Sunday, May 22, 2011

Nameless You

You, who I have seemed to have forsaken
I have no more memory of You
I live in a world where I can’t be reminded,
Reminded of whatever You gave to me…
I have not given myself to you
I have not attempted to find you
My memory could have been sparked
Had I only dared to reply to those welcomes?
I don’t want to live in a world without Your memory
I have hidden myself in walls where I didn’t
Want You…I wanted to fit in…
Now what? Do I believe in my past memories?
Or rather do I admit that the past has no
Relevance to my present situation?
Only I can answer these questions, but I
Question who’s questioning now.
Pain—Cease I must…To save…
Not my soul, but rather my
Nameless You.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Ode to Don Quixote

Sit back and let me tell you a tale
Of the fearless Don Quixote,
And his faithful, humble companion Sancho Panza.
They embarked on their quest of triumph,
In search of maidens in distress, and
In search of the most honorable knights of the realm.
On their first trip Don Quixote
Came under attack of the horrible spears
Of mockery, and Sancho did nothing
To stop the laughing crowds—
He was no faithful follower, at the time.
But after years of fighting against
Windmills, and evil knights,
The two became inseparable—one in mindset.
The ideological Don Quixote makes Sancho see
The beauty in believing, in dreaming
The impossible dream—the beauty
Of laughing at inopportune times,
Of speaking out of turn.
Sancho Panza and Don Quixote
Travel across the country still today,
Still in search of pretty maidens,
Still in search of foul enemies,
Still hoping that one day,
Others will join them
On their triumphant quests.

The timeliness of bliss

The tension sits before me
The tension sits before us
Social norms sit before us
“How did you do on the GRE?”
Comparison is ranking.
Comparison is judgment everyday.
Want to be a Buddhist? Jesus Saves!
Allah is Great!!
The great ideas of the world want us to join,
Want us to fight for them,
Want us to die for them,
Want us to forget about the void.
And all memes do that, some betters than others.
The combustion station that will eventually cremate
My combustion station.
That too, will disappear.
But will the atoms that make my body eventually disappear?
Ego or egoless being?
"It is the timeliness of information that makes it so worthwhile."
Should I give away the money in my wallet?
Bum thing
Ayn Rand wants me to be strong like Howard Roark.
I’m not myself in front of other people.
Some people act like themselves…for example, my lazy, pampered,
Whiny, jittery brother is at least acting like himself when he’s an asshole.

But I’m not even sure that there is a real me underneath all my yes-saying during conversations with people. I try to make other people happy rather than disagree with them or tell them who I really am.

Who knows whether God or the gods are happy, sad, irate, or just find it amusing to watch us struggle on?

When you find your bliss, don’t let it go. It’s hard…it’s hard not to compromise and sell yourself short to follow other people's memes. But don’t let go of your bliss when you find it.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Defenestration of Prague

Below is the basic structure of a movie I wanted to write: an homage to The Big Lebowski, Curb Your Enthusiam, Three Kings, Gravity's Rainbow & Radiohead. Let me know what you think, and let me know if you have suggestion for a better title (which is a reference to a action in scene#13 and that crazy tendency of people in Prague to throw people they hate out windows.)



Summary of Style – Distortion by juxtaposition of known & fictional personalities

Summary of Plot – The cast of the Big Lebowski wants to get together for a sequel. All of the cast, except for Saddam Hussein, show up for the making of the sequel. The Coen Brothers call on the cast members from Three Kings to go into Iraq and find Saddam Hussein so that they can do a sequel with the full cast. The Three Kings (TKs) go to Iraq to find Saddam, but they run into other groups of people looking for Saddam, such as the Kurdistan Liberation Front (KLF) and the US-lead, psy-ops group (DINO.) (I don’t want to ruin the ending yet, so you’ll have to read on to figure out if the TKs find Saddam Hussein (SH) and if they can bring him back to the States.)

Monday, January 3, 2011

Angel in White

Preface: This story has been translated from Russian. The local phrases have been translated from their Russian counterparts; however, the names of people and places have been kept the same. The story takes place in the Russian city of Yuroslavl in the spring of 1985.



The black asphalt path followed snugly along the Volga River. On this bright Sunday morning, Igor jogged along the path from downtown Yuroslavel to Statue Park in the outskirts of town. His bright red and black cotton shirt stood out, for no good reason, against the cloudless blue sky. His gray shoes were nearly two years old and his black running shorts were nearly four. The wind blew calmly. It was visible as ripples in the water’s surface and appeared as wave-like motions in the cattails beside the river. Igor enjoyed jogging, having done so since late grade school. In his culture, jogging alone was seen, not so much as a necessary form of exercise, but rather as an example of errant individualism. As such, he commonly drew the attention of fellow townsfolk, who always exercised in groups of two or more. Why would somebody want to jog alone when he or she could easily ask one’s neighbors if they would like to jog as well?

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Awakening: the refusal of the call

His eyes opened. There were no clouds, only bright blue sky. The sun shone directly overhead. The air was warm and dry. He was confined to a large box and he could feel his body, as well as the box, being moved, as though both were part a greater convoy. He sat up. Four men carried him in this box. At least one hundred people were behind these four men. All of them were walking on a dry, stony path. There were no trees along the path. Was he ready for his re-entry?
A woman screamed. The crowd soon realized the reason for her surprise. “He’s alive!” she exclaimed. “My son. He’s alive…I’m and luckiest of all mothers.”
The rabbi, old and decrepit, ordered the men to lower the coffin to the ground. The man stepped out of his coffin. After a few seconds of bewilderment, the town’s doctor rushed to speak to the man, but his mother had already sheathed herself around him, showering him with all the blessings of the world. “My son. My God! My son, how are you feeling?”
“I see the world, yet I don’t understand it,” calmly replied the man, trying desperately to ascertain the meaning of his return to bodily form.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Summer Days at the Pool

Summer Days at the Pool


The pavement reflected the glimmer
Of children’s laughter.
The water sounded of
The sun exhaling.
Boys in trunks watching
The girls eat their ice cream,
As it melts and drips
To the scorching pavement.
Splash! Whoah!
Man—that was awesome.
A boy emerged from the blue of the pool,
Water dripping from his strands of hair.
Like a horse jumps its fence,
The boy sprang out of his Aquarian habitat.
The older boys at the other end
Of this segregated pool
Challenged him to try his dive
On their side of the pool.
Off the plank, he rose into the sky,
And landed on the water-made pillow
In cannon-ball formation.
Water shot into the sky, and returned,
Drenching a girl (this side of the pool)
Soaking rays, sleeping dazed,
Dreaming while others played.
The icy block of water enveloped her.
She didn’t twitch;
She didn’t move;
She didn’t even turn her head.
Receiving congrats, rehearing an apology,
The boy soon became indifferent.
It set upon him.
Provoking him; silently speaking.
Off the plank he rose again,
Calculating all the specifics
To drench the indifferent girl.
Again, he submerged.
Again, the water shot out
Of the dragon’s mouth—aimed
At the unperceptive warrior.
The shield of dreaming, indifference,
Protected this warrior maiden.
On Apollo’s arrow-laden battlefield
The dragon was slain, and
The boy lay at the feet of the slain,
Realizing the helplessness
Of his unreal situation.
Tiredly, pensive, he returned
To his side of the pool.
He lay down; imbibing warmth.
The third of his cat-lives
Melted away; indifferent
To the sun’s, to the sea’s
Harping calls to wake him.