hell-up-there in the sky, it dives down and, with its beak, picks up the frog from one of its legs. It carries the frog to, uh I dunno, three hundred feet up in the air and lets if fall to its death. The frog probably has two heart attacks and shits itself on its way down; then, splat! It hits the ground.

     If you ever dissected a frog in school you know how easily their skin breaks. It doesn’t take much, especially for the big fat ones. This is what happens to them when they fall from way-the-hell-up-there: they burst. Their trunks break open and all their guts pour out. The crows know what they’re doing. They’ve been doing this from the moment the two species met.

     As unbelievable as it sounds, some frogs survive the fall; their legs kicking and arms flapping around. Some even survive their guts spilling out, but they don’t live much longer than that. Here’s what the crows do then: they land next to the convalescent frogs and begin to eat their guts. Their beaks snip and slash bits of stomach, intestines, heart and lungs. How horrible is that?

     Think of the carnage… The whole thing embodied by the bloody, shear-like, beaks of the crows. Blood drips from them. Bits of whitish slimy stuff also hang from them. It’s indeed a horrible death. This is what I call it: frogs having a bad day.

     My point is this: don’t be so hard on yourself. Whenever things don’t go your way, think about this: you’re not a frog falling from way-the-hell-up-there. You’re not a frog having its entrails chopped to bits. You’re not a frog having the worst day of its life.

     Hey, try this: come up to a Brooklyn rooftop with me. Let’s bring a blanket, some wine and we’ll get drunk up there. Let’s watch the stars, time, things and people go by. You know what will follow. We’ll rush downstairs to a dark room three floors below, and we’ll get naked in there. We’ll use our hands to find each other, and, for a while, we’ll find happiness in there.

     I never enjoyed such a thing before. Honest to God.

     Here’s my secret; when I’m not with you, this is what drives me insane: your naked perfection. How can it be that you look like you do? How can it be that you feel, smell and sound like you do? I’m way too lucky sometimes. How can it be that you’re in my life today? 

     Here’s the plan: let’s find happiness while there’s still a chance.

Barça 5 – 2 Bilbao

It’s gonna be a whooping!

Update: Barça 1 – 0 Bilbao

Family

Get a load of this: my uncle went insane looking for gold.

It’s true. If you ask him about it, he won’t deny or confirm it. I don’t think he knows about it, but everyone who knows him will tell you this: yep, that man’s gone crazy. He even spent two years in a sanitarium for the mentally loopy. I’ve asked him about it, but he doesn’t seem to know how to answer me. Instead, he questions me about it. How long was I in there? He asks. You’re not kidding? Are you sure it was me? What did they do to me in there?

This is what my uncle does: he talks to himself. He almost always seems to be counting, too. He counts with his fingertips, pressing each one against the thumb tip. This is what he says: one, two, three, seven thousand, eight thousand, thirteen thousand… When he’s not counting he’s talking to himself. This is what he says: once when grandma took me out I fell on a puddle of mud and my shirt got dirty… he nods and smiles agreeing with himself. When I ask him why he does that, this is what he says: was I really doing that?

This is something else my uncle does: he wets his bed. He doesn’t even seem to be embarrassed about it either; as if wetting beds is the polite thing to do. Obviously, no one ever invites him to stay overnight; this will keep happening until he learns not to pee wherever he sleeps.

I’ll give you some more proof that the man is insane: he plucks out his eyebrows, eyelashes and nose hairs – one by one – with metal tweezers he keeps hidden all over the house. You know what he does with all those little hairs? He stuffs them in glass jars and keeps them under his bed. It’s easy to see why those jars smell like snot and piss. Here’s some more: he used to keep a pretty large collection of nail clippings inside of glass jars, too. He kept those jars on the windowsill next to his bed. Why did he do that? He said the nail clippings needed the fresh air. His room doesn’t smell like a civilized place. Someone made him throw out all the nail clippings one Saturday morning. He cried for two weeks about that. What do you think? Is the man insane?

My uncle has been insane for nearly twenty years. He went crazy when I was three . It happened one night while he looked for gold with one of his friend. I’ll let you know about that much later on.

Here’s something else: when I was seven my uncle went more insane than usual. He got dangerous and violent. He knocked the bejesus out of Aunt Felicia. It happened like this: someone gave him a bible and he read the twenty second chapter, fifth verse of Deuteronomy. Guess what it says in there: it’s an abomination for women to wear garments made for men. Isn’t that insane?

As luck would have it, poor Aunt Felicia was wearing a pair of worn out blue jeans and a soccer jersey with the number fifteen on it. According to God and the bible, this was enough to deserve a beating, so my uncle went ahead and did god’s will. This is how he did that: He punched Aunt Felicia right in the teeth. He even broke her nose. A couple of teeth went flying as Aunt Felicia went down like a sack of potatoes. This, of course, wasn’t enough; not according to god, so my uncle thought it would be a swell idea to strangle her; send her straight to hell at once. She had to pay for wearing blue jeans. He sat on her chest and started to choke her while yelling, I hope you die and go to hell and such.

I was only seven then. I couldn’t help, but a few neighbors heard that loony bastard yelling about hell and dying and such. They came running and one of them hit him on the head with a broomstick. He was stopped from sending Aunt Felicia to hell that day. The police was called. One of the officers didn’t like what he did to Aunt Felicia. This is what he did: he hit my uncle with the butt of his riffle right in the face, knocked two of his teeth out and kicked him on the ribs. He broke three of them.

When my uncle woke up he was in a prison cell. There were three more people with him in there. It smelled like a bus toilet, only about one hundred times worse. There were carvings on the walls. This is what one of them said: there’s a Hell, you’re there. Guess who carved that there: a writer who was also a communist and an enemy of the state. In case you’re curious about the writer, this is what happened to him: he was jailed, tortured, thrown into a plane with some of his communist friends and dropped into the ocean from about three thousand feet in the air. If it were possible to carve letters onto the clouds, while falling from a plane, this is what the communist writer would have written on them: I was wrong, there’s more than one hell. He couldn’t carve anything on thin air. Instead he fell yelling and flapping his arms wildly ’till his body slammed against the sea. This is what that sounded like: aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, thud.

On the Works…

            Have patience. You might need it for this one:

            I’m crafting something: a different universe, a fictitious world… It’s a story about a girl; nothing long or terribly meaningful, just a random burst. It’s mine – my creation. I spent hours thinking about settings, characters and the lives they live. I’m always scheming against them. They don’t know about it, of course; poor oblivious things. They go around thinking that they have free will and such – not that different from us really. Their lives, they belong to me, well, most parts – the parts that don’t get out of hand. The decent thing to do is to be gentle and very careful with them. I can’t just smear those parts carelessly onto a few pages. They don’t deserve that.

            Let’s start:

            I begin the story like this: Jenny was a very pretty girl; no no no, that’s no good. It’s not a very creative sentence. Third graders begin their stories that way. It’s not very dignified for adults to write like that.

            Let’s give it another go:

            I start again: Jenny never had a chance; no no no, that’s no good either. Let’s think about Jenny. What’s Jenny like? How would she like her story to be told?