Status quote

Why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?


Walker Percy, author (1916-1990)

Night Declensions

Affronting the night

closing in around the house

cup of tea in hand

The night confronted

enveloping all but the

steaming cup of tea

Sleepless night settling

on the forehead of the moon

vapourous cup of

Insomniac moon

strutting down and up

within the rim of the cup

The Encounter

He was one inch, perhaps two, under seven feet, which was of course quite unusual as people went, but one had to consider that he was a dragon-cum-monster slayer, and that in his line of work midgets indeed had an undeniable advantage at hiding, but in deeds they had that terrible drawback of being slow-paced and slow-witted, ergo of being chewable in one snap, fact that made them unqualified for the work – midget dragon-cum-monster slayers died out for lack of suitable candidates. Provided you found a small enough dragon or even a remarkably puny hydra, even your regular man was as good as mince pie.

He was not your regular man. His shining armour was the first clue. Brightly polished for a whole full-moon night by a dwarf – jolly good polishers, by the way, dwarves are, for they have that almost sexual attraction to metal that verges on devotion. The second clue was his steed. No one could ever call Stallion a horse. He was a magnificent pure-breed, white from muffle to tail. Even his hooves were white. Of course, Stallion was a magical warhorse, bound to him by a magical spell only Destiny could cast. Together they had roamed many a kingdom and fought many a battle. The third clue was his size. 'Towering' was by any means an adjective that befitted him like a gauntlet, but his bulk was mountainous. He could encompass the head of a man in his hand and he covered with one stride the same ground as a man would do in four. Muscular, mighty, masculine. In all humbleness, he could say that he was the ladies' favourite wherever he went. The claymore faithfully hanging at his side was the last clue to his über-manliness. It was a fathom long, i.e. the width of a man's extended arms, from tip to tip. Only him could wield Swörd, for he had been chosen by the Gods to unsheathe it from its rocky, two-thousand year old resting place. Swörd glowed with a special shimmering aura, parting the darkness at night and glowed red in the midst of the fray.

On a day-to-day basis he was feared by his enemies, loved by his countrymen, favoured by the Gods for his ruthlessness, for his courage and for his loyalty respectively.

So when he heard that he was being challenged to a duel, and when he set eyes on his 'enemy', he first laughed. But he had fought too many wars and killed too many monsters and evil men alike to overlook the stare in the herald's eyes. He was then told that his opponent had killed nine hundred and ninety-nine men in single combat. But the fame didn't quite match the figure. The herald must have been mistaken, they must have all consorted to play some prank on him. He knew the King of these lands very well, he had been a companion in peace and in war for many a year.

So on that fateful day, as he was passing by the village, he was stopped by his antagonist who was blocking the road, legs extended in an inverted V shape and his fist resting on his hips in a defiant posture. He set foot in the muddy ground, let Stallion wait by the corn trough and, after being warned by the herald, gave him his sheeny helmet and walked up to the warrior. Such was the scene in the early hours of the morning. It was the first days of Spring. Luck had it that he was in a perfect form.

He bent over his foe, towering and confident, hands on his knees and told him, in the sweetest possible voice he could: “And what are you going to do, precisely, kiddo?”

***

He was definitely two inches under five feet, which was quite unusual as people went, but one had to consider that he had yet to complete his eighth school year, kindergarten excluded. When he was woken up by his friend, who was dishevelled from all the running up and down, telling him that a knight was in sight and that he would arrive in the village any minute now, he jumped out of bed, put on his best suit and rushed to meet him, panting a little – he had almost slipped on the mud. That would have ruined his carefully crafted effect. He affected his usual posture in the middle of the only road in the village. He was born there. His parents and his parents' parents were born there. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. Luckily, today was a day off school.

So he was standing there, as proudly and vain as possible, and he quite liked the effect on the people around him. Everyone had gathered and was holding its breath. Expectant eyes were going from him to the knight and vice versa. Yet, and this was quite unusual, the stares seemed to linger more on the warrior – he had to admit that this one was, well, nothing short of statuesque. The...man, for lack of a better word, surely measured a staggering seven feet at least.

When he came up to him and bent over him, he could not see anything but him, as broad his shoulders were. This was the first time ever he was confronted by such a mountain of muscles and metal. The mud at every one of his steps seemed to be squashed into a pulp, on each side of his ironclad feet.

He just hoped the herald had not said too much, or too little.

