Wednesday, October 19, 2011

伦敦

這是你的第一次來這兒嗎?
對啊.

He looked up at the drizzle of drops as it dabbed the window pane in a sudden, direct and light manner aided of course by gravity. Shifting his inner participation of space, attention, he toggled his vision between the overcast sky whose clouds tumbled along to their final destination and the spider's web that clung to the window in desolation. What is the final destination of a cloud? The earth? The roots? No, the cycle of precipitous materials is eternal. The webbing captured only the water that it needed, letting the rest grace the pane with its presence. This simple spider's silk can trap many things, providing a source of nourishment for the inhabitant. But there was no spider there. He wondered if he was the only one who wondered where it had gone.

Nature is the first instuctor of the language of life. A leaf, one main vein and multiple venules, green at the base, yellow in the middle slowly changing hue to red and then brown at the apex.  It was alive and dying at the same time.  It was Nature's way of of describing what happens to everything that lives on the planet. Beauty in the detail. Nature answered the question, "How should one live?" One should never be concerned with the characteristics that make you who you are, but, much like the leaves who float from their fixed place to provide food to its rooted counterpart until Spring, one should retain the characteristics that help you achieve the most growth and consider which ones you can leave behind. Must a part of you die then for your other, supposedly better self, to live? Not necessarily, as not all trees shed their leaves - an evergreen strives just as well. Similarly, people are different and can retain all characteristics and allow them all to feed into their experience.  This is what Nature described to him that he made feeble in his attempt to put into words, to classify as is apparent of human nature. Nature showed him its own inner participation of flow, its progression of the cycle of all creatures so he could in turn understand his own; all things that could directly photosynthesize or indirectly assimilate would progress unto death. It is the great inevitability of life.


倫敦 給我第一個印象是...

A city without a grid isn't synonymous with a city without purpose. On the contrary, it becomes even more alive, more complex in its intricacies and lends credence to the winding paths of thought through which a deeply reflective mind would dare venture. This city was alive and he lived through and with it.  Simultaneously, paradoxically even, he was invisible and one of the crowd of London folk. He smiled as he waited for the queue of cyclists to tumble and scatter across the Strand; it was an unfamiliar muscular arrangement of the face for him. Traditionally, the men in the family took severe photos, a stern, piercing gaze as a reminder to be disciplined.

He sat for a moment outside a patisserie and observed the movement of human beings in their particular Dynamo-sphere. Some dabbed, some thrusted, some slashed forward. All moved with some purpose. His own stillness was sustained - he was pressed in his chair and his inner participation of time, his decision-making self, shifted gears. I think I'd like hot chocolate with my sandwich.  The show starts in 21 minutes. I will walk over there in 15. I will cross my legs when I sit so my knees don't lock nor will my thighs cramp.

我有谁? There is a brashness to the questions he poses to himself. What was his inner participation of weight, his intention, of asking that question? The grammatical construct is rude and purposefully so; to ask it in English in a similar manner would pacify the statement and possibly make it less poignant. Maybe he thought it would scare him into blurting out an answer that he always knew existed but did not think possible. Were the characteristics that he chose for his opposite already some part of his natural self? Would he keep them?

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Time Travel

He lay awake listening to his runners' heart thump against his thoracic cage.  Someone once told him the pillow was cooler, on the other side.  He usually couldn't sleep looking at the cieling because that was how he did his thinking.  That he could not sleep with his stomach snugly set below him on the bedding and his face buried in the pillow worried him.  Sleeping on the side was never to be tolerated under any circumstance.  He was either too exhausted to sleep or not tired at all, both undesirable conditions considering that it was 2:49 in the morning and the sleep for the last few days had been fitful, sparse at best.

He turned over onto his back and stared at the cieling. Thinking is what his mind wanted, yet he knew sleep was what his body wanted. He yielded to thought, mind overcoming the comfort of matress and duvet. His mind was usually the winner of these disputes anyway, since it posessed both somatic and autonomic control of bodily functions. A little action potential works marvellous wonders.  Somatic would reign for the present moment.

