I am engulfed in thine words, oh Rumi.
The smell of pride and greed and lust
will betray you when you speak
as much as the onions you have eaten.
Many prayers are rejected because of their smell;
the corrupt heart reveals itself in the tongue.
But if your meaning is pure,
God will welcome even your clumsy expression.
-- Mathnawi III: 166;169;171
Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski
It's not fun to be always sober.
I am drunk and you are insane
tell me, who will lead us home?
How many times have I asked you not to drink so much
for I see no sober soul in town.
Come to the tavern my dearest and taste the wine of love
for the soul is joyous only in the company of lovers.
The tavern of love is your livelihood
your income and expenses, the wine.
Be careful, not to trust a sober soul
with even one drop of this wine.
Go on playing your lute, my drunken gypsy but tell me,
between the two of us, who is more drunk?
As I left my house a Sufi approached me,
in his glance I saw a hundred gardens.
He swayed from side to side like a ship without an anchor,
while a hundred reasonable men watched on enviously.
Where are you from? I asked him.
He replied, "Half from Turkistan and half from Farghaneh,
half from water and clay and half from soul and heart,
half from the edge of the sea and half from the depths of the coean."
-- Ghazal (Ode) 2398
Translated by Azima Melita Kolin
and Maryam Mafi
I have never been totally drunk in which I couldn't walk anymore. (And I'm already twenty four. How pathetic is that.) When intoxicated, I still know what it is that's happening and I can still think straight. What the hell. Where's the fun in that? I've never puked infront of anyone, never emabarrased myself in any drinking spree. When I couldn't take the alchohol anymore, I fall asleep and then again, where's the fun in that?
I'd like to be stupendously drunk one of these days.
Say not in grief that she is no more
but say in thankfulness that she was
A death is not the extinguishing of a light,
but the putting out of the lamp
because the dawn has come.
Lola Cris is dying of lung cancer. She was diagnosed recently and she hasn't even reached her sixties yet. She slept in my room last night and she was on the bed. I always sleep on the floor (how weird is that) even when she's not vacationing here. Don't ask me why.
Then she made me promise to stop smoking because for such a long while, she's been my yosi buddy. She was sobbing a bit before we went to sleep. And then she was asking me about what I wanted from her to remember her by. The only reply I uttered was, "Lola naman!" How very apt of me, I know.
I didn't tell her that the flowers in the garden will always, always remind me of her.
Yesterday night, I decided to call them the Residue People, the ones whom I have always known existed but never got around to sharing any decent conversation with, much less given the opportunity of formal introductions.
Then years and years after being in the same circle with nary a hello, I meet them finally, in another lifetime or another phase if you will. The familiarity overwhelms me to be seeing them strewn across my path again.
There must be a reason for the reiteration, I tell myself. Reiteration, repetition, recognition. They must mean something. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been here again.
From a quiz in Facebook:
Augustinius: Our lives are the sum of what we experience and see...and then some.
Nietzsche: Existential, fatalistic.
Socrates: No one errs or does wrong willingly/knowingly. (Really?)
Aquinas: Faith and reason coincide symmetrically.
Aristotle: Spontaneity and chance are causes of effects.
Plato: Denial of the material world.
Kant: A categorical imperative is an unconditional obligation.
Kierkegaard: (Self and self's relation to the world is being grounded in self-reflection and introspection.
I should have taken more Philosophy classes.
This was my goodnight quote yesterday:
Before I fall asleep, it occurs to me that life consists of days like this. Points that in the end, if we have been fortunate, connect a line. That they can also fall apart into a meaningless pile of spent time, that only a continuous unswerving effort gives a meaning to the small units of time in which we live.
Christa Wolf, One Day a Year
With emphasis on the words , "continuous", "unswerving , and "effort". My new seatmate borrowed this book for me. I still do not have a library card.
Things to look forward to:
Maru's graduation day.
Her post-grad swimming party. :)
Taking the Start Deutsch 1 Exam and passing it.
Job hunting again.