The Wisdom Of Paco de Lucia 01

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

"Feeding the stomach is easy.Feeding the soul is hard and always will be."

High School Memories

They called me all sorts of names, way back in high school. Freak. Bookworm. Know-it-all. Smart-ass. They scorned the fact that I preferred books over parties. That I played in a band, instead of on a goddamned basketball team that never got to win anything anyway. They whispered whenever I passed through the hallways. They snickered every time I got the answers right in History class. They rolled on the floor, laughing like the assholes that they were, whenever I had lunch with the rest of the Physics Quiz Bee Team. I was the butt of jokes. They tried their best to keep things out of my earshot. But I heard them. I heard them alright.

Everything changed when I bagged the prettiest and most elusive girl in school. It was not for admiration or love or whatever-Hallmark-crap-reason that I went after her. I did it out of scorn. Scorn for whatever it is that was in her that made all the idiots drool and pine. Scorn for what they held high in their empty heads. And everybody suddenly stood in awe of me. Who the fuck does this motherfucking nerd think he is anyway? But still, I was relegated to a whole new status. I was on top of the fucking social heap; walking amongst the best of the social climbers and the worst of the pseudo-elite. I was close to being invincible. That is, according to their motherfucking standards.

One day, I decided to shake things up once more. The girl they all pined for; the girl I was going out with; the untouchable fruit in the fucking garden: I fucked her. Fucked her like hell. I fucked her like an animal until she screamed for all the saints to come down and rescue her. I fucked her until she recited the rosary backwards and in ten different languages. I fucked her and made a slave out of her, toying with her mind until my fucking – as much as she did not like it – became a necessity to her. And they all found out. And they were disgusted. At the inhumanity. At the brutality. At the act that, somewhere in the back of their minds, they wished they had been able to accomplish.

Truly, people will never understand the monsters they create.

It did not end there. The taste of violence was too relieving. Like getting your hand caught between the plug and the outlet; and finding out that electricity does not really hurt. Too comforting. Like Vivaldi on a golden afternoon, alongside whiskey and a cigar. Too attractive. Like a Chagall or a Caravaggio, hanging on the wall at the foot of your bed.

TOO FUCKING DELICIOUS.

So I taught myself how to shoot. Everything from homemade .22s to 50-caliber M82A1s. I read books on licensed and improvised explosives and poisons; and calculated the reaction time of the local police force. I forged papers and documents and IDs and shopped in markets both legitimate and black.

Everyone was there at the morning assembly. The fucking rector-principal. High and fucking mighty in his seat. Staring indiscreetly at the fresh young bodies laid out before him. The head teacher was there. Silly as a fucking arse. Yelling commands here and there. The personification of rubbish. The students were like lambs, gathered in the field. Chattering and moving incessantly.

Right before the end of the morning prayer, I detonated the low-impact explosives I had concealed under the bleachers on the four corners of the gymnasium. Bodies went up in fire and smoke. Why low-impact? I wanted survivors. So I could shoot them. I saw them all scampering towards exits, towards rows of fallen chairs, towards each other. Towards everywhere and nowhere. The rector-principal was wailing like a pig about to be butchered. Through the scope, I saw that he had shit himself. Fucking pansy. He was not even hurt. Not yet. So I took a shot at his thigh. Blood and shit splattered. His leg was almost torn off but the shithead still tried to stand. I tagged him one more time. On his right shoulder. He spun like a top. Where is your god now, padre? Am I not god now, calling the shots and deciding who is worth what? Where are your fucking guardian angels now, padre? Where the fuck are they now? 

The head teacher, I shot at her throat. Try shouting now, bitch. What? You have got to talk louder and clearer than that if you want to be heard. Stop gurgling on your blood. I have had enough of your orders, you fucking whore! Try giving me demerits now.

I shot randomly. Flesh and bones covered the floor. Almost a thousand bodies – all sitting ducks. Well, some of them were either lying down and desperately clinging onto their miserable lives or writhing in agony and gagging on their own entrails. IT WAS A FUCKING CIRCUS! I did not give a flying fuck as to who would get hit. Everybody dies. Sooner or later. We are all in the same shit.

But, you see, I was the one holding the rifle.

All Things Must Pass

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Dear Anoushka, 

I died a couple of weeks ago.

The how is rather irrelevant, and I prefer not to dwell on it.