Earlier he had tried to change his social networking profile to indicate where he had come from.  But he couldn't commit to putting one location.  He was a wayfaring stranger whose journey home had many stops.  Each place he lived was one of them, or so it seemed because it was never a place in which he had stayed for a long period.  Each place also felt like home to him, and deciding upon one place out of all the others was painstaking.  Moving often and to completely unique settings each time surely wasn't helping. Why did he have to put in a hometown in the first place? He couldn't stake a claim to be a citizen of the world if he had a hometown in one locale. He would take solace in his daring to be different for now, until societal pressure to succumb to the norm would plague his psyche. For now, he would leave it alone, again, wondering if he would return to the debate and knew that he would.

He caught himself doing it again. Always the questions, never concretized answers. Perspectiveism - an answer would change based on how one percieved life in the moment of the experience. Living in the moment and reflecting upon it are two separate processes utilizing multiple parts of our brain. The brain of course is a material substance, with the capacity to be weighed, its matter analyzed with one being able to describe the elements that create the molecules that create cells that create the organelles that create the organ within the organ system of the body. The mind is not so.  Though arguably reliant upon a well-functioning brain, its capacity is incalculable, and so are its limits.  Its presence can fill a room or the eye of a needle. The most powerful force on the face of the earth cannot even be seen- it is a thought.

For a fleeting instant one of these thoughts occured to him - he had flown across 5 time zones and was now 5 hours ahead of his previous location. His mind, he intimated, was operating in both time zones at the same time, making his days 29 hours long, or so it seemed. Had he inadvertently found the way to both cheat and create more time for oneself simultaneously? It wouldn't be a very helpful skill if the increase in time yielded productivity.  Time of course has its own agenda. It runs faster than us all; not even the best sprinter or well-trained distance pace can catch Time. Eventually this momentary lag in the perception of Time would be erased as Time would catch and then surpass. Yet we try anyway. Is it our yearning for self-preservation that drives us?

Why had he flown all this way, away from the life he had known? Of course the obvious answers flashed across the embellishment his mind created using the blank canvas of the cieling above. But why here? Why now? Why him? These were the real questions that he hoped his being here would answer. It was not the promise of the adventure but the adventure itself that was worth taking the first step forward, blindfolded almost. "Why do you want to study here?"  Asked of him by the Border Agent after a tedious 8-hour journey that took 15 hours.  His answer: "I wanted a new experience."  It is often a good idea to embrace what one does not know in order to shape what one already does.  That is the nature of growth.  Much like a tree one must bend to favorable light sources to sustain that growth or run the risk of botched photosynthesis.

His eyelids were becoming leaden, the cadence of his breathing slowed. The body's natural music, a melodic configuration leading to its own repose. Rest, sleep, silence. It was, after all, the end of the day, and the cyclical play of the ascension of the sun to its throne in the center of the sky, before falling from grace and wallowing in the depths of the West, would begin again. He remembered the dull, orange glow of the street lamp casting insufficient luminence. He turned over. Then nothing.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Storming Fury

This is a story of the fury that was caused by the storm that most recently devastated the East Coast.  The fury, however, belongs to the people who were devastated and not to the ominous, tumbling clouds that blanketed the sky in a salt and pepper haze.  These are the people who may have heard the call and it would have done them well to evacuate the dangerous areas, but had no particular place to evacuate from.  These are the men and women who brave all elements, so when the black clouds of the storm rolled in and stifled the light, it meant more to them than not being able to party at the local club later that night.  Their worries are more numerous than the pellets that pelted from the sky across the Eastern seaboard this weekend.  They are the homeless.

We look specifically at one individual, who asked to have his name witheld in order to retain an untainted professional relationship with future employers.  His was an unique tale.  Initially, he was gainfully employed, enjoying the luxury of a full time job- with benefits.  He had no real reason to leave because the money was steady and reliable.  He couldn't be counted as one of the 9.1% of the unemployed, some of whom turned to the federal government for help.  Yet, he no longer inhabited the address listed for his job.  He received his check via direct deposit, so that he would not run the risk of losing a much needed, self-earned economic stimulus.  Too proud, or ineligible because of his employment status, or even because there was just no room in an already overcrowded resting place, he was unable to spend nights at housing provided by the Doe Fund, a service that provides men and women with housing and opportunities for temporary blue collar jobs.