***

Now he was much closer, he could distinguish the child's features: the unruffled hair, the pimples he should resent, the freckles that one could not really distinguish from the said pimples, the sleep at the corner of his blue eyes, the chubby cheeks. The school garments. Light blue shirt, black and blue striped tie, dark blue shorts, light blue socks, black shoes that had not seen a good polish in years, perhaps at all. Then his eyes were suddenly drawn to a glittering pen which was sticking out from the child's pocket.

***

They usually would come very close to him, talk to him perhaps, spur him on, observe him for a time then they would become interested in his pen. That was the time he would usually put it to good use. This one was like the rest and now was the time. Right on the cue. He had had doubts, looking at that gigantic man, but he just had to remember the story of David and Goliath to feel safe.

One day he had heard at school that quote from a French bloke: “If you kill one man, you're a murderer; if you kill millions of men, you're a conqueror; if you kill them all, you're God.” He was currently undertaking stage two. He was still in two minds as to pursue further after taking the life of millions of men. Being God seemed to him quite overrated.

The pen had been the top prize at a poetry competition earlier last year. A little less than a foot tall and entirely made of iron. The Provost had said it would last him a lifetime if he used it carefully. It was this same pen which he now swiftly took in hand and which he was thrusting into the knight's right eye, very deeply, until his hand knocked onto the man's orbit. As usual, the title of his winning poem would flash before his eyes: The Unexpectedness of a Pen Right into the Eyeball. The defeated knight fell dead in the mire.

He then cried, triumphantly, the last line of his epic: “The pen is mightier than the sword!” Blood and humours dripped abundantly from the glistening pen. With one hand clenched around the body of the pen he swiped it clean, then put it back into his pocket. With that he turned on his heels and walked home to get his breakfast. He was starving. “Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder” was also one of his teacher's sayings – “unless there's a pen sticking right through it”, he sarcastically added, with a grin on his face, from ear to ear. The carrion would be carried at the edge of the forest and left to the vultures and the wolves. Such was the fate of the defeated. Vae Victo.

***

The herald, for the thousandth time, was shaking his head as he and seven other sturdy men were carrying the body of the unfortunate...why didn't any one of those knights believe him? Couldn't they see the Evil in the child's eyes? Lucky the kid paid him well, otherwise he'd have cleared a long time ago.

The sound of the Trees - Mountain Interval (1920)

Robert Frost (1874–1963).  Mountain Interval.  1920.

28. The Sound of the Trees

I WONDER about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?         5 We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that that talks of going         10 But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor         15 And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice         20 Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone.         25 The poem can be found at this address: http://www.bartleby.com/119/28.html

Quote on Happiness

Thanks to Marilyn for the follow-up on the Happiness piece.




"Happiness? That's nothing more than health and a poor memory."

Albert Schweitzer (14 January 1875 – 4 September 1965) Franco-German philosoher & theologian.

New version of "The Work" - Work in progress

 
For better comfort of reading, you can download the PDF document through Scribd. The Work

"John Steinbeck, you'll be an author when pigs fly"

That's what one of his teachers told him, one day.

If you pay attention closely, you'll see the Latin phrase "Ad astra per alas porci" (To the stars on the wings of a pig) along with a pigasus printed on every book he wrote :)

I guess as teachers we should all pay attention to what we say, to what we believe will inevitably happen, to what we foresee. Clearly, one could be proven wrong, over time.


Dedicated to all the John Steinbecks who doodle and daydream in class and who fly to the stars on the wings of a pig at night, on a piece of white, single line paper.
 

Any other day

 

Last night I couldn't sleep.

Before dawn I dreamt of home.

This morning,

I woke up nonetheless, at seven sharp,

Before the alarm clock.

I also cut myself shaving.

I didn't have breakfast,

Nor could I drink tea.

Last night I couldn't sleep,

The fan broke down at midnight sharp.

The heat blanketed the city

And stifled every sigh.

A little before dawn, the rain was so thin

That it fell like snow.

In the morning the air was still between

All the cars roaring to work.

Not a locust could be heard.

There was dirt on the traffic policeman's white cotton glove.

The billboards were immobile, like all good billboards.

At dawn a civet snatched a kitten

From his mother's lap,

Tacitly conceded as sacrifice

On the hungry altar of Nature.

A little after dawn, a cry was heard.

It was difficult to ascertain if it was human or not.

Next morning, the mother would be seen alone,

Licking her swollen teats.

