The Man Who Lived in His Mind

The man who lived in his mind took a moment to stare at the earth unfold its masterpiece. He slightly lifted his head to observe the wind which was bristled with leaves. It was there where he decided his true love–and his true fear. As he lit a cigarette, he tried to relax his shoulders and rolled his eyes at the obnoxious woman yapping on her fancy cell phone.

The man who lived in his mind always considered parks to be sacred places that had no place for modern technology. While he thought of this, his precious computer sat in his briefcase–oh, the irony.

The man who lived in his mind did just that–he lived in his mind. The world around him lived, and he was oblivious to that. However, he often observed very natural processes in nature, and pondered these processes for quite some time. People would often stare at him wondering what he was looking at. However, one cannot be certain if people actually did this since He was too busy living in his mind ignoring everything else.

Observations are the essence of living. How can one live in this world without carefully observing it, and absorbing it? To Him, life was not possible without observations. Now, He meant observations in the sense of finding meaning in nature and objects, making sense of life, and pondering life’s biggest mysteries. He wasn’t very learned in scientific observations, and he didn’t want to. Science was always too dry from Him, He loved imagination and creativity.

The man who lived in his mind would often daydream about yesterday and tomorrow while completely ignoring today.

Some salesman snapped his fingers to get The Man’s attention.

The Man just shook his fingers and said “No, thank you,” before the salesman even spoke two words.

While smoking the eternal cigarette, nothing could scare The Man. A rather large spider hurried up his leg, and when he noticed this, he simply shook his leg. On any other occasion, The Man would have been terrified of this little creature. However, today was different; today was new.

To The Man, fear had always been a reaction to pain. He rationalized the concept of fear as a irrational reaction, and it sometimes hindered The Man’s progress in life. He was aware of this, though, and he finally decided to do something about it.

Rustling in the bushes from behind elicited no response from The Man. Yet after about 20 seconds, he turned around to make sure nobody was scheming to steal his precious briefcase.

Fear.

Fear had joined The Man who lived in his mind. Today wasn’t really different, he just wanted it to be different. Fear was repression, and the Man wanted to free.

The rustling behind the Man turned out to be a young boy playing with his friend.

The Man began to rationalize this incident. After all, he lived in his mind, and that was the only way he could understand the world around him:

The Man was an outsider, or so he thought. He never had solitude, even if was in a tranquil park in the middle of paradise.

He once thought that this behavior was the result of that the world being incessantly interested in what he was doing. He was wrong, however. The world was indifferent. The world numbers to 7 billion people, nobody was special and nobody was unfortunate. We are all stuck on this rock from the second we are born until the moment we die, he thought.

Life is about dropping your shoulders and not giving a shit. Why? Because most things aren’t really worth it. Everything is temporary, and fleeting. The Man recognized this notion, but when the time came, he would still worry and fear.

Yet, the night before, The Man read something alarming. What if life isn’t temporary? That very day, he had been pondering the sensations of death.

What if death is the door to life? If so, then what is this life? What is this reality we all live in? The Man feared that life after death meant that he would have to relive his life again. He feared he would have to re-live the same mistakes, feel the same pain, and witness the same loss again for all of eternity.

Fear.

Fear wrapped its soul crushing fingers around The Man, and never let go. He was trapped in a world that repeated over and over–like a broken record, he feared. He lived in his mind, and his mind gave rise to fear. Fear was within him, and life was outside of him.

When was he going to be normal again?

The Man flicked his cigarette and crossed his leg. He opened to page 255 of the novel he was reading and decided that it was his time to shine, and he set out to do that. I personally haven’t seen him since.

The Art of Ironing

There is something, ultimately, serene about this video. It exudes simplicity, modesty, and professionalism. What I find most inspiring is how seriously this man takes his job; most would consider the job of a shirt-presser to be a failed, monotonous career–that, however, is completely false. Watching him iron reminds me that pursuing one’s passion outweighs anything else in life. Through this simple video, I am reminded that I should follow whatever I want: regardless of money, fame, or status. I should just do what I excel at and what I am passionate about.

I might be seeing into things, but that’s what I felt when watching this video (which, by the way, is art).

—

Listening to: Blue in Green by Miles Davis

Thinking Clearly

I think I’m beginning to finally “connect” with someone on a personal and emotional level. We share many interests such as art, music, and literature. I tell her things I’ve never shared with anyone, and it is absolutely refreshing. This feeling is fairly new, however, and I’m unsure how to proceed. All I know is that I don’t want anything to change.

In other news:

I’ve been addicted to Latin American literature these days. After reading Bolaño’s 2666, I’ve been very interested in delving further into Latin American novels. They are simply creative and astounding works of art. Today I bought four novels:

1. Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
2. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
3. Life is a Dream by Pedro Calderón de la Barca
4. Noli Me Tangere by Jose Rizal

Interestingly enough, these novels were recommended by my Classics professor. He is a philologist focusing on the epic (think Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey), so I was surprised when he recommended some of these works.

Just a few random comments that have been lingering in my mind:

In my experience, if a novel doesn’t evoke a WTF feeling in the reader, then it probably isn’t very good–thus, it shouldn’t be read. I want something to transform my perspective on life and gradually lead me closer to the truth. Literature asks us questions, and these questions slowly show us what is true, and what is noble.

Also in regards to novels (and literature in general), I’m beginning to feel that the author may not be that important–rather, it is the reader who is important for he makes connections (intertextuality) and finds meaning in the work (see: Barthes).

A New Path

My writing has greatly improved in the last year and as a result, I am planning on writing a novel (how original, I know). Yet, this novel is built upon my personal past experiences, current perspective, and future desires. The novel will be rooted in dream and surrealism–something I have been interested for many years now. Ideally I would like to begin writing it next month, but I must first finish reading several important works before I begin. I also need to work on some grammar and punctuation.

