Effigy

Who are you?

If we were in the time of the Medici and the rich merchants of Genoa and Sardinia I have a feeling that effigies would have evolved beyond the simple laser-inscribed galvanized steel canisters now offered at bulk rates. The idea of a loved one being decorated by prayer tchotchkes and beautiful flowers but also by inspiration found in the cosmos and subtle references to our creation is an inspiring one.

So again. Who are you? Not! what do you do for fun? Not! where do you work? Not! where are you from or what's your name. But what defines that unique accident of chance that describes a particular genetic code? It took an immense amount of probability to get the right amount of cells and atoms and energy and nutrients to make us happen all the way from tadpoles. Who kissed the human race and turned it into a prince?

Here lies a man believer in his own medicine with a head perennially filled with stories of small hamlets in the middle of the arid plains of Mexico. The man who always required hand-made tortillas, jalapeno peppers on the table and a glass of cold straight-from-the-cow milk. When he broke his hip at 87 the doctors looked at it and asked him what 25 year old was walking around missing a hip. That much of an oak.

Here lies another who I never met - at this point he is an eight of my ACGT puzzle. I like to picture him as wiry man who once had it all and then suffered the revolution - everything taken from him and starting anew. He was... a loving husband and an interesting man. Even at their lowest he humor my great-grandmother by buying her a small bottle of Concha de Toro - red. Here lies a man who understood the little pleasures.

Here lies a man who understood the true meaning of an asterisk. I knew him as well as a reader knows his writer. That is too say I knew (invented) more about him than there might have actually and I missed crucial elements of his being because they probably did not fit in with my image. They were the random red streaks of painting in a blue monochrome post-modernist monstrosity. Or a urinal. He taught others that inventing a language and understanding time was for the bold. 

The problem is that an effigy will afford even fewer words. A sentence at best and probably poorly constructed. Should it be in one language or esperanto to show citizenship of the world. Should we divide ourselves by political boundaries or are we not, all of us, citizens of the world? I can't wait for space travel to kick in in my life time. 

My effigy:

A self propelling vessel (more like a satellite) constantly accelerating across the galaxy in just the right path that eventually it becomes a meteor-like structure visiting the earth every 25 years. A number not randomly chosen but one that separates generations in the scientific study of populations. The satellite would always broadcast  the same radio signal: Connecting scattered data for the sake of character and knowledge. Or something equally, I hope, relevant.

*

D

Age of Interest

I’ve been blessed with the pleasure of having questions asked to me. I also question everything I do and I would call it nihilism if I didn’t think that was a little presumptuous. I hope others will judge me posthumously and read into my trash what they will.

We live in the age of interest. Or maybe an age where showing interest is the easiest thing a man can do and the most careless of things.

It used to be, in my mind at least, that a man(guy) interested in a woman(girl) would seek her out, wait for her after the class he saw her go into or hang out by the coffee cart where they first met so he could utter a few clever sentences and maybe win a date. It required effort and a fortunate cosmic accident where a guy would run into a girl reading a book on Sartre at the library and remember that it was him who said that “human nature” does not exist. We had to wear preppy collegiate sweaters or worn out jeans with dried specks of white painting from a summer spent in construction to get away with it of course.

But now we mass text. And we think that’s enough.

A simple:

Hey, Been thinking bout u. When r we hanging out?

Constitutes enough of an effort.  If carefully done it is appropriately addressed to mask anonymity but an explanatory clause to keep them hoping. Chivalry (isn’t) dead.

I don’t mean to say I like calling or that I call at all. All I’m trying to say is that with a new socially established point of reference life is easier for the determined guy and that a simple, careful gesture, pays off.

Again and for the sake of completion I’m not talking about handing out a blossoming red rose, or walking up to a stranger and asking her for the chance to sit down with her over a cup of dark, brewed necessity and get to know each other or calling.

I’m talking about using what you know to bridge the chasm between idle chat and interesting dialogue. It’s all in the detail, carefully planned to seem subtle and spontaneous the secret is in knowledge.