He was one of the 15% of people who were an anomoly among the homeless - working a full-time job but unable to consistently pay for accommodation.  He was a loyal taxpayer, with exorbitant sums being taken liberally from his paycheck and when purchasing miscellaneous goods and services.  He recently started a payment plan for the mountain of debt he incurred from taking out numerous loans and payment deliquence fees.  But one perticular service of interest he could not afford was rent.  Working at minimum wage as he was, it is estimated that he would have to work 85 hours a week to be able to afford rent and other necessary commodities in a major city such as New York.  Unforuntately, his place of employment was only open 5 days a week, for no more than 12 hours a day.  Even if he picked up every available shift from opening to closing as he was often wont to do, he would still be unable to tend to all of his needs.

"It's been a long time since I've been inside here," he remarked over coffee at a well-known coffee shop, well-clad in a clean but gently worn suit.  "I've been musing over my situation for the longest while.  It's understandable that I would have acquired a lot of debt in the time that I spent without a job.  You just never think that one day you'd be unable to pay for a roof over your head.  How do you prepare for that?"

He chose food, which he has to buy every day because he has no where to store or preserve it, inexpensive methods of telecommunications and clean clothing over accommodation.  He cuts his own hair, shaves and takes his showers in the bathroom at the Pennsylvania Train Station, only to emerge with a false sense of cleanliness and security.  Sometimes, an extremely rare occurence, there would be just enough saved to spend a night at a bed and breakfast, a fleeting splurge luxurious in nature.  But on a regular basis he would join the ranks of those whose numbers range from 445,000 to 800,000 across the country on any given night, as determined by a "point in time" count.  This particular approximation is based on volunteers and administrators physically combing the streets of cities across the nation on a particular night and making a note of the people who establish various encampments on street corners, park benches, temporary housing and multiple train seats.  This number is also indicative of 10% of the national population already living in poverty, except that the homeless are so far below the poverty line that they are typically often forgotten.

"I was one of the unlucky ones to lose my job at the economic downturn.  But I never thought I'd lose everything.  I was optimistic - too much so I suppose.  What started as an all-nighter in a chair on Times Square spiralled quickly downward into numerous nights out here.  A year now probably?  I've lost count."

Psychologically, the stressor of finding a new abode every night for the past year had taken its toll.  Even before the storm rolled in, he was constantly worried, depressed and anxious and this manifested itself as an increased form of aggression.  His coworkers were no longer able to tolerate his unexpected mood swings.  His manager appreciated his work ethic in general and didn't want to let him go, but considered that he would benefit by working less hours.  Part-time now.  No more benefits.  Irene came and went and grocery stores were late in restocking, meaning he had to go without food.   Hostility and unpleasantness exacerbated and at the end of this work week he was eventually asked to leave.

"I felt so uneasy around my boss, everyone in the workplace.  I felt so enclosed, trapped.  But I couldn't understand why.  I've never had an affinity for violence.  The blood just sort of rushed to my head and I just stormed out of there."  He broke a smile at his own pun, a momentary flash of a sense of humor that seemed to show his former self.  "I know I need help, but I spend all of my time looking for a place to comfortably rest my head at night, not looking up counsellors."

What can we do to help provide for these men, women and children who are most in need?  They lack one of the most basic of human necessities - shelter.  For some, taking refuge from the coming storm only heightened their sense of urgency and their sentiments of despair.  Scaffolding with flimsy zinc roofing was a perilous alternative, but for many it was the only alternative.  His situation is a rare one, as for the moment he is not one of the many who must depend on the whim, fancy and generosity of others to get their next meal, but like a majority of other homeless wayfarers, his prospects and hope are quickly receding much like the flood waters of the recent tropical storm.