Regardless, I need to read these books before I can even dare to start my novel:

  1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño
  2. Don Quixote by Cervantes
  3. Most of Balzac’s works
  4. Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
  5. Ulysses by James Joyce
  6. Novels by André Malraux
  7. Novels by Ernest Hemingway

Clearly, I have a significant amount of reading to do, but I know that once I read these books I will have the capacity to write a novel. In the mean time, I will fully use this site to hone my writing.

 

A Return to Normality

My return to southern California has been rather interesting. After spending almost five months in Paris, France, the return has been jarring–and adjusting to society here has been very tiring. I find that I have a difficulty connecting on an emotional or personal level with anyone in Riverside, and yearn to leave it once I finish my undergraduate degree.

The difficulty I have connecting with others is not a matter of elitism or snobbishness from my time abroad, it’s the fact that not too many people share my interests or understand my thinking processes in this city. Thus, I have resorted to typical  small talk with all my friends and family rather than delve into my personal thoughts, ambitions, or actual feelings. I am certain this will eventually ostracize myself from my friends and family, so I would like to make an effort to be more open and honest about myself with people.

Returning to my university here has also been very difficult for me. The moment I enter the overflowing parking lot, I am desperate to escape. School does nothing for me anymore; I don’t find myself learning anything useful or beneficial, and most of the discussions in my classes are rather dull and ineffective. One class, however, stands out from the lot: my ancient art of Greece course. This course has opened my eyes to something quite remarkable: the complexity of art. I had always seen Greek art as dull, but impressive–this was even true when I saw the multitudes of Greek art in European museums. I found them to be beautiful, but it was difficult to receive any meaning from them.

My Greek art course has changed that. A simple column impresses me, as art in ancient Greece took a different meaning than contemporary art. Images (sculptures, etc…) in ancient Greece were incredibly powerful. The human mind functioned in a different manner, and something as simple as a column signaled a revolution from normality. Art was something that challenged society and made a statement of wealth, power, and social superiority.

The depiction of the human figure in ancient Greece was even more powerful. These types of depictions changed societies and had a sort of power and awe to them. It is difficult to conceptualize this effect since that power is absent in contemporary society. Today, society is over-saturated by images and art–much so that it is meaningless to us. The art of yore commanded an unthinkable power and was part of the peoples’ lives.

My professor, Dr. Rudolph, is an extraordinary instructor. I was surprised how quickly I grew to admire his ideas and perspective on art. These ideas changed my views of art in a matter of two weeks. It’s always refreshing to have an instructor that attempts to challenge preconceived notions, rather than monotonously  lecture for an hour.

Seeing Light from a Tomb…

While at the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, I was in awe at the death that surrounded me. From the onset, It is a completely hopeless place filled with the remnants of former human beings; this type of thing depresses me, but as I entered a dilapidated tomb I closed the door and just stared out the window.

I was filled with both happiness and grief  from the light that entered this dark tomb. I remembered that even the darkest of places receives some light; and that there can be life in the most desolate of places. I just love this dichotomy, and I am struck with optimism when I think about this moment. But, I also felt trapped, like Tantalus. I was seeing greenery and life from this narrow window while being confined in this small tomb.  Perhaps that’s what death really is.

That is why I fumbled for my camera, so that I could capture this complex feeling and remember it for years to come.

“IQ84” by Haruki Murakami

In a few short weeks, Haruki Murakami’s new novel, “IQ84” will be released in English. While renowned for his fiction, many people within my social circle are not familiar with his work. Thus, I am forced to explain his novels: and I simply don’t know how to do that.

His work is so unique and different that it feels almost weird to explain it in words. Rather than explaining the plots of his stories, I find myself describing what kind of feelings these stories evoke. I have read four novels by Murakami, and in my mind, the plots of these 4 stories blend together forming one powerful idea: alienation.

Characters in Murakami’s books may have friends and interesting lives, but inside they are truly alienated from society–they simply have no place and don’t belong. But the aspect which resonates the most is the surrealism. Surrealism has always been something I cherish, whether it be in art, music, literature, and film. Within the context of Murakami’s work, surrealism has a presence in nearly all his novels.

But, surrealism is so weird, and it also feels weird explaining it. It is as if dream and reality have crossed paths, gently coalescing and forming one-single-existence which effectively blurs the notions of what is real and what isn’t. In Murakami’s fiction, it is difficult to discern reality from the surreal. Thus, his work becomes dreamlike: exposing man’s imagination and true fears. It is in dreams, where man can express his true being, therefore it is this quality that makes Murakami’s work so daring, and so lively; these stories are a look into a complex mind, a mind that drifts into a world that doesn’t make sense to us when we are awake: talking cats, ominous birds, and other impossibilities. His fiction transports us to a place we only go to when we are asleep. It is literally dream and surrealism on paper.

I must be honest though, I can never remember the minute details of his stories–just the feelings, and I cannot say that about any other author today.

Remembering the Fallen (9.11.01)

Tumbling through the sky,

It won’t be long until I die,

But as I make this dive,

I hope I can breathe again.

Cool air permeates my flesh,

But when I think of our place,

I feel your gentle embrace

Now I race to the ground

Where my words will make no sound,

I can’t remember when I last saw you,

Tell me your name again.

As I fall I hear your voice in the empty void,

Never forget my eye

Because when I die

I can never cry;

The end is here,

Goodbye my dear,

Soft chatters sear my ear

Look above, please catch this dove

Or watch it fall into this seemingly

Bottomless chasm.

As it ends I hear my name in the heavens,

It’s almost over,

Where will I be in

2003? Is it at this lot

Or in your thought?