Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘humor

This charlatan magician that is life

We want to believe we had  a dream,

As a kid, reckless, careless, cheerful, forgetful

We must have had a dream, everybody says so…

We cling to that forgotten dream,

Gone with the wind for mysterious reasons.

Now adult and mad, for never recalling what was this beautiful dream

And we create another delusional dream,

Weaved out of and around the skills and talents we scrambled feverishly to acquire and boast of.

And we go crazy, seeing the world in black and white,

Struggling to be convinced that a dream must be an all-right world

Fighting the Great Evil, the Great Satan, master of all the wrong values

And we commit the most absurd acts of violence

On these criminal elements, poisoning our dream value system,

And we go on rampage, carrying banners of the most idiotic arbitrary concepts

Mid-age:

We blame our disillusion on these chaotic and vile realities that is life,

This “foul dust

Fooling us on a full moonlight

Watching this staircase, a ladder to heaven,

Perched up high to suck on the pap of life

Gulping down the incomparable milk of wonder…”

Along the way, we missed

Streaks of happy moments,

Failed to observe the real people

Characters rich in complex reality of life.

Along the way, we got lost, and we missed

To empathize with the pain, frustration of all the others’

Diverse dreamers of all kinds of “illusory dreams“,

Just like ours…

This foul dust amidst our chimeric failure,

To whatever we convinced ourselves we were after.

And we are getting old, really old,

And we reach this famous conclusion that

It was all illusion, a drama we played on this comical stage

As if we ever started with anything more than a delusional dream.

Loss of the illusion,

This heavy baggage grown-ups carry and nurse

To enjoy this acrid taste:

Licking our self-made wounds

The hero who wants to end a martyr

For all the dreamers of a better world…

And we missed the reveries, sources of our impossible imagination,

We missed the fact that the rock of our world

“Was and should be founded on  a fairy’s wing

Note: Borrowed a few sentences from Fitzgerald novels

Voting in Texas: Thinking is Hard

Wow, this is tough. I do love guns and Jesus. I also have a vagina and a homegrown Bush of my own. Thinking is hard.

rich-full-life posted:

Go vote.

Or don’t and just complain about or join in the celebration of the rest of the country’s decision today.

It’s happening with or without you.

I don’t have much to say about the election because I’ve hit my limit on political rhetoric, and I find the subject too polarizing.

I like my friends and family, so much so, that I’ve ignored many of them for months now.

I didn’t even hide their Facebook feeds.

My skills at scrolling past opinions I don’t agree with, and not discussing politics have been sharply honed in recent months.

But, I did make some pictures so I could be somewhat topical today.

Like a hemorrhoids cream.

http://rich-full-life.com/2012/11/06/just-vote/

The Republicans dragged on their selection for a candidate, for so long, that Romney had to outdo his “radical” chauvinistic opponents (The Tea Party-types), and going farther and farther to extreme positions.  By the time he had to face Obama, he felt stuck in ridiculous proclamations on abortions, women rights, minorities, the non tax-paying leeches, and demonstrating that he is totally ignorant in foreign policy issues, and ready to make the rich richer… and willing to bomb his way as Bush Jr did…

The US new facts say: It is no longer the white males and pro-zionists who elect a president. They are the women, the growing minorities of Latinos (24 million voters), the Blacks, the unemployed lower middle classes who are fed up of being recruited to do all the preemptive wars…

Sane US citizens didn’t have to think hard. Obama had it secured for another 4-year term. And guess what?

Obama ordered another drone bombing on Yemen’s Al Qaeda potential leaders, a couple of hours after election!

How many Yemenis would have been saved by the time Romney studied his files?

  •  Pingack, hyperlink, Unported License, etiquette…”You should know…”:
  • Getting there, leisurely, gradually
  • It was not the first time that I was asked by an “author” to post a link to the original article that I used, even though it was unchanged and the name was tagged. Actually, this was my third encounter with aliens.
  • It had to dawn on me that the exercise of crowding articles with all kinds of links is to have the name or the blog of the “concerned person” disseminated.  On the sound assumption that readers have all the time in the world and this effervescent zeal to leaf through every link thrown at them, for the pleasure of satisfying the ego of zillion of bloggers, just copying and pasting from one another: “The more you copy the more creative you become...
  • “One of those encounters was led by a “friend” of the author who didn’t mind at all. However, the friend, who turned out not to be able to write, snatched the dropped flag and wanted to run with it…
  • Another encounter was not alien, but in the flesh and blood, a close cousin.I published one of his posts, corrected a few typos and tagged his name…He was not pleased and recited such a long paragraph on a registered lisence…. I was dumbfounded of his memory, particularly that the paragraph made no sense to me and had long string of numbers…Something like ” I do publish under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License…”This sentence I received as a response to a note of minein one of my posts that say:“Fortunately, I don’t blog full-time or navigate the net to find out who have borrowed my ideas from the 3,100 articles that I posted: That would be a nightmare to keep track of and of no benefit, as far as I know. All that I am interested in is disseminate what is controversial and need to be discussed and reflected upon…”