Sources:
-Greenberg, J. Comprehensive Stress Management.  11th Ed, Mc-Graw Hill.
-National Coalition for the Homeless
http://www.nationalhomeless.org/factsheets/How_Many.html
-U.S. Conference of Mayors. 2008 Status Report on Hunger & Homelessness. Available from http://usmayors.org/pressreleases/documents/hungerhomelessnessreport_121208.pdf
-U.S. Conference of Mayors. A Hunger and Homelessness Survey, 2007. Available from http://usmayors.org/uscm/home.asp

Monday, August 22, 2011

Panegyric to Exercise

Pumping iron in the gym, like a monster.
Boil an egg, put some bread in the toaster.
Training right, eating well for a big kick,
So come race time I'll be "Fly Like A G6".

Give me my water wet,
Give me clean towels dry.
My workout today will definitely make quitters cry.
You want to workout with me?
Perseverance must come naturally
Because I don't stop once I pick the weights up and do my reps you see.

Oh yes!  Girl, I'm type extreme, power cleaning in the gym.
I have to keep my form in check to keep chance of injury slim.
Once I gain momentum I don't want to be sidelined.
Now I've the chance to put in the work; the present is my time.
Running Van Cortlandt's hills, inclines without mercy.
They try their hardest to grind away resolve but the trick is consistency.
You just have to pump arms and legs,
And keep that head down,
And once you burst into the clearing
And race the straightaway,
You'll be a challenger for that crown.

Tempo run in Central Park, training to race
Solidifying my technique known to me as pace and chase.
Gym now! Environed jocks are grunting like they're truly bulked.
Bench press time!  And the mix on my media player makes me step my workout up.

I can't forget to stretch!
Have to be limber, balanced and loose.
And knowing when to take rest days
Is the best thing I can do.
My goal is longevity not a merely fleeting journey.
So the number one goal of any workout is to take care of... well, me.

Endorphins abound! Pleasant rush that can only be found
In a layer of sweat that you'll surely get
When you put on some sneakers and try not to fret.
Your body will thank you...  Hey, why aren't you outside yet?

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Romeo and Juliet: Hunter, NY Tour