Scientia est Potentia

Addendum

A man - Jack- lived in a prison cell with only one small, barred window for 30 years. Every morning he would wake up, go to the window and see the barren ground. His sentence ended and he left the place a much older but barely wiser man. A new man - Darren - took his place as is prone to do in state sponsored hotels, sorry, prisons. Every day Darren wakes up, goes to the window and takes in the sky.

What I'm trying to say is that I should have mentioned the stars and the icebergs.

We live in the frisky way galaxy in the middle of a universe. Note the conspicuously placed "a" over "the". Yes, I'm a multiverse kind of guy. But I was talking about my own little vessel last time we were here.

The ship's stores are full of rum and biscuits and there's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast as a reward for the first man to spot the big white whale. But it's nighttime now and I also enjoy stargazing.

So women:

These are immutable, always there but far enough not to be a crew member. Close enough so that I can name a few of them and know them by their group of friends - call it Orion's belt or just a clique. Call one of them or all of them Polaris for they are inevitably of the same mold. Bright, attractive in brain and body and the sweetest hug(Z) ever but you can't reach the stars. If Pip learned anything from Dicken's poorly masked metaphor is that you can reach Estella. Mostly because the sweet taste of friendship has no place when there are too many separating factors between you and the world.

As for Icebergs? You see them and you crash. And they let go.
I've been fortunate enough not to have met one yet.

A votre sante!

The women in my life - sort of.

There are so many women in my life. Some of them are great to have and act as my rocks in what I like to see as the ocean of my own ego - 3/4 of my conscious self is that ocean.

Some act like the sirens when I'm on a boat, tied to the mast and my crew has ears stuffed of wax - I'm going crazy trying to reach out to them. They represent the impossibly hopeful dream of happiness that seems to be made out of cellophanes, re-usable plastic bottles and penny wishes. Call it a school child crush  but I still hope to "go-steady" with every other girl that flashes me a warm smile and has a kind word to offer.

Some act like archangels (or if we keep it PC, saving entities) swooping in with gold-feathered wings, white tunics and sandals made of extremely fine Coach leather. There to talk with and any topic goes. Everything from the odd toy you might order online to the importance of being a caring lover. They provide me with interesting insights to the world inside the collective construct that is "women are complicated". These are some of my best friends and they saved me when the storm formed in the perfect way such that my boat almost made it over an obnoxiously large wave but then tipped over instead. We had a full load of catch. We share the most perfect of moments with them.

Some are ethereal ocean wisps. They formed mostly through smoke signals and end-of-the-telescope mirages. I'd take the black opal to full sail but never actually catch up with them. For the most part painfully beautiful, if only because they were the apple (though I'd prefer clementine) of mine eye. They keep life interesting if only because they send bits of drama and intrigue on my life in the shape of a curious text or bbm or even a story about me passed through the entire social network.

There are also ravens and jays. Awful cries that could interpret this metaphor as the women in my life that I'd consider harpies. Rest assured that's not my intention gentle reader. I, like so many before me, use them as omens. Grim but not fatal - the kind that would make my smile a little bit off for the rest of the day. An encounter leaves me feeling a little bit...unfit. They're prone to spreading lies of the not-so-flattering kind that offend character and moral fiber. My approach? Live up to my standards and hope the truth speaks softly but confidently.

On the ship (i thought that this was an ocean originally too, don't worry I know it got trippy at some point) there is also a collection of awkward smiles now just called a list of acquaintances with multiple beginnings and no lasts - the real numbers ran out. They give me the I-know-you look but then glance away as they realize we probably met in unfortunate circumstances or circumstances that are best spoken of in furtive whispers late at night after the ship's been in a state of revelry.

It's a small compendium still.

It's a good thing I plan on living forever.

Theatre of Living Arts

I often use the spoken word to express myself. That is, I use words that have been spoken by someone before me to say what I want to say. Think of the ditzy girl in greek living her life like a romantic comedy or the blonde actress in 30 rock for living her life theatrically. I have friends in engineering working on a real-world interphase for everyday montages with the appropriate mood-filled song in the background.

I like to quote Casablanca and Vonnegut in the same sentence. Mention the benefits of laughing over crying (from a purely clean-up stand point) while suggesting what the minute possibility that of all of the gin joins, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine (you have to use a two-tailed probability test for that one).