    In any case, my cousin is on vacation, and I’ll run this lisence stuff on him and check if it matcheshis  words to words, including the numbers…

    An example of how unprofessional and technologically deficientI am  is this reply that I got:

    For one, I’d like to let you know how I discovered that you had re-blogged my article. It wasn’t a case of having to “navigate the net to find out who have borrowed my ideas”, but simply a matter of receiving a pingback from your post. It’s something that you should know about in your blogging – along with how to put hyperlinks into  your posts…”

    Two ideas in this reply I still cannot figure out:

    1. Pingback: The only pingbacks that I receive are the ones that wordoress returns for links of mines in my own posts, referring to other posts of mine. I cannot understand why wordpress has to clutter my pages on stuff I personnally activated..ping ponging the ball back to me, and eventually blackening one of my eyes.

    As for the pingbank that the reader received following my post, I’ll have to ask him on his personal email…Suppose that the reader is a subscriber to my blog, does he automatically receive the pingbacks that were meant for me?

    2. This hyperlink stuff was a theoretical matter for me more than a decade ago.  I was under the impression that a regular link (this longstring of gibberish) is indeed what is referred to as hyperlink…I now suspect that hyperlinks are these Blue words that stud published pieces on the net.  Now, how to translate long sentence links into Blue short words is going to be my first priority to learn “how to do it“. Blue hyperlinks are neat, professional and appealing to the eyes, particularly in long articles: You can click on the Blue word and sidetrack the boring article for a change…

    Actually, I learned how to add links 6 months ago.  A niece of mine asked me to send her a link of my post…and after several minutes of patient explanation, I saw this stuff on the top of the page that I should highlight, copy and paste.  Simple, nothing to it. It is Google that is not returning properly what I ask him to search for, in order to add links…Would adding hyperlinks be as easy?

    Note 1: Do I have to remind my readers that I own no computer, no laptop, not even a cellular phone? Two decades ago I used pagers until I went crazy, and also used cell phones until I went broke, not generating a nickle for all the useless calls that I received…iPhones (Apple and Samsung…) may produce generations of new products and facilities, I won’t acquire one unless my business require one of these fancy trademarks…I’ll get myself a Samsung: cheaper and more performing…

    Note 2: Have you noticed the dots at the beginning of the post? I have no idea how the first dot appeared, and I failed to erased it: It just come back, a steady fixture, which I had to work around i and go on as invisible dots.

    Note 3:

    1.You may find it helpful to look at the WordPress support pages here: http://learn.wordpress.com/

     2. adding hyperlinks is covered here: http://en.support.wordpress.com/links/

     3. pingbacks here: http://en.support.wordpress.com/comments/pingbacks/

     4. prefer a video, there’s one on hyperlinks here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIJmW-jC8t0

     5. and one on pingbacks here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHA2gLO8Sk

    Note 4. There’s nothing complicated about Creative Commons licences. They are just a way of telling readers that your blog posts are not copyrighted, and they are welcome to reproduce them under certain conditions (e.g. that they acknowledge the author). Anyone can use them. Have a look here: http://creativecommons.org/

How to retrieve the little happy moments?
Leaf through the layers of sad moments and uncover the grains of happiness…?
Take time to enjoy the little things. For one day you will look back and realize they were the BIG things

What could these happy moments be?

Can we say that this feeling of a job well done is a happy moment?

Can we say the instant of being recognized by a single person for what we are worth is a happy moment?

Can we say that a woman we like, who made the effort not to connect with other men at a date, is a happy moment?

Can we say that after a day, charged with plenty of problems and difficulties, is a happy moment once the day is over without much damage?

Can we say that feeling attached to a character in a novel is one of these happy moments?

Can we say that feeling completely focused on a task is a happy moment?

Or hearing your child babble the first recognizable words?

Or witnessing your child take his first steps?

Or your child pointing to the Moon with its little finger?

Trouble is: How to retrieve the happy little moments?