Now, I'm in what others might call the afterlife. I still haven't made up my mind about what to call this place. There are books everywhere; and so I'm quite compelled to call it heaven.

There are people here too. There's one who used to call himself Mozart. Funny fellow. Blabbermouth and all but he does make sense. I had a drink with him the other night and he spilled whiskey all over the place. On our way back to the quarters, he slipped down the Spanish Steps and broke an arm. He's still recovering right now but it's rather amazing how he can play the piano with six fingers.

There's another guy, Jimi. He's quite shy and likes to drag his guitar around. He rarely plays a tune on it but he lugs it around nonetheless. The others say he's been pensive ever since he got here, which is a far cry from how he was prior to this.

Another fellow they call Andy always makes the rounds, taking photographs of everyone. No one really knows what he does with the films because he paints cans and tin pans every weekend. He's the guy to go to when you're looking for a dose of reality.

There's a lady here with whom I hang around often. Her name's Ingrid and I remember her from a film I loved when I was still, well, somewhere else. Surprisingly, she's very lively and loves to laugh and giggle. We spend hours talking about why we're here anyway and why there are others who aren't.

So far, it's been good. I'll let you know, from time to time, what transpires here.

See you soon.

Vedanta

On History

Friday, January 26, 2007

Have you ever tried reading stories between everyday incidents?

Take the man in front of you; a few steps away from the boarding gate; and sweating like hell. This is his nth time riding a plane from JFK to LAX, being a businessman and all, and yet he is scared shitless. He murmurs a prayer; praising the heroes of Pan Am 103.

Then, there is that woman on the street. It is rather strange that, walking to her car, anyone with clear enough vision can detect that her hand is shaking. Her eyes dart from left to right. She almost drops her keys. Her children wave goodbye but she does not even bother to look at them. You watch her from your hotel window and turn your head towards the telly. There is a newsflash about the West Bank.

There is also that next-door neighbor who seems to sleep all day, and go out quietly during the nights. He rarely talks to anyone, when he is outside. And when he does have guests, he lets them in hurriedly; and turns up the radio so loud that you get the feeling that there is a pub right in the middle of your living room. While most of the men in your district have gone to the drink, there are a few like him who stay sober. Even on St. Patrick’s Day.

On the way to work, you see a woman and her daughter, crying rivers, and exchanging what seem to be words of reassurance and despair. An old man in the car near them is yelling for the young girl to come to him. Her mother prods her on but she offers a futile resistance. She steps into the car and the old man hands her mother an envelope full of money, and papers transferring the ownership of a parcel of land and a dozen cows.

How about the man drinking gin on the sidewalk across your doorstep? His face is ragged and yet there is a regal air to him. His clothes are torn and tattered but you can see traces of a former glory. Wash him up, dress him up, and he’d make for a mighty fine gentleman. If only he had that other leg. And your eyes slowly drift towards the captain’s stripes on his coat.

Interestingly, the pages that tell of history do not reveal the names and faces of the men, women, and children who truly wrote them.

I Knew It!

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Saint Exupery's 'The Little Prince' Quiz.

You are the snake.
Take this quiz!

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The Wisdom Of Woody Allen 01

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree' — probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.

 

Eighty percent of success is showing up.

 

Eternal nothingness is fine if you happen to be dressed for it.

 

His lack of education is more than compensated for by his keenly developed moral bankruptcy.

 

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?

 

How is it possible to find meaning in a finite world, given my waist and shirt size?

 

I can't listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.

 

I don't want to achieve immortality through my work… I want to achieve it through not dying.

 

I tended to place my wife under a pedestal.

 

I took a speed reading course and read 'War and Peace' in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.

 

I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam; I looked into the soul of the boy sitting next to me.

 

I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown.

 

If it turns out that there is a God, I don't think that he's evil. But the worst that you can say about him is that basically he's an underachiever.

 

If only God would give me some clear sign! Like making a large deposit in my name in a Swiss bank.

 

Interestingly, according to modern astronomers, space is finite. This is a very comforting thought — particularly for people who can never remember where they have left things.

 

It is impossible to experience one's death objectively and still carry a tune.

 

It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, and certainly not desirable, as one's hat keeps blowing off.

 

It seemed the world was divided into good and bad people. The good ones slept better… while the bad ones seemed to enjoy the waking hours much more.