Perhaps it's because inherently I feel like collectively we've reached the apex of human creativity. Newer and better ideas are often just amalgams of vintage concepts. Or maybe it's because trusting ourselves to speak intelligently 24/7, 365 is too much and we can lean on the words spoken by the greats. People assumed not to have a higher degree of insight but rather, a status elevated enough for someone to record their words.

If only we could know who would grow up to be famous so we could have historians monitoring them from an early age to get a complete picture.

So as we go on performing on this globe theatre of us I have but one question...are you playing the crowd? Are you pandering to the crowd? Are you following your queues and segues appropriately? Understanding the difference between backstage/green room/stage left? Warming up your vocal chord?

I don't know how to count.

What Joyce would have been like on schyzo?

I have ideas in my head.

What's interesting is that they're in the same of unintelligible electrical impulses that are somehow programmed to interact in one fluid motion to conjure thoughts of color, a plus sign and knee-jerk.

There's an idea that point masses don't actually exists. If they did, a collection of such masses that stretched, let's say, a 10000 miles, could be pushed on one end and the other end would move instantly. This of course makes no sense...because of Einstein and all his relative nonsense.

When I hit 60 I'll let my hair grow out (assuming I still have some), blow up a boiler on my face every morning after the shower and ride my bike around with my pants tucked in to my wool socks.

I keep liking the impossible. Adidas told me that impossible is nothing. Ergo I apparently like nothing but if that is the case then my version of the dictionary is broken. Nothing - not a single thing.

It's the fifth abbreviated paragraph common to blogging and emailing and ____ing online activities and still no title. I'm getting a little concerned.

Some day I hope to change the world. In some unstoppable tour de force I hope to own this oyster that is the world and clink my martini glass a la mad man. I can't invent lying, that's been done, first by some tiny parasite that hid just a little extra food for itself and then by ricky gervais in that cunningly smart new genre that mixes low-cost production with wit and dry humour. Spelled OU because I felt like it.

I'm excited to find myself with grey hairs. Or is it gray? Maybe a spot near the front to give me a faint de-bon-aire attitude. Or a full head of white hair, the kind you find on the board room types in oil paintings immortalized in the hallowed halls of a strange building where they never set foot. Not willingly at it.

It's Saint Patrick's church out there.

Go Green!

H(indie) (alter)native

This is a drunk story.

This is also a story about plaid shirts, over vintage christian heavy metal band t-shirts, skinny skinny jeans and black shoes. Everyone is 21 and the question of what's in the wild is one better left to Krakauer.

I'm neither.

The night starts off like most nights - no plan and no schedule. A vague notion of class tomorrow at 11am is quickly forgotten as the 40s become 80s and then 160s. Into a pub, a bar, a local watering hole and I can feel the shy run away. A quick nod to the bounce who is a wrestling buddy of mine and I'm in. Solid.

The mob is here not in the Colliseum. I'm tall and that helps to catch the bartender's eye who is apparently oblivious to the meat market in front of him. "Keep it open" I yell and ask for the usual and wonder what he'll pour for me. It's a girl's birthday and I've made new friends. Jose Crow is in the house, forget my real name and I pour salt haphazardly around the outstretched, licked hands.

Salud! We toast to good health in my country. Kind of ironic for something served in shots. Shot. Bang.

Make my way to the back, a subtle bob and weave and I'm back on the basketball court using my footwork to go through the crowd. The average age is 21. I'll give you that. But the lower quartile definitely starts at 17 and the upper quartile ends at 23. Thank you PPD.

Some of my best friends are here.

Why is it that the greeks were so often so annoyingly right about both buoyancy and spirits? Veritas in vino. I'm quickly and successively approached by three different people.

1. I have a crush on this and this person but it's complicated for this and this reason and OMG what would they say about this and that???

2. Can we talk about my secret? Can we talk about what's going at home? About the situation? Can you help me?

3. I hooked up with your ex. I'm sorry, it'll probably happen again. I'm like a slutty Miranda.

I wish for the day when all people can openly talk to me. When the imbibing strength of Veuve and Tanq provides us with an inner strength likened only to faith is when we are free. Primal and forgetful -call it a brown(black)out I observe with pleasure how, as a collective, we debase the archetypes built for us and pound on dirty bar counter peanuts and attempt the act of kissing by slobbering over someones neck. I think the french had a version of it with a little more finesse.