Well past midnight, within a streetlight's radius,

A detective reported a single white, leather shoe,

A cigarette butt, a dead cockroach and half a pandan leaf, widthwise.

This was yet another scene of unsolvable abduction.

And when I parred my fingernails

Early on the morning balcony,

I thought about God and insisted

On cutting them too short.

Either the flesh or the mind are weak,

But these are all we have.

My glasses were nowhere to be found

But right on my nose.

En attendant Godot / Waiting for Godot (1948-49) - Samuel Beckett

 
"Je suis comme ça. Ou j'oublie tout de suite ou je n'oublie jamais."

"I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget. "

 

No one yelled, so I'll keep on quoting Albert

"My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind."

Albert Einstein

I know I'm harping on the same (super)string day in and day out, but I'll say it one more time: pay attention to details.

Copyright: Kevin Harris 1995

If you ever get bored by Albert's quotes, just kindly yell so.

 

"You see, wire telegraph is a kind of a very, very long cat. You pull his tail in New York and his head is meowing in Los Angeles. Do you understand this? And radio operates exactly the same way: you send signals here, they receive them there. The only difference is that there is no cat." Unless it's Schrödinger's cat, which in that case is everywhere, at the beginning, at the end and all along the signal. It even sends and receives the signal, which meows about him. In fact, the cat is both the signal and the message, both container and content.

But ultimately Albert is right, when all is said and done, weighed and poised: there is no cat.

Albert Einstein, continued by me.

 

Copyright: Kevin Harris 1995

I Tella Lelyalla / The Last Traveller

Elenion nárëa únótimë

sírar

tólivëa vílessë

rosselimbar hostar

tambë ná histë

súri yaimië ar amávilar ar undúlië or cúnë huinë

yúlar alarcavë tintilëar

ar i minya apamessë firëar –

saipor erininen purië –

i Araneva saicaima ná firië.

Alcarnarmo

 

Countless flaming stars

glide

flowerlike in the breeze

raindrops gather

as the dusk becomes

winds scream and soar and deluge over bending shadows

embers spangle quickly

and die at the first touch –

boots besmeared with ashes –

the King's funeral pyre is extinguishing.

Rodolphe

 

Existential question: Should I stop quoting Albert Einstein?

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed." 

Albert Einstein

The answer is: no.

 

Jouer à cache-cache

« Papapapapapa, on joue à cache-cache?

_ Encore ? Tu veux pas jouer à autre chose pendant que Papa finit d'écrire son mail ?

_ Non non non !

_ Bon d'accord, mais pas longtemps alors.

_ Youpi ! C'est toi qui commence à compter.

_ Pour changer ! Allez, va te cacher. »

Elle relève doucement la tête, une boule de Noël dans chaque main. Elle regarde son mari Antoine jouer avec leur fils Mathéo, bientôt 5 ans, leur fille de 2 ans dans ses bras, compter jusqu'à 20 et dire « J'arrive ». Elle est heureuse. Elle s'occupe de ranger les décorations du sapin. Les enfants généralement ne sont pas intéressés lorsqu'il s'agit de mettre un terme aux guirlandes. Mais le sapin a perdu presque toutes ses épines, et tous les jours ils ramassent une guirlande, un renne, un bonhomme de neige et une pelle pleine d'épines. Antoine a décidé de le jeter. Elle aurait bien aimé le garder pour le réveillon du Nouvel An. Tant pis.

Mathéo glisse plus qu'il ne court sur le carrelage. Comme d'habitude, il se cache derrière la porte de la cuisine et rapproche la poubelle pour ne pas qu'on le voit. Le but – tacite, parce qu'on ne dit pas ce genre de choses, mais on les fait – est de faire le tour de la maison et de chercher en dernier dans la cuisine, où leur petit garçon beau comme un ange trépigne d'impatience, la porte parfois tremblant aussi d'excitation.

« Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii ! T'as mis plein de temps à me trouver ! À toi à toi à toi !

_ Minute papillon, je laisse ta sœur dans les bras de ta mère. »

Elle se relève doucement, prend leur fille dans ses bras. Il dépose un baiser sur son front, sourit et part dans le couloir. Mathéo fait semblant de couvrir son visage, mais elle voit ses yeux briller. Il commence à compter.

« 1-2-3 »

Ses parents devraient arriver demain dans la matinée, en espérant qu'il n'y ait pas trop de neige sur la route.

