In Another End of the World
April 02, 2007
Mother always said that nothing was impossible, just improbable. But the mathematics of love tell me that our equation reaches the nadir of probabilities, so much so that it may as well be impossible. It's kind of like living a billion lives with a billion chances—that even at the end, nothing works, nothing jiggles. The keys don't turn, and you and I are just not meant to work.
So, I went up to the mountain top to ask the gods of the earth and sky, "Why? Why is it that you create mathematics to deter hope from the hearts of people?" They responded by stating, "You must learn that happiness comes from suffering, that unless you have a point of comparison, you will not be able to differentiate the good from the bad." But I was not satisfied: "I do not understand your reasoning. Suffering is pain, and I cannot imagine that you want your children to be pained?" But alas, the gods could not be bothered with a youth's mistaken sense of wisdom. I was told to leave and not return until I had solved the equation of hope, one that I would soon realize was unsolvable.
As it turns out, the mathematics of hope and the mathematics of love are different creatures. While most equations are done with numbers and their derivatives, love is based on heartbeats and their rhythms. Hope, on the other hand, is ethereal, ever-moving, ever-effusing themselves into the aura of tomorrow and yesterday. The statistical tendencies, therefore, of hope and love to reconcile themselves is low, and because of their different media of quantification, the probability of us ever finding love and hope at once is virtually nil.
Time says, "I'll be with you for eternity as you search, but know that it is a matter of chance that love and hope will collide at your feet." At least Time is honest, and Space tells me that he too will give me room to maneuver as I continue to seek this truth. But I am unkind. I look at Time and Space without reproach and speak upon their beings, "Thank you but this world is not for me. The ghosts at the door have agreed to let me seek what I want in a world beyond ours, where you two are not present, where I will lose myself in myself and become one with hope and love. Then, and only then, I will come back upon this earth and seek out those who believe in what I once searched for so eagerly." With that, I crossed the threshold of humanity into the realm of senses and imagination.
Felling the Night
February 17, 2007
I was walking down the street when I saw this girl, purple hat and a ponytail. I said, "What's up?" and she smiled back. Words didn't leave her mouth, but she kissed my neck. Locked her arms into mine, and made me dance down to the 6 line. We took the subway uptown to the museum, and played hopscotch on the steps as an audience looked on. Sunshine splashed our faces, and I smiled another smile. She said, "I love you," and I felt complete for a while. Then everything became real, and she said goodbye. I didn't see her for a year, but don't worry, I didn't cry. I waited patiently until one morning, when something was different, if even slightly. I got out of bed and put on a shirt, I smelled like perfume, but didn't know the source. Suddenly I had a flashback to the night before, that I had lost myself and lost her forevermore. Christmas in August, we mirrored the moments. You, I and our unending affair with time became a photograph hung on a wall like a sonnet.
Originally published on April 1, 2004 in the 16th Edition of Dequinix.com: Cautious Optimism.
The Monster is Efficient
December 12, 2006
Full of opulence and history, beneath my feet lays the great mysteries of you, of yesterday, of me and of the Tokyo streets that filled us with warmth. Territories divided, crystalline and meticulous, our shivers burst through the opaque admissions that hold each of us prisoner. (Slowly, but surely, our eyes peered into one another’s without fail.) Of tranquil factories that churn out technical specifications for tomorrow, and as vultures reign on our misgivings and take advantage of the milliseconds in between inaccurate thoughts, I stood still and awaited the moment.
Time moves in a fashion that isn’t quite circular, but maybe a little perplexed by its own power, unable to contain its own joy for what it can accomplish by taking a breath a little faster than it should. But he and I understood the crevasse between you and me, and that it was the Montague to his Capulet who was choosing to keep us incorrupt. Support then, I received, as with that (and for that), I fought the space between us and won, for once, and eventually brought to my personal pedestal a victory whose prize was you.
Lake, Masatomi Kondo, Panty Hose
November 15, 2006
An excerpt from Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami:
It was exactly one hour since we entered the tunnel. According to the Professor's instructions, there ought to be a turn to the left under the tree-lined avenue toward the Art Forum. This was early autumn, I seemed to remember. The leaves would still be green. Sunshine, the smell of the grass, an early autumn breeze played through my head. Ah, to lie back and look at the sky. I'd go to the barber, get a shave, stroll over to Gaien Park, lie down and gaze up at the blue. Maybe sip an ice-cold beer. Just the thing, while waiting for the end of the world.
"You suppose it's good weather out?"
"Beats me. How should I know?" she retorted.
Were the stars out when I left the house last evening? All I could remember was the couple in the Skyline listening to Duran Duran. Stars? Who remembers stars? Come to think of it, had I even looked up at the sky recently? Had the stars been wiped out of the sky three months ago, I wouldn't have known. The only things I noticed were silver bracelets on women's wrists and popsicle sticks in potted rubber plants. There had to be something wrong with my life. I should have been born a Yugoslavian shepherd who looked up at the Big Dipper every night. No car, no car stereo, no silver bracelets, no shuffling, no dark blue tweed suits.