My theory/thesis: Psychologists and psychiatrists could help their patients if their patients showed up piss drunk, (sort of) functional, and open. The folds in a human brain fill out with an -OH ending that allows veracity to escape and withholds the illustrating and sometimes allegorical red herrings.

Open up to me in the warmth of an embrace or the calm of an afternoon Argentinian mate tea or sitting in front of a blaring Sports Center. When I can be a conscious executor of my decisions and can quote Romeo and tell you that we are the masters to our own ship. I will be the other end of the phone anytime and put out a fire. To fix the faulty wiring in the whole building I'm going to need a little less than a .22.

Cheers.

Precise Language

Smart people. What a drag.

Inevitably some of the more insightful people I´ve had the uncomfortable pleasure of knowing have been teachers. Teachers of English or English teachers as they would offhandedly point out.

2 of them former alcoholics recovering by taking a swig from the cheap bourbon bottle under their desk. One of them, the older one, was a man of true class and weight. Burdened by the weight of elitist higher education beyond what most people would see neccesary and uncovering the vast expanses of knowledge hiding in "the epistemological effects of the Shor algorithm in post-modernist literature". Relevance becomes a beautifully relative term. The meaning of it becomes as apt at describing current merit in the conversation at hand as when you describe a cat by calling it a dog.

One of them I had as a young pup in high school. He practiced wolfing - standing at his classroom door and greeting every student by name, handshake, or pat on the back as appropriate according to their rank and where they had taken a piss earlier that morning. Girls could ask questions. Men were expected to know and avoid all sorts of foolishness. He recommended a book to me - Aztec - and with a grin masking the cavernous eye sockets whispered: it has loads of sex in it.

One of the had a long confucian beard. He was a fan of the teachings of Lao and focused his chi around his rotund belly. A physical and spirtual center of mass I always figured. He was a gentle soul dominated by his wife who would at once scream in outrage at the collection of dead white men that "great" literature had become while at the same time lamenting that there were truly no great female writers because they were grappled by fear of success. Very Coach Carter-esque.

One of them was young-ish. He was older than he liked admitting to himself and though he was personable and relatable and owned AK47s he was always the more subtle of most of them. He would adopt the surly smarter-than-thou asshole tone described by Penguin Book group when discussing elementary prose with primal minds. We have a word for them in Mexico - fresas. Strawberries literally translated. They speak of that sweet and sometimes slightly sour taste they give off, white on the inside for purity, not very filling either in taste or in consistency. Usually a little too bland and often too simple to stand alone (except when the ulterior motif of sex helps draw the situation out). The girls of course swooned. He would turn, look at me at my friends and share a shameless laugh. Some of us were in the secret.

One of them taught me how to light a cigarrette. Properly.

The last one was a young and charismatic woman who had had aspirations of becoming an oceanologist. A decision made before she had ever seen the ocean. This is the kind of logic even Mentats cant fight. She had a soft giggle and a manner of speaking that told you of fantasies rolling around in her head of french maids turned mistresses and an appreciation for the ironic Not! jokes. She named her daughter a possibility and her son a term of endearment.

These are my teachers. I learned very little grammar, I cannot pick apart a sentence and categorize individual words within it. They taught me just enough vocabulary to surpass the average citizen. They told me to read and analyze and grab at straws in order to make a paper that 5 years from now may seem little more than a nonsensical string of words.

English savvy?

Cempazuchitl

Picture a small island in the middle of lake. The water is still - surrounded by small mountains. The port is teeming with people holding lit candles. The mass starts trudging collectively towards the top in the sinewy and poorly crafted swirling path the local government has fashioned. The summit is a merely a couple of hundred meters away. There's low singing that sounds more like ululation's, there's cempazuchitl everywhere and prayer. Lots of prayer.

Mexicans have a tradition of playing a staring game with death. Look it in the eye, laugh about it and acknowledge the finality in it. It might be our religion. At least that tells us that when we die we go where we deserve to go. A one way ticket to custom (read: purgatory) and then it's either heaven or one of the seven hells. If you've got the cash you also get a satin lined oak box to lie dormant for the rest of eternity. I'm hoping for cremation.