« 4-5-6 »

Elle devrait peut-être les appeler et leur dire d'arriver dans l'après-midi, ce serait plus sûr.

« 7-8-9 »

Il serait temps de faire le biberon de la petite.

« 10-11-12 »

Elle s'étonnera toujours qu'Antoine ait réussi à lui faire retenir les chiffres jusqu'à 20.

« 13-14-20 ! »

Elle sourit. Décidément, bien comme son père.

Re-glissade sur le carrelage, direction en trombe vers la chambre.

Le chien en boule dans son panier. La cafetière vibre, goutte-à-goutte sombre, vapeur. La télé en sourdine, les infos. Pas en avance sur le bain. La petite dans sa chaise haute, qui joue avec sa cuillère.

« Mamaaaaaaaaan ! » Elle sursaute.

« Hé, maman n'est pas sourde. Tu m'as fait peur. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a ?

_ Je trouve pas Papa !

_ Tu sais, la dernière fois que tu as dit ça, c'est que tu n'avais pas cherché partout. Tu as cherché dans la salle de bain?

_ Il est pas là.

_ Tu as allumé la lumière?

_ Non...

_ Ah, tu vois. Alors allume la lumière. Tu sais, tu as le droit quand tu joues à cache-cache. »

Cœur qui bat encore la chamade. Perdue dans ses pensées. Le lave-vaisselle a fini de tourner depuis un moment déjà. Il n'y avait pas grand chose, de toute façon.

Elle sent la main de Mathéo à l'arrière de sa cuisse.

« Oui, mon ange.

_ Maman, il est pas dans la salle de bain.

_ Tu as cherché dans la chambre de ta sœur?

_ Oui !

_ Et dans notre chambre ?

_ Oui ! Et il est pas sous le lit.

_ Allons bon...alors on va chercher ensemble alors. Maman finit de vider le lave-vaisselle et on cherche Papa avec ta sœur.

Elle prend sa fille qui a déjà les bras tendus.

« On va chercher Papa ? Allez, on l'appelle ensemble.

_ Papaaaaaa ? »

Pas dans la chambre de la petite, ni dans celle de Mathéo. Pas dans la salle de bain ni dans les toilettes.

Ne reste que la chambre. Lumière grande ouverte, placards idem.

« Sous le lit ? » Elle se penche doucement, la petite s'accroche à son cou pour ne pas tomber. Pincement au cœur. Elle ne voit que l'autre extrémité de la pièce. Quelques moutons qui ont échappé à l'aspirateur.

Elle se relève rapidement. Ne reste que le cellier, mais il n'y a aucun espace pour se cacher là-dedans. Mais Mathéo est défendu d'y aller, même si la porte vers l'extérieur est toujours fermée. Mathéo qui lui a prit la main. Ils sortent de la chambre, vont jusqu'au bout du couloir. Elle peut voir la lumière filtrer sous la porte. Elle s'agenouille.

« Tu vois la lumière ? Chuchote-elle à l'oreille de son fils. Ça veut dire qu'il y a quelqu'un dans la pièce. Papa est coquin d'aller se cacher là, hein ? »

Elle peut voir dans la bouille boudeuse de Mathéo que son père a enfreint une autre règle tacite : on se cache pas là où l'on ne peut pas chercher.

« Vas-y mon ange, ouvre la porte. Maman te donne la permission. »

Ampoule à nu, lumière blafarde. Rien que des victuailles, le deuxième réfrigérateur et le congélo vrombissant de conserve. Porte vers l'extérieur grande ouverte. Quelques flocons sur le seuil. La lumière dehors perçant l'obscurité sur quelques mètres, puis le noir glacial.

La main de Mathéo qui serre plus fort.

Des traces de pas dans la neige. Instinctivement elle les suit. Il fait vraiment froid. Les traces font le tour de la maison, vont vers le portail, continuent après le portillon. Elle frissonne, sa fille l'étrangle presque. Son fils lui broie quasiment la main, silencieux. Il tremble. Ils sont sortis sans rien sur le dos.

Elle ne dit rien alors qu'ils retournent rapidement dans la maison.

Elle habille la petite et se rend compte que ce n'est pas sa fille qui l'étranglait, mais elle a un nœud dans la gorge. Écharpes, gants, bonnets, manteaux, bottes. Elle prend une torche. Mathéo s'est habillé seul. Elle ferme la fermeture éclair de son manteau. Elle se dépêche.