 

Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable.

 

Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.

 

Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.

 

More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.

 

Most of the time I don't have much fun. The rest of the time I don't have any fun at all.

 

My one regret in life is that I am not someone else.

 

Not only is there no God, but try getting a plumber on weekends.

 

On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down.

 

Organized crime in America takes in over forty billion dollars a year and spends very little on office supplies.

 

Students achieving Oneness will move on to Twoness.

 

The government is unresponsive to the needs of the little man. Under 5'7", it is impossible to get your congressman on the phone.

 

There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?

 

Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.

 

To you I'm an atheist; to God, I'm the Loyal Opposition.

 

What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet.

 

When I was kidnapped, my parents snapped into action. They rented out my room.

 

Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?

 

You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.

 

What if nothing exists and we're all in somebody's dream? Or what's worse, what if only that fat guy in the third row exists?

 

The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep.

 

It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.

ODC

 

 

A few nights ago, I caught a Kevin Spacey movie on the telly. 'Twas about a bunch of Irish thieves. Nifty. Made me wish I'd taken up a career in theft. Hehehe. I'd have stolen a truckload of Chagalls and Picassos. And Rembrandts.

On 1900

Saturday, January 13, 2007

 

 

"All that city… you just couldn't see an end to it. The end? Please? Can you please just show me where it ends? It was all very final on that gangway. And I was grand too, in my overcoat. I cut quite a figure. And I was getting off. Guaranteed. That wasn't the problem. It wasn't what I saw that stopped me. It was what I didn't see. Can you understand that? What I didn't see. In all that sprawling city, there was everything except an end. There was no end. What I did not see was where the whole thing came to an end. The end of the world. Take a piano, hmmm? The keys begin, the keys end. You know there are eighty-eight of them. Nobody can tell you any different. They are not infinite. You are infinite. And on those keys, the music that you can make is infinite. I like that. That, I can live by. You get me up on that gangway and you roll it out in front of me: a keyboard of millions of keys, millions and billions of keys that never end, and that's the truth, they never end. That keyboard is infinite. And if that keyboard is infinite, then, on that keyboard, there is no music you can play. You're sitting on the wrong bench. That's God's piano. Christ, did you see the streets? Just the streets - there were thousands of them. I mean, how do you do it down there? How do you choose just one? One woman. One house. One piece of land to call your own. One landscape to look at. One way to die. All that world just weighing down on you. You don't even know where it comes to an end. And aren't you ever just scared of breaking apart at the thought of it - the enormity of living it? I was born on this ship. And the world passed me by… but two thousand people at a time. And there were wishes here, but never more than fit between the prow and stern. You played out your happiness but on a piano that was not infinite! I learned to live that way. Land? Land is a ship too big for me. It's a woman too beautiful. It's a voyage too long. A perfume too strong. It's music I don't know how to make. I can never get off this ship. I'm blessed. I can step off my life. After all, I don't exist for anyone. You're the exception. You're the only one who knows I'm here. You're a minority, and you'd better get used to it. Forgive me, my friend… but I'm not getting off."

On Idiots And The Telly

There are days when I wake up seething with anger over something that happened in the not-so-distant past. I have tried to be rather rational about things but I am quite convinced that there ARE people who prefer to stay in a state of idiocy.

The things I should have done make me hope for another confrontation. Another circumstance. Another incident. On which I would act irresponsibly. IRRESPONSIBLY.

The fact that my brother was with me on that night saw to my somewhat civil behavior. But, next time, I will not be as forgiving.

—

It is rather annoying how some people think that the world revolves around them. Stupid, really. FUCKING STUPID.

You fucked-up idiot, we fired your boyfriend because he was fucking lazy and fucking incompetent. The Band and I do not give a flying fuck about your fucking relationship. We do not fucking care about whether you are a fucking tramp or a fucking literati-wannabe.

—

I am not sure whether it was a week ago or two. Anyway, Tomato Maria and I watched Annie Hall on the Lifestyle Network. It was fucking hilarious! Watching Woody Allen was like watching my inner self on the tube.

—

"Filipinos don't throw their garbage away.  They turn them into television shows."

It’s A Grey Day

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

 

 

"Mostly, I remember the last one. The wild finish: A guy standing on a station platform, in the rain, with a comical look on his face because his insides have been kicked out."