Can’t we assume that naturally, for every sad moment there must be the counterpart happy moment?

Should we make the effort to leaf through the layers of sad moments and uncover the grains of happiness that were hidden and could have bloomed under better conditions?

How to recollect and rerun them in our mind?
How to display a cheerful smile on our face and be contagious to people around us…?
At what age should we start remembering the good little happy moments?

How far should we feel wise enough in order to believe in the little happy moments?

The first step is to invest some time and note down as many happy moments as we can

Since I already posted my autobiography, I must find time to revisit my autobiography and collect what could be classified as happy moments.

Better, it is worth pealing off the leaves surrounding the sad moments and get to the root of the corresponding happy moment that permitted us to get over the hard times and resume our life.

For every sad moment there must be the counterpart happy moment: We are simply more impressed with the harsh moments and ruminate them so often that we forget to save and consciously record the happy moments in our memory in an easy retrievable manner.

We dwell far too much and far too often on the unpredictability of life and we invest our best efforts to forecast how to cope with the hazard of living.

It is no paradox that those barely securing their daily food are those who had to learn to develop the power of their imagination to bringing up and recognizing the many happy instances and display cheerful smiles and laugh genuinely to the surprises of life…

And yet, sad and happy moments are what constitute the living, and it is fair not to be biased by the sad attribute at the expense of the happy instants.

Part 2. How do you experience Happiness? Is Happiness a modern idea?

In a previous post I explained the variations on the concept of happiness and posited the following questions:

Can the ideas of happiness have any sense if not described in the proper context? For example:

1. How an individual with a life expectancy of no more than 30 years can conceive of happiness?

2. How an individual living in the harshest conditions to survive may experience happiness?

3. How the European under absolute monarchies and with a life expectancy not surpassing 40 years could comprehend the idea of happiness?

4. How all those cow-boys of the Far West experienced the meaning of happiness?

5. Was happiness in China the same before, during and after the Chinese revolution?

6. Was happiness experienced in the same quality before, during and after the British dominion of India?

7. Has happiness the same meaning and value before and after the “Industrial Age“?

8. Has happiness the same meaning and value during this instant communication and traveling facilities?

9. Don’t you think as life expectancy reaches 80 years that happiness requires extensive planing and preparation as we hit retirement age? What can you do without talent after 60?  How can you be happy if your eye sight goes and your hearing capacity dwindle?

Put yourself in the shoes of mankind in a period where longevity meant to live a few years beyond 30? You are an adolescent and yet you watch people dying right and left, people barely older than you are…How would you comprehend Happiness to be? Even if this idea crossed your mind, you are already dead, before you express your “thought processes” or figuring out what Happiness feels, means, and what for should happiness exist in the first place…?

Normal that ancient philosopher could not conceive of happiness without the notion of eternity and immortality strictly linked to a happy life.

In the 19th century, mankind everywhere barely lived to be 40 years. Even a toothache was liable for killing you out of infection, or the cruel treatment for removing a tooth…People died from what we consider now as common diseases, and they are so many, and any one of those diseases inevitably killed, with all the bleeding treatment, and keeping the patient in stuffy closed rooms (Fresh air was considered a factor for killing the patient, and even washing with water was considered a very bad idea, liable for you to catch cold and die…)

Do you think in these harsh living conditions and poor medical understanding and treatment that you’ll be in the mood of discussing “what is happiness”?

Think of the millions of Chinese working their rice paddies. Working 360 days a year, and waking up before sun rise, knee-deep in pestilent water and blood-sucking leeches. And eating a cup of rice for breakfast and rice for dinner, and for their sweet tooth, a bite of sugary rice pudding… Do you believe these rice growers have any idea of the kinds of Happiness discussed at length by so many philosophers?

Is the satisfaction of being recognized as a hard-working and responsible member of a community a good enough ground to claim happiness?

What about the million of mothers in India, carrying babies on their back and cutting stones with stones  in order to construct a highway? They won’t even receive a pair of shoes or even sandals to walk the highway…Can these people claim to have experienced Happiness?

What about the million working 16-hour days in sweat shop factories, doing clothes, sport shoes, assembling electronic devices for multinational companies, confined in closed rooms and dormitories, barely seeing natural lights, and committing suicide by the dozens…Do you believe those people are pondering upon the attributes of Happiness?