Friends and family gather around the deceased for nine days - a novenario - working their way through rosaries, stories and food. The family doesn't grieve alone. It's a community thing. It reminds me of sitting shiva.

It makes me wonder if what I know and how I was brought up is reflected with the way I deal with death. My first instinct is to hug those that are facing it - personally or vicariously. I don't talk about the emotions I experience but I hear it helps other do just that. I can help by listening or distracting and I believe I am exceedingly good at both though there are obvious areas of improvement. It makes me hope that some Hollywood writer will someday write the perfect script for the things that need to be said and the things that are better left to sound out in an empty room.

The easiest way to help is to know the person that needs the help. It might be that it's your freshman year of college and you know they'll want saltines and a kit kat because there's a wild fire raging through their state and though they will never talk about it, they'll walk into your embrace because you are the only human being out there who knows they need it. It might just be that they'll txt or bbm you the right combination of 2 or 3 words when you need it most.

In live we have the unique opportunity of facing death in the company of our friends.

In death we stand alone.

Important Questions

On a flight this morning I heard an interesting story.

Consider this little piece of non-fictional fiction a disposable one where the names don't matter and I do not know them. The setting is an American Airlines flight that as per the American Airline standard is far outdated, worn and torn but somehow remains operational through a deft combination of technical expertise, magical elves and hope. These planes fly on computers with the processing power of your average laptop computer. The physics of flight are somewhat misunderstood by the foremost experts in the field. Process the following thought: a landing is nothing more than a controlled crash - the crash acts as the braking power. Fun!

Squished between the aisle and a lovely matronly woman I began to regret the idea of flying as a general concept. It was too hot for my sweatshirt but too cold to turn on the recycled air vent above me. I was trying to decide between the two high-quality reads provided by the airline - Sky Mall or Fly with Us! - when I was engaged in conversation. Crack my ribs once you have me on the down and panting for breath.

"Where are you going? Do you go to school in philly? Oh my gosh are you in a fraternity (as my greek letters were goldly displayed across my chest)?! That's so exciting! Hi! My name is...

All of this in rapid succession. The flip-flop wearing delight sitting across the aisle from me flashed a comfortable sorority girl smile that comes with years of knowing that she's too-hot-for-school and that if she talks to you you best consider yourself damn lucky. I gave her answers.

I did go to school in Philly. But today I would be Jack and my major would still be the nerdy combination of engineering and business that I now pursue passionately - but I would be pre-med as well. Grown up in Mexico but raised in an international locations known to her only as "abroad, you know...". I would be a senior with med-school lined up and yes, I was considering an offer from Big Bank but that's the way these things go - "you know...:. An easy smile flashed back inherited from a culture my parents proudly inculcated in me. The flash of pearly whites is a combination of friendly amusement and interested bemusement.

I get my Kindle out of my messenger bag, carefully insert my earbuds and proceed to ignore her as I see the telling glint in her eye. She has more questions. She is bored. She needs attention.

Who am I to refuse her?

And so she tells me an interesting story about her travels. How much she learned by being abroad in Istanbul and how her Middle Eastern Studies Major combined with minors in Farsee and French are opening doors for her in an embassy in Oman. Shit. Truth bomb. My interest peaks right around the time we start discussing the oil works of Latin America and the two polarizing examples - Petrobras and Pemex.

--

I hate the disposability of the story as I continue to engage in it. An interesting one-time serving of a person like this comes along once in an aquamarine moon. Someone to talk to about the wide range of topics stewing in my mind, someone that uses the word marinate and political spectrum in the same sentence, someone who realizes that the use of the word petticoat in this day and age represents little more than pure snobbery. Perhaps I am hypnotized like my gender is prone to be. We are the snake and everything about a woman - their sweet sweet eyes, soft giggle and sideways sloped bangs - are the enchanters flute.

Ladies and Gentlemen, in preparation for our arrival please put your tray tables up and return your seats to their fully upright position.

And with that conversation ceases. She still doesn't know my name and I've quickly forgotten hers.

Touchdown.