The rays of the sun stretched forth its arms across the vast expanse of the bright morning sky. He rose with the sun, mimicking its reach with an extension of his own arms, just barely touching the low ceiling above his head. He remembered entering the town last night under an inky black sky dotted with stars, more than the mere smattering that he was accustomed to in the city. Here, there were no lights and buildings that scuffed the sky to compete with the distant suns of other galaxies. Today was the first full day in a novel environment.  It was time to explore this town.
He chose not to run today. Today, with the rarefied mountain air filling his lungs, he thought it would be a more savory experience if he just walked. Cumulus and stratus clouds crowned the mountains in the distance.  How high up were we? He slipped on his sneakers and briskly walked down the sidewalk in this ski town in the Catskills. He could see his breath, faint wisps.  The first aspect he noticed was the closed stores. A ski supply shop had gone out of business- twice.  It kept moving to the buildings next door.  Its most recent decal hung freshly painted from a building that was two houses away from the first location of the store. Here was a person who chose to re-buy when he busted in on all his chips. Business is a gamble. The store looked well stocked but as the equipment was not in season, it would not be open for the duration of this journey.
The brazenness of another store owner both startled and amused the young walker.  This was a barber shop and its hours were one that he was compelled to pause and take note of. While some of the days offered regular hours of business, there were a few welcome surprises.  Sunday was "by chance" and a few other days yielded an indeterminate schedule. The owner had established enough credibility to work regularly for only four days. There would still be customers. Hair cutting was a luxury.
He had come to the end of the sidewalk and of the little town where he would be performing later tonight.  The concrete veered off to the left and ended before the steps of a Catholic church. The end of the road leading to a place faith. Was the message that there was only one true path to salvation? Ironic. He was surprised at the longevity of the wooden structure, freshly painted white with green trimmings lining the windows, the roof and the front corners that protruded from the main building.  The foundation at the front of the place of worship was of brick, the rail for the stair of cast iron.  Renovation? It was not yet wheelchair accessible, a thought he vacated because he considered it too sharp a critique.
With no sidewalk left, he continued walking on the shoulder of the 23A, the highway that left the town.  Houses, a resort that welcomed visitors for late night jazz dancing and a used car dealership lined opposite sides of the street... then nothing.  He was walking along the road with grass grown to the length of his shoulder.  He started to wonder why people lived so far away from the city, then he remembered his own days of youth growing up in the countryside. It was a peaceful time then. Maybe they came here to escape the accelerated, expensive life that a big city often inadvertently promulgates. The rent, and everything else, was quite high.
Why wasn't anyone else awake yet?  He had only passed a lone man with a water truck who stopped at each pot of flowers that hung from the street lamps on this Main Street and, with the hose attached to the enormous tank that teetered from the back of his jalopy, gave nourishment to the thirsty perennials.  There was no great need to be awake too early here, he surmised, especially in the summer.  This was definitely a winter town.  He walked until he came across a red, wooden bridge that led to a single tree on an islet surrounded by a lake.  He crossed that bridge when he got there and scanned his environs, then wondered on whose private grounds he had trespassed. No matter; he would only leave footprints and carbon dioxide that the tree would then use.
He reached the other town and decided to start walking back now. This was still a workout of sorts for him, so he didn't want to walk for more than 1 hour and 35 minutes, or it would not be equivalent to his 10% increase in intensity of training. He would train smart this time around. On the way back, cyclists greeted him.  They had come form across the world and were on their way to the town that he had just left for the weekend's road races.  Signs of life stirred on the outskirts and, as he drew nearer, the heart of the town.  Good morning all.  The people responded.  A cup of sugar generously given by a cafe owner for morning coffee. A primary school. It looked more like a fortress, and was one of three structures in the town made entirely of stone. The other two were the fire house and the Baptist church. A peculiar development in this almost entirely wooden town. A modern touch that was of a different timbre than the timber that surrounded it. The synagogue was in the center of the town.  White with grey trimmings and a blue Star of David. The epicenter of the community.  Doors open, lights burning from two lamps at either side of the entrance.  Shabbat.  Service was about to begin.
The theater occupied a room on the first floor of what could have easily once been a grandiose house. The show was featured on the theater's digital event board - bright lights. Housed within other rooms of this converted building were three other theater spaces; these were for movies.  The seats were better but the stage was a two dimensional screen that showed a three-dimensional world. That stage was not tangible. This would be where the wayfarer and the rest of the cast and crew spent the entire afternoon and late night for the performance. A temporary, favorably acoustic home for the traveling company. We told the story of love and loss and the bitter seeds of what it means to have been of different communities, instead of being one community of different backgrounds. Equal but separate. Brought together and torn apart simultaneously by the love born of emotional truth. A kiss by the book of life and another by the quarto of death. And the audience applauded and returned home; were we preaching to the choir?  From the lives of the people in the town that seemed to coexist and be intertwined, that was a possible intimation- except that there many people in the town who, when asked, stated that they would not be attending the show.  Where was our audience from, then? The motley cast and crew would celebrate the end of the story-telling journey. Our purpose was served.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Emancipation