What of those cow-boys during the Far West “conquest”, slaughtering bison by the thousands in order to reduce the Indians to famine, scalping Indians for a handful of dollar-coins, and transferring cows and horses to catering for need of the belligerent Northern and Confederate armies…

Eating beans for breakfast and beans for dinner, and occasionally shooting a rabbit…And wearing the same tight and uncomfortable non-stretchable jeans, and wearing long awkward boots for months on… Do you think a quick hot bath once a month, now and then, can change their outlook of what is happiness?

Like desiring to eventually own a ranch and working harder until they drop dead…Why do you think cow-boys badly seek gun duel? In every miserable town they stop at? They want to ending it all, this wretched life: They are scared to die of famine, devoured by wolves, mauled by bears, bitten by snakes…

They sit at the poker table drinking whiskey, and get bored, and it is as good a time for a good fight, and “Step outside. I’ll beat the crap out of you…” or “Step outside. Watch my piss-jet out distancing yours…”

What about all these people fleeing war ravaged lands, civil wars, preemptive wars, ethnic cleansing wars, expansionist wars…and seeking refuge in any country, supposedly enjoying a modicum of security…and dying on their long hopeless journeys, inside closed containers, burned by the scorching sun, frozen crossing high mountain chains…And being quickly repatriated after they had spent all their family savings for the glimpse of “heaven”…

What attribute of Happiness these people fleeing atrocities have in mind, besides a hot meal and a cozy bed…?

What of all these European of Noble classes before the 20th century, eating meat for breakfast and for dinner, raw meat, roasted meat… and occasionally some fish…

Mind you that potatoes was not grown in Europe before the 19th century, and rice was as rare as spices…Even today, it is sausage, potatoes and cabbage soup…

The only pleasure was drinking beer, wine, and any local alcoholic beverage, and “Life is good…when drunk”

And you tell me of women getting pregnant every year, 7 out of 10 babies still-born, and the remaining children not living to be 5-year old, and having to contend with a couple reaching adulthood…

And the man coming home after a long harassing work in the fields: “Woman, I am totally exhausted and cannot satisfy you tonight…” And the wife going: “Don’t worry honey. Lay down and I’ll do the job. As I usually do for the maintenance and survival of our species…”

The term Happiness was manipulated and expanded upon, through successive philosophers, trying to interpret a term that didn’t exist in the first place in their languages, exhaustively pondering on attributes and codifying Happiness into “professional books” against all odds, and rubbed at the nose of the little people…

You have to give it to the ancient philosophers: They created the term “Happiness” that never existed in any popular language, and they soared above the gravity of miseries, injustice, brute force and subjugation, and grabbed on this flimsy grace, dreaming of justice and fair treatment to all, to the elite classes…

Happiness is a luxury idea.

And luxury is what people long to have access to…

Who are those joggers? This presumptuous class of “would-like” to be unbridled liberal capitalists.

I am acquainted with a few joggers, those people who run for about 45 minutes or more, every day, rain or shine, working days and on vacation days…

Some of them jog in the morning before going to work, some in the evening after work, and some even at lunch time.

Lunch time? Why? What’s the purpose? More crowd to exhibit our prowess in overcrowded downtown?

Those “addicted” joggers feel that it is important that they should run everyday to clear-up their muddled brain and sort out the best methods to plan and activate mischief, at work, on family members, and to awe the community…

There is no doubt that starting to run is no easy start, and it is Not the same as “the 1,000-mile journey begins with the first hopping steps…”: It is a conscious decision of “Am I the stuff for huge successes and cover stories…?”

For what is worth, the kind of joggers whom I knew had “high” positions in private companies or are into the financial business, juggling around fictitious money, from the pocket of unknown wealthy people to unknown board members…

And they are running, increasing speed (called accelerating) and falling back into rhythmic cadences for sustainability reason. I

n the paced phase, the “capitalist” joggers are ruminating on day-dream success stories, and as they accelerate and adrenaline is pumped into their “gorgeous vein”, you can bet that people and clients are being trampled, at work and on the street…

Those implicit “would-like” to be “liberal capitalists”, and most of them don’t even know it yet, have taken jogging as a symbol: If you want to maintain the bottom-line, you have got to keep waging battles of increased micro-management confrontations (opportunities), whatever it takes to staying in the position of power, resisting, by-passing, swirling, zig zagging, avoiding to be an easy target…

Those jogging before going to work are visualizing the battlefield of the day.

Those jogging in the evening are preparing their mind for tomorrow combat

And those jogging around lunch time are trying to figure out how to finish the day with a victory, sorting out the many micro battles still ahead in the day…

I keep wondering why people who studied and worked in the US for a few years, mainly in major cities, return home “jogger-jokers“, wearing red bonnet in winter and backward cap in summertime…

Those who return for a short visit, they stubbornly run everyday, kind of keeping the tempo and waving their hands wildly to whomever they see on the way.