Retour dehors. Moins froid, mais elle frissonne. Neige qui crisse. Flocons épars, dansant au gré de l'absence de vent. Silence froid et jaune dans la lumière des spots. Les traces de pas, distinctes dans le faisceau de la torche, continuent jusqu'à la route, puis jusqu'à la départementale. Puis plus rien. Plusieurs traces figurant du sur-place. Des traces de pneus, mais ça ne veut rien dire. Elle enlève ses gants, prend son portable.

Pourquoi. Pourquoi. Pourquoi. Les larmes aux yeux. Sa fille accrochée à son cou. La main de son fils à l'arrière de sa cuisse.

« Allo, la gendarmerie ? Je suis très inquiète, je crois que mon mari a disparu. »

Elle veut oublier les gendarmes, ses parents, les battues, les avis de recherche dans le journal, au moment même où tout ceci arrive. Il n'a pris que sa veste, ainsi que son portefeuille. Elle veut oublier les questions embarrassantes, la possibilité d'une maîtresse, d'une autre vie comme on en lit parfois dans les journaux à sensations. Elle veut oublier le regard des autres. La pitié dans leurs yeux vitreux.

Elle veut oublier les pourquois d'acier seule dans le lit. Les yeux qui piquent d'avoir trop pleuré. Elle veut oublier la déclaration de décès. Elle veut oublier la « viduité » que le notaire lui a infligée. Elle en vient à préférer le mot « veuvage ». Oui, il a créé un vide par son départ, et un sacré foutoir, mais elle referme sa plaie et avance, ne serait-ce que pour les enfants. Penser aux enfants avant tout. Une vie normale les attendait. Essayer de sauver les meubles.

Elle veut oublier le détective qui lui fait des avances, lui promet un rabais. Elle veut oublier l'autre détective qui lui dit que la carte de crédit d'Antoine a été utilisée en Italie. Qu'il est allé sur place et que le guichetier l'a formellement reconnu. Qu'il a pris un billet d'avion pour le Brésil. À partir de là, le détective prévient que si elle veut continuer, ça va lui coûter sa maison. Ça aussi, elle veut l'oublier. Elle veut oublier sa décision d'avancer sans lui.

Elle veut oublier les cauchemars, ceux où elle rêvent qu'Antoine lui sourit de sous le lit. Ceux où il sonne à la porte, un bouquet à la main et les larmes aux yeux.

Mathéo a dix ans. Il souffle ses bougies, assis sur les genoux de celui qu'il a tout juste commencé à appeler « Papa ». Il ne parle plus de son vrai père, sauf à la psy. Il y a encore beaucoup de colère en lui, et la psy dit qu'il y en aura toujours tant qu'il ne saura pas pourquoi il est parti, s'il est mort ou vivant. Elle aussi est en colère. Elle ne comprend pas. Ses parents à lui ne comprennent pas. Rien, pas un mot, pas une nouvelle. Elle a décidé sur un coup de tête de refaire sa vie. Benoît, un ancien camarade d'école, est arrivé. Il leur a fallu un an avant de se lancer. Lui est divorcé, sans enfant. Mais il a l'âme d'un père.

Elle veut oublier le nœud dans sa gorge, et parfois elle y arrive.

Fête hier avec les petits camarades de Mathéo, dans le jardin. Gâteau, cotillons, toboggan et piscine gonflable. Frisbee, football, on joue à la guerre. Pas de cache-cache. Elle veut oublier le regard de terreur dans les yeux de son fils quand un jour un de ses camarades lui a proposé d'y jouer.

Presque deux heures trente. Sa mère nettoie des verres alors que son père débarrasse la table. Elle n'a rien à faire. Puis elle se souvient qu'elle n'est pas allée au courrier ni hier ni aujourd'hui. Elle prend les clefs, embrasse le front de ses deux anges, sort. Il fait bon en ce début de printemps. Mathéo a eu de la chance de pouvoir passer toute la journée d'hier dehors. Gravillons crissant sous ses chaussures. Elle ouvre le portillon, puis la boîte aux lettres. EDF, deux cartes d'anniversaire sûrement. Une carte postale qui a souffert pendant le voyage. Une plage bordée de cocotiers. Viva el Costa Rica. Pas d'expéditeur, ni de date. L'oriflamme est presque effacé. Une phrase biffée et re-biffée sous un paquet de ratures. Dessous, une seule ligne.

Je n'étais pas prêt. Si vous le pouvez, oubliez.