Yesterday it rained. Life is like a dream of children dancing in the summer rain. But there was no dancing. There are no children here. Instead, there were many people trying to get out of the rain that they had been asking for for days. Instead of relishing in the cool, cathartic rain, they prayed for the nightmarish heat to return. The torrential downpour was sudden, catching the vast majority of people off-guard, at least those who did not tune in to the weather regularly. He, of course, was one of these people. He sighed and continued walking up the street. Shoes drenched. The squelch of leather against soaked skin and flooded sidewalk. He noticed that the children were all gone. They would play in the park further down the block, delightfully splashing under the man-made jets of water that shot up from an invisible, seemingly-infinite source. The adults knew better; tax dollars well spent on city park activities. But as the grape-sized droplets fell from the laden clouds, aided by gravity, there were no children in sight. No one played in the rain anymore. This fear of nature, of the natural source of the nourishment of all living things, bothered him a little. For the past few days, society blanched in the unbearable heat, unable to concentrate, unable to adequately socialize without shade, cool artificial breezes and cold beverages. Now that there was a marked drop in humidity and temperature, there were many who cowered in fear. Umbrellas were ineffective attempts at shelter. Nobody knew what they wanted. There was heat, and they complained. Now there is no heat but a lot of wet, and again the masses are unsatisfied.
He reached his destination, paused and looked up. The droplets were cool, refreshing, suitable reprieve from the swelter of days past. He smiled. Once more around the block, why not? His arms outstretched, shuffling feet upgraded to a mere amble. His daring increased exponentially with each step. Soon, he was dancing in the rain, to the tunes of the Water Waltz, the Rain Robot, the Storm Swing. Nobody was around to judge him anyway, or they were hurriedly seeking shelter and did not join in the party. He embraced the precipitation that made the ground pulse with fervor, falling rain that lifted his spirits. Carefree, problems on hold. A liquid panacea. He inhaled life and exhaled doubt.
Across the street, a woman is moving into her new apartment. She walks to her sport utility vehicle and opens the back door. Unknown to her, a black pair of underwear falls out of a bag and saunters its way down the block in the newly formed rivulet between sidewalk and roadway. Incognizant, she continues her busy task and returns to her building. He watches it float away, lost forever in the rapid deluge, its lot is to be eroded by time and the elements. It is the fate of unnoticed objects. From the building she just walked into, a man and his daughter walk out. He asks her loudly if she wanted to go play in the rain. She looks up in the sky with eyes barely two years old, and does not move from the step. He asks her to say yes daddy. She does and his delight is evident as he picks her up and walks into the torrent. The rain hits her on the face - she flinches and buries her head into her father's shoulder. It is a painful endeavor for her. The father sees this and wordlessly carries her back indoors; both are soaked and defeated.
He didn't feel like dancing anymore; he was dancing alone anyway and who does that? The steady plops sharpened to stinging drops. There were no means of a quick escape from this onslaught. He too had had enough and now wished for the rain to cease... and as abruptly as the downpour began, so too was it abated. His emancipation was short lived. Umbrellas shook around him, a round of applause for the end of an unexpected discomfort. He turned around and headed for home.

Monday, July 25, 2011

A Disputation - Blog Vs.Tweet

To blog, or not to blog, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler for my mind to make
Privy fragments via mere characters,
Or share via blogging whole form-ed thoughts,
And in some paragrahps end it? To blog,
To tweet no more; because insomnia
or some madness, or a nagging neurosis
Puts pen to paper, nay fingers to keyboards
And thoughts take shape in ways unlike 140 graphemes can allow,
As in this case where tweets will not lend credence.
To tweet, not blog, and refuse to dwell much
Upon philosophizing most matters.
Tweets require one to craftily conjure one's opines,
Links, pictures and statements with words handpicked
To define oneself and one's interests.
The tweet is mighty but is oft not enough, 'cause
If used with Twitter Long, it thus succumbs to its opponent.
Why use applications that will allow
One to go past the allotted amount?
One might as well use the faculties already
In place for such an endeavor.
A blog, a tweet, both differ in the editing.
A tweet if incorrect or muddled will cease to exist;
Spontaneity of thought in real time is a must,
And if 'tis not tweeted the way one wants,
One must begin again anew; why the thought might pass
And cease to be, and nay may be reshaped. The moment may be gone
but 'tis no matter - the forum breeds creativity akin to lightning.
A blog can be edited; a metier
In its own right, a refinement of thought that
Allows one to find the words that may be
Best fit for one's needs - but that spoils the gift
Of original fancies in an instant;
The perception of an event can be manipulated.
At my whim, this post may not look the same way twice,
as my mind upon reflection will not
perceive it in the same way, but this is only one post.
Oh blogs! Oh tweets! By confiding in your
'lectric pages and allowing myself
to feed mine own musings to fill your
open blank maws, my sins will be relived.