Those who returned for longer duration, they occasionally jog, for the show, reminding the community that they have been abroad…

There are differences between runners and fast walkers:

1. Fast walkers learn to practice warm-up exercises before hitting the streets and parks. Joggers do all these stretching, and far more arduous joint stretches, after the run: They want to avoid the residual aches and pains in the morning…And they know that they’ll be almost invalid within a decade…

2. Fast walkers check their pulses at intervals. Joggers are too engrossed in shaking their tight behind: They simply faint and die, like horses.

3. Fast walkers want to stay healthy while venting out all the rage, the wide spectrum of angers and emotions bottled up and accumulated since last walk. Joggers want to be seen as above the crowd, nimble, agile, bird-like about to fly, and inhaling deeper and faster the polluted air than the simple crowd. Jogger wants to show-off that they are in a position of power, and they can speed…

You cannot think properly when you jog, but you can visualize “how bad you can be” and eventually be a bad boy, and proud to be bad…as long as you keep jogging.

If I was not a smoker, if I had a proper running pair of shoes, had stable large feet that point straight (instead of diverging a la Charlie Chaplin), had a round tight ass…I could start a “jogging program“, running occasionally, for less than ten minutes max, learning to bomb my chest, keeping my head up, my shoulder blades spread wide, and dreaming of plenty of money coming my way…

It is this last dream of plenty of money coming true that is preventing  me from initiating the jogging trip.

I dread the memories of the various ways of manipulating money, depositing, withdrawing, transferring, writing checks, be stolen far more frequently, becoming a renowned sucker victim, taken to court for embezzlement, facing the terrible stigma of “uncovered” expenses, credit cards cut-off at counters…but never applying for debit cards, reserved for naive, simpleton capitalists by procuration…

As a kid, my biggest mystery was the “sitting on” chair, until I attended my first classroom, and the mystery thickened. Chairs? What for?

I kept running all day long, chasing nothing in particular, as far as I can recollect…

I am waiting, before I contemplate jogging, for my behind to re-establish its youthful fleshy and roundish look, otherwise, who would care for this puny exhibition?

I am seriously considering switching to the more dynamic mobility method: from slow walking and clicking my worry beads, to hopping, slowly, around my room carpet.

Away with pondering reflective moods. I ‘ll be vigorously jumping into the arena of tuning up, “capitalizing on”, and activating my mischief tendencies

At the Fair: Has anything changed?

Progress is visible in the Fair: In the stand of “Shooting of Nations“, the targets are jet fighters and “terrorists” wearing assorted headgear, variety of styles in long beards, and chest detonating jackets… Where the empty eggshells have gone?

Everything else is unchanged: Music for all, emanating from every corners, special stalls, mechanical cars, wooden horses…

Whatever it takes to cheat and delude the little people, that the living is paradise incarnate at the end of a hard slaving week…

Flags, glorious banners, soldiers on retirement, spiritually maimed, wrestlers without much muscles…

The fun is elevated to riding tiny electric cars that bump and derange whatever spared brain you still have, churning up sturdy stomach…No limit to crashing into the bewildered soft-hearted riding with a crazy driver…

As the band is readying to play, sing, or act…there is always a missing member…A posy is sent to locate him and fetch him back among the harmonious band.  One member is returned and two have already parted company, drunk as they possibly could be…

Mothers are completely exhausted and valiantly waiting for the firework to get going back home, before the mass wake up and start moving haphazardly as a mob, stepping on kids, crushing feet…

Mother would give up on this joyful day, if they can finally tuck in the over excited kids and call it a day.

The fair is the “waiting” per excellence for the steady heads, the arrogant who refuses to let go and join the communal fun, to mingle and be harassed by the little cheaters at the end of the week…

The fair is the constant crying of babies and kids, short on nickels and dimes, crushed between chairs, ordered to tame their excitements, to learn to sober down their desires to mount wooden horses, carousels, anything that turns and swing and flip-flop…

The fair is the ideal training ground to forging characters, to learn that fun cost money, and there are not enough saved to go berserk…

The fair is a fantastic opportunity for parents to initiate the rules to the kids of how to start reflecting, setting priorities on what games to select, among the hundreds of them, all equally great, and how to maximize the fun for the little money to spend…