Enfoiré. L'écriture n'a pas changé. Antoine, pourquoi. Tu aurais été plus utile mort et enterré. Oublier ? Ils s'y emploient, jour après jour. Et c'est plus facile pour la petite, mais Mathéo n'est plus le même. Elle n'est plus la même, mais ça ne compte pas. Ils auraient pu en parler, pourquoi est-ce que tu as fui ?

Elle veut oublier le coup de fil du détective, quelques jours plus tard, qui lui certifie que sous le paquet de ratures il y a bel et bien inscrit : « Et si je revenais ? »

Aujourd'hui, elle ne souvient que du jaune de la flamme qui a dévoré la carte postale. Aujourd'hui, elle ne se souvient que du sourire de ses enfants jouant avec leur père.

 

The Blind

The blind lead the blind

Because the seers do not see any more

And the oracles have fallen silent.

The invalids perceive the world more sharply –

The beholders stumble and fall in broad daylight.

This Terra Firma is filled with Saint Thomases

For whom Blindness would a Bane be;

Only a handful of Tiresiases, even less Œdipi,

Who found Vision beyond Knowledge,

Inhabit this land the valid only tread.

Perivaticinator of the side-roads,

The blind listens to the sound of the gravel

And not only predicts, but is a thaumaturge.

Yet only darkness to be observed

In the abyss of his orbits.

Beauty is Truth, Truth, Beauty, the poet said:

That is all ye need to see, said the blind.

One day an old man, who had been blind

Since he was a little child,

Told to me he could feel the shadows.

He could sense on his skin the weight

Of the shadow of a tree, of a wall, of a man.

The only thing in reality that his senses could apprehend

Was the presence of that tree, wall, man,

Combined with the warmth of the sun on his visage.

Yet I like the way he perceived the poetry of life,

And light and shadow do have a certain weight,

If you care to pay attention.

Where the flesh fails, the will compensates.

Otherwise this world would be more than empty,

And the people who put their hands

In front of their eyes like blinkers

In order not to see reality

Just glare at the riddled palms

Of their blindfolded future.

Hence the blind lead the blindfolded,

For they know the path

In the faint obscurity behind

The eyelids.

 

Quote for the present

"In the long run the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip."

Daniel L. Reardon

Thanks to Nat for this quote ^.^

Happiness

How do you measure happiness?

Is it something tangible, as palpable and round as a blue orange?

Is it a mood? Can it act like a weathervane?

“I am satisfied . . . nearly.”

Is happiness synonymous with satisfaction? Contentment?

We say money can't buy happiness, but can it buy peace of mind?

Is unhappiness easier to recognise?

“He had told me he was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare.”

Can it be scaled, can it be broken down into statistics?

Is endorphin a way to measure happiness?

Is architectural or natural beauty necessary to the beholder?

Are others more able to determine our own happiness? To what extent are they contributing to our happiness?

“But he is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe. Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him.”

When we are sated, are we happy? When we just had sex, are we happy?

Is a smile indicative of happiness?

People who live in a place with a high insolation rate are said to be happier.

Are socially integrated people or hermits happier?

Is happiness only a mental, psychological construct?

““I came here to set my back against the wall, and I am going to stay here...”

“Till you are quite satisfied,” I struck in.”

Can contemplation, meditation, religion foster happiness?

Is Death a killjoy to our felicity? A panacea to our sorrow?

Must we have a good job, or a job at all, in order to be content? Must we have an aim? Must we know it in order to be happy?

Is happiness overrated?

So if we live in a sunny place,

If we are materially successful,

If we are socially active,

If we love and are loved,

If our stomach is full,

If we live surrounded with beauty,

If we have wrinkles at the corner of our eyes,

If we know where and why we are going,

Then we must – without the shadow of a doubt – be happy people.

“Is he satisfied – quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know.”

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, May 5^th 2011, morning.

(The excerpts are taken from Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad, first published as a serial from October 1899 to November 1900.)

 

Song to a lover

When I first met you,

You were like the dark night,

Serene, unheeding and quiet,

When I first met you.

You are Persia. I know it now.

You are the Arabian night in the tales.

Tu es comme les persiennes qui laissent entrer la nuit.

Tu es la nuit des persiennes.

You are the air brittle with foreboding, the dust stirring before the lash of the storm.

The unexpected.

When I first met you,

Tu étais comme une comète,

Comme un astéroide fou,

When I first met you.