The fair is great for learning the golden rule: “You want fun, you pay for it…” and the best methods to finally get it is administering frequent slaps and boxes…until the Pavlov reaction is mastered

The lights, fixed and gyrating, won’t go down until the little cheating businessmen have counted their dimes, checking and rechecking the day’s receipt of the funny kids…and the little helpers dozing on rickety chairs, on the floor, on a swing…waiting for the boss to part of some of his profit…

Note 1: Kids don’t need money to discover the pleasure of living.  All they need is to be out of home and be free to run and connect with other kids, free from any discrimination factors.  It is the parents who ruin the cheerfulness and joy of living for the kids, with their idiosyncratic principles, boring habits, faulty ideas on how to keep good entente with neighbors and community…

Note 2: Post inspired by a section of the French book “Voyage to the end of the night” by Louis Ferdinand Bardamu (Celine as pen name, the first name of his mother)

“Trip to the End of the Night” by Ferdinand Celine (Part 2)

This French book, published in the early 1930’s, is basically a collection of autobiographical stories of a freshly graduating physician in his mid thirties who established his “clinic” in a poor working neighborhood in the suburb of Paris.

Celine (pen name) used to be called to pay visit to patients after sundown, and his medical tour will last till dawn, from a poor patient to another dying girl aborting in the room of her parents, because the parents refused to send her to the hospital for face-saving…

Celine volunteered  in WWI,  was caught in the machinery and couldn’t get out, and was able to flee to the USA and worked at the noisy and boring Ford factories in Detroit. He returned to France and studied medicine.

The followings are excerpts, not of the stories, but of the kind of statements that the living among miseries bring up in our mind and emotions.

The biggest tiredness of the living is this tremendous effort invested in looking “reasonable”, along the decades of our growth: Everything is justified as long as we never exhibit ourselves, as we are: vile, foul, atrocious, absurd…This long nightmare of presenting this little universal ideal, superman during the day, this sub-man that we inherited, handicapped from birth in so many ways…

It is a good feeling when we land in an unknown city: We can lure ourselves that the people are much nicer. It is good to dream that we can spare a few hours in the public park, ogling the young girls…

I noticed that people have a vast reserve for love, plenty of it in reserve, genuinely pitying the handicapped, the blind…

The trouble is that love in reserve is never invested, not early enough, not ever: It is blocked inside, serving nothing and nobody…This kind of love in reserve dies slowly, and is reduced to nothing: Inflation of hatred, contempt, self deprecation exhaust all the initial wealth in love, bottled up inside…

It’s astonishing how hard it is to figure out what may render a person, more or less, agreeable to others.  We really want to be of service, to be favorable, but we keep mumbling and blubbering…The first uttered words, and we are swimming in the vast sea, unable to swim. Al the unconscious distract you as you approach the topic of being friendly…

Detritus do not increase or last: They are decomposed one way or another.  It is mankind who keeps defecting, urinating through his half-decomposed body, and exacerbate this mess with conversations that are half-cooked and ill expressed

Our torture is imprisoned in a body, characterized by a specific foul nauseating odor, a particular trademark of every individual, his signature…And our molecules keep their unrelenting navigation, to getting out of our body and rejoin this universe of infinity…

What’s life after all, but a bit of light that ends in the dark? Most of our adventures and undertakings that counts to our heart are done mainly in the dark of the night: Shameful endeavors that we think the others don’t know or have the secret, and the details of our dark maneuvers…

Fear never does reply by a Yes or a No. All that fear does is to gather what we are thinking, all that we say, everything we do…Fear just control our emotions and our actions, unknown to our conscious mind…

Relocating your business has a single advantage: The time it takes for your clients to discover the best way to harm you, you are already enjoying a tranquil relative break from people’s harm.  It is this short period that is the most agreeable in relocating your living.  The best tactic is turning over from one side to the other in your bed…

“Trip to the End of the Night” by Ferdinand Celine

This French book, published in the early 1930’s, is basically a collection of authobiographical stories of a freshly graduating physician who established his “clinic” in a poor working neighborhood in the suburb of Paris.

Celine (pen name) used to be called to pay visit to patients after sundown, and his medical tour will last till dawn, from a poor patient to another avorting dying girl because the parents refused to send her to the hospital for face saving…

Celine volunteered in WWI and was caught in the machinery and could no longer escape this infernal absurdity.  He was able to flee to the USA and worked at Ford factories in Detroit. He returned to France and studied medicine.

The followings are excerpts, not of the stories, but of the kind of statements that the living among miseries bring up in our mind and emotions.

It is imperative to comprehend why we are so stubborn to refuse a cure for our solitude…We keep hiding from acquaintances. I recall the words of this young corporal, hospitalized during the war. He confided: “Earth is sick and dead, and we are fat decaying worms…All rotten since birth…” He was good enough to be carried by two soldiers to be executed by a firing squad: He was an anarchist as the War council decided…I didn’t know better at the time to take time and listen to these soldiers: I wouldn’t know how to ask the right questions anyway…

The old patient was saying: “I can’t feel my feet, I feel cold up to my knees. I can’t drink anything…I want to touch my feet but I can’t…” He was kind of half out of life, he couldn’t get rid of his lungs…He exhaled but air would come in anyway. Kind of his lungs relentlessly making him suffer to the very end. That’s a harsh job staying alive…He struggled as harder to stay alive as to die

Life is a special class of boredom and annoyances, and they are the eternal pions. Boredom is here all the time, spying on you, and you have to frequently look occupied, at any price…Masturbating is an excellent pass time: You are occupied and getting some pleasure.  Mostly, we would like to have an endless series of pleasure-like activities to survive the long 24-hour day. A day is really very long to surmount and suffer the ever ready presence of boredom…Even in our continuous boredom, we refuse to reflect on ourselves…Nothing very pleasurable here, self-reflection.

It is impossible to swallow truth, like the death of your lover, or the death of your kid…The more distant the lover, literally, the more you cannot communicate face to face, and smell the rotten flesh…You keep adding and heaping values, good traits and lies to the reality of love…It’s natural and regular this tendency, loving from afar…

The little people can claim to have lived, only if the manage to overcome this habit of blind obedience, inculcated in the brain since childhood, and they should vomit obeying the rich and the authority figures once for al.

The balanced youth is who can respect everyone with no discrimination whatsoever…How come we cannot find these kind of youth?

It is not relentlessness that we ever lacked, but how to be on the proper road that lead to a tranquil death. The worst case scenario is when death takes us by surprise, in between two hesitations…

War is ever ready to wake up and grumble, due mainly to the criminal boredom that gets the little people out of their confined caves…How many of the poor people should be sacrificed before they comprehend the humour of it?

Note: Read part 2: https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/part-2-trip-to-the-end-of-the-night/

What fruit stew “compote” has to do with old man George?

What I mean by “compote” is the slicing and dicing of all kinds of fruits and boiling the mix for just a minute, and adding a single spoon of sugar to the mix.

It does not stand to reason to stew fresh fruits, except if the members of the family lack this patience to peel a fruit or crunch on hard fruit…

In my case, I gather the fruits that are spoiling or on the verge of spoilage and retrieve and cut out the good parts and dump them all for a short cooking process. I can eat my compot over a week, with or without flakes, coffee, or anything else…

A week ago, I was throwing my trash bag in the public bin and noticed plenty of fruits dumped in the bin.  These fruits originated from the shop of George, an old grumpy man, and the husband of one of my aunts, my neighbors.

I decided to ask George to retrieve the “rotting” fruits, which cannot be sold in any case, from the assorted varieties displayed.  My aunt didn’t mind, and even refused to take money for my small bag of very ripe and spoiling fruits.  I suggested to the couple to try to emulate me in stewing the fruits. They mocked me on account that there are plenty of fruits and no one has the time or energy to stew fruits, and that no one will eat them anyway…

Today, I was not that “lucky”. This old grouchy person was alone in the shop and dozing around 3 pm. I read a daily and waited for him to wake up. I bought a pack of cigarette and told him that I intend to select spoiling fruits.  It went fine for a minute and then George changed his mind and got upset and refused that I go ahead with my selection…

To make matter worse, he compounded the refusal by creating a pretext to get verbally angry, like I am not a valuable customer, like the very few who “patronize” his small business…It felt like he wanted to kick me out…I said: “George, I know you are sleepy and tired…let’s cool it down”

It seems when George is angry he goes the extra miles into insanity and refuses to hear anything.

It happened that this month the library is closed for vacation and made it a habit to pay george a visit after siesta, knowing that he will be lonely and no one around to visit or buy anything.