Your hair like banyan roots coiled around me,

Your fingers clinging to fate like ivy on stone.

Tu regardes l'œil bleu de la mer comme un miroir glauque,

Rêvant d'horizons et de montagnes.

Tu iras là où aucun de tes ancêtres n'a foulé le sol.

We should leave the country

You and I

We could build

A boat from a tree

And flee

Fulfilled

Sur l'océan.

Avec ou sans moi.

You were dancing in the fell obscurity,

Your lithe arms swishing like those of an Indian Goddess

And your gaze fixed on the tip of the air,

Balancing your tipping feet hovering an inch above the ground,

Lançant tes ongles déchirés à l'œil du jour,

Riant à pleine gorge.

When I first met you,

Je voyais ton corps déjà nu.

When I'll see the last of you,

Tu seras encore l'inconnu.

 

A shade of thought

"A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in."

Greek proverb.

We

 

You don't seem to know us yet,

Or perhaps you pretend not to see us,

Yet we clean your windows,

We trim your hedges,

We erect your citadels,

We serve you delicate meads,

We drive your car,

We open your garage,

We pare your toenails and adorn them with stars –

Perhaps during one of those cocktails

Or in one of those nightclubs,

You will see us pumping on the hand-soap bottle for you,

Hand you three sheets of hand-drying paper

And flush your stool.

We cut your hair too.

Yet our hand is not held out in expectancy of a tip,

But rather in expectancy of you shaking it.

We are there, lurking at the edge of light,

Because our sight may be found unseemly.

Perhaps our skin is too dark and reminds you of the night.

Or perhaps it is too white and reminds you of the moon –

Both you hold in awe and dread.

We sell transport coupons at the booth to you.

We lose you luggage,

We find your luggage.

We snatch at your purse,

We catch us red-handed.

Perhaps you have bribed us,

Perhaps we have bribed ourselves;

Perhaps we have bailed you out.

We abide by our principles and we obey your laws.

And yes, at some point in our lives,

We pick up your shit, because

That almost solid, big brown tusk

That unseen ESW –

External Sign of Wholesomeness –

Is clogging the pipe.

We are very dutiful, like we said.

We go to great lengths to soften your reality.

We save your lives and perhaps then do you see us,

But then you and us will forget, for we are humans.

We are your hands. We are your eyes.

We could well be your bodily functions,

If you so desired. We are sacrifice incarnated.

We are the paragon of incombustibility –

None could burn us down since Time began –

Yet fire crackles within us.

We entertain you. We sell you the clothes we have custom tailor-made for you.

We show you films we have made with your own money

Films in which you play the main role.

We massage your harassed body.

Harassment which we may have provoked, unwittingly.

We make you feel better, yet you don't seem to see us.

We have kissed you, perhaps in the aftermath of drunkenness.

We have eased the night of its phantoms and fantasies.

We have sold ourselves to you, knowingly.

Perhaps you are oblivious to us because

We have yet to learnt to speak,

And to walk, and to flee.

We have to recognise friend from foe,

For we are very different from you, and sometimes from ourselves.

And we have yet to learn to stop ignoring the likes of you,

Though this will prove difficult for we are all selfish,

And we all do look alike.

Our propensity to jealousy will not help either,

Though we will call it 'protection of our identity'.

We will have to learn not to leave anyone behind, especially the needy and the lame.

We have to learn to love you as much as we love ourselves.

In return, you will have to be patient and forgiving, and loving of course.

The first rule being never to touch the wings of a butterfly,

The second never to cheat yourself with someone else.

Yet we are invisible to your eyes, even to your senses.

Even though we inhabit the same space, we dwell in other lands.

What could we do to make you see us?

Should we strip naked and hold the knife under our own throat?

Perhaps you hate us. We may also hate you.

But all this detestation is aimless,

For you don't see us now,

And we have yet to reveal ourselves to ourselves.

We consider your joining us in our trade:

We refuse, we accept, we coax, we shun.

We educate your children.

We have raped your wives and pillaged your temples,

But that was a long time ago.

We have forgotten.

Perhaps some of us haven't, who knows, for we remain elusive, secretive.

Cold, silent anger festering in the fold of our navel.

We also operate your industries, your businesses, your clubs.

We enforce the laws,

We help you decipher the laws,

We make the laws,

To our advantage or to our disadvantage,

For we are impartial.

And oh yes, we govern you, because all of us are the country.