George is voluble and I learned to be patient, half listening to the same broken records of those previous “customers” he hates, despises, he is not “hot” with…and they are so many that he didn’t manage to retain any neighbors to buy from him…

I do not reply or interject: I have never repeated or cared to retell these stories to anyone, not even my parents (who knows all these stories)…I simply avoid to spread these kinds of telltales…and I was not in the mood of becoming one of his target for his venomous tongue…

George has a good heart,is very helpful with manual labor and volunteer his expertise in civil works.  During my extensive absence from Lebanon, my parents linked to the public sewer system, but the local section was badly constructed and it was my job to clear and clean this portion at the beginning of the winter season, after the stench becomes unbearable and stuff oozed out in the parking lot…George would come and help me out with his labor and equiments…It was also an occasion of reminding me of the faulty system and its many deficiencies, and the urgency to reconstruct this section…

George married aunt Mary who visited Lebanon from Africa just to get married. Mary got a few suitors, but George was younger, handsome, healthy, hard-working, and malleable…

George and mary returned from Africa in the early 70’s a were the first couple to purchase a land in Kuneitra (a mile from the large town of Beit Chabab) and to  build their 3-story building in 1969. We followed suit in 1970. George opened his “Supermarket” and they were doing fine, even during the long civil war. These kind of trading is profitable: you increase the price over the inflation rate, and you receive cheap lots of goods, no question asked of how and where they were looted from…

After the civil war, modern supermarkets mushroomed in the area, a really modern mini-markets close by competed easily with George’s antiquated supermarket. Actually, george and my aunt do their accounts with pencil on  cut-out cardboard pieces. No calculators are used, and obviously, computers are not to be contemplated.  It takes too long to write the name of the product purchased and then double-check the computation, the old fashion…

George has no patience for these details, and his additions are frequently in errors: It is not that george is poor in math, he just does not align properly the relevant  zeroes…

When aunt Mary steps in the shop, and she is the main “patron and boss”, she has to double-check on the accounts of George, and George learned to do the vanishing act, out of sight and out of hearing range.  It is very painful when customers listen to the harsh complaints of Mary, and how profits disappear when George is attending the shop in her absence…

Customers, living a bit away from our neighborhood, (George had kicked out from his shop every neighbors and bad mouth every one of them), prefer to visit during the absence of Mary for excellent bargaining deals and satisfactory computational errors…

Kunetra is currently a very expensive Real Estates corner, studded with rich and varied kinds of villas…

George could be funny with swift quick replies, but what can you do when old age and sickness assault you and you are reduced to be confined in a shop from 6am to 8 pm, with only 15 minutes break for lunch, eating all alone?

My attempt at keeping George company ultimately backfired, as I suspected it will, sooner or later.  I had noticed that george manages to be upset with anyone around in the shop and most probably, he battles with his shadow very frequently…

Old man George looked slender most of his life and very healthy. In the last two years, he had to undergo a dangerous surgical operation and cancer therapy.  He is gaining a whole lot of weight and increasing steadily, and yet he claims not to be eating almost anything.  His family members know that he keeps eating, a piece of fruit here, fixing sandwiches, chips,…And George is getting irascible and very unpredictable when his angry moods surface…

I say: “If George can’t find anyone in sight to vent his rage, he frequently battle with his shadows…”

This is the story of an unassuming person who grew sick with age, and the virus of acknowledging that youth has gone and done with has seeped in his brain and he rebelled: “This is as good a time as any to assume my individuality…” in ridiculous and haphazardly ways, exaggerating his boasting statements that pierce the stars…

Old man George can be bought for a nickel, and didn’t have a dime to spare

Should this sad situation prevent me from resuming fruit stewing? I think not.

The humanity of old men (80 and over) in pain, in rage, confused, hard on hearing, short of sight, wondering why they were created, why they are still alive…

The good old-time was when the elder family members died in their 60’s so that the younger ones can go on with their natural life of struggling efficiently with their survival…

Note 1:  It was an inconsequential event, pretty funny when you think of it.  I am realizing that it is these small irrelevant events that constitute fantastic materials for good stories. George got his spot in my blog: It never occurred to me to write about George, until he got it in his head to “assume his grandeur“, a life of steady toil, from 5 am to 8 pm, since childhood.

Note 2: I suspect George is a highly impressionable weak man. A guy that I didn’t see for the last 35 years came to town to visit. His name is also George and he bad mouthed me in the morning in the presence of old George, kind of I might be injected with sedatives…and old George nodded in agreement. I refrained from retorting and read the daily as if this guy didn’t exist.  This guy has hired old George’s brother to take care of the electrical work for a house that his son is building. The departing sentence of old George was: “No one can suffer you…”

How come this event has to take place just in the afternoon? Sort of old George got it in his head that it is alright to attack me verbally, for no substantial reasons…as long as someone else dared to bad mouth me?


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

October 2020
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