My world foreshortened, flattening into a credit card. Seen head on, things seemed merely skewed, but from the side the view was virtually meaningless—a one-dimensional wafer. Everything about me may have been crammed in there, but it was only plastic. Indecipherable except to some machine.
My first circuit must have been wearing thin. My real memories were receding into planar projection, the screen of consciousness losing all identity.
The couple in the Skyline came to mind. Why did I have this fixation on them? Well, what else did I have to think about? By now, the two of them might be snoozing away in bed, or maybe pushing into commuter trains. They could be flat character sketches for a TV treatment: Japanese woman marries Frenchman while studying abroad; husband has traffic accident and becomes paraplegic. Woman tires of life in Paris, leaves husband, and returns to Tokyo, where she works in Belgian or Swiss embassy. Silver bracelets, a memento from her husband. Cut to beach scene in Nice: woman with the bracelets on left wrist. Woman takes bath, makes love, silver bracelets always on left wrist. Cut: enter Japanese man, veteran of student occupation of Yasuda Hall, wearing tinted glasses like lead in Ashes and Diamonds. A top TV director, he is haunted by dreams of tear gas, by memories of his wife who slit her wrist five years earlier. Cut (for what it's worth, this script has a lot of jump cuts): he sees the bracelets on woman's left wrist, flashes back to wife's bloodied wrist. So he asks woman: could she switch bracelets to her right wrist?
"I refuse," she says. "I wear my bracelets on my left wrist."
Cut: enter piano player, like in Casablanca. Alcoholic, always keeps shot glass of gin, straight with twist of lemon, on top of piano. A jazz musician of some talent until his career went on the rocks, he befriends both man and woman, knows their secrets,...
Par for TV, totally ridiculous underground. Some imagination. Or was this supposed to be reality? I hadn't even seen the stars in months.
The Handless Wonder
November 07, 2006
The whole equal exchange thing is good. I mean, why not, right? Why give more than take? Why take more than give? Alright, some wouldn’t mind doing the latter, but by nature we’ll only do the former when we’ve already received enough.
“But baby, you always talk about the camera when you talk about us. Why does that camera mean so much to you in our relationship?”
I’m not sure why it was so hard for her to understand. I lost my camera the night I met her, along with the memories that were stored in it. I gave up my memories for her, and something tangible (and a little expensive) to boot. I just wanted to know if she was worth that price.
“Circumstance.” A cool, one word answer. Always does the trick.
“I don’t get it. What's up with you and circumstance all the time? I’m the greatest thing you’ve ever had, yet you still think about that damn camera. Come on, the camera or me? Would you give me up for that damn thing?”
It’s a little tricky answering questions like this. Mother used to say that love has an expiration date, but memories last as long as they make you happy or sad. And that essentially means I’ve exchanged something happy (or sad) for something that will end.
But then it makes a little more sense. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be that way. Memories, the ones I lost with that camera. You and I: We’re going to replace them. I’m not sure how much longer I have you, but I’m sure as hell gonna make the best of it.”
She smiles and blinks twice. With her, blinking is as good as blushing. Her eyelashes slowly fight gravity and steady themselves upward. Her breath, against the cold winter night, creates a smokescreen that lets me into her heart.
I learned long ago that time and space are our biggest enemies. But if she’s near me, space is defeated. Time, though, fights a hard fight. But damn, those eyelashes. They sure do slow down ol’ man time. What a memory that one is.
The Love Outside
October 19, 2006
Her theories on love reminded me a little of toy cars—to be specific, the radio controlled ones that I so loved when I was a kid. They’re small, accurate models of the real thing. They can be controlled without strings and from afar. They bring you happiness until the day you decide to grow up.
(Moving on is what we do, of sunshine radios and plastic trees. But all the metaphorical anomalies that our lives come across are all driven by our wishes for something indefinable. There’s a sort of lust that exists in all of us that steers us to decipher this mystery that we have so come to think we need, we want. The challenge is part of the motivation.)
I did sometimes take them apart. I would rewire them, repaint them. I would try to make them unrecognizable, as if it were a new make or model. Maybe then they would have come closer to what I had hoped for, what I had thought I had wanted. But that never worked: Often, the batteries ran out, the antenna popped off or I simply came to conclude they weren’t good enough.
The stages come and go, and we hope and emulate our everyday lives to the fiction that we perceive on the daily stage. Film, television and literature all have a hand in the cookie jar that dictates our expectations. But however sullied they may be, however incredible, our fictions continue to grow.
Theories are collapsable structures that existed between us. Our perception of time and how it wrapped around love was indicative of an end. In all this, there are two lessons embedded: First, time destroys everything. Second, the nature of a pre-emptive strike is for those who cannot face truth. The combination of these leads one into bleak chamber tactics, a place where the day is a little darker and the nights a little colder. The sound, a little quieter.
I’m not sure if they still make those radio controlled cars, but I think I’d like one again.
I really would.
Expired by Sunlight
September 18, 2006
The center of gravity falls like this: You walk into your room, smell the scent of her perfume and notice that she’s left a small note besides your unlaundered pillows. Come meet me at St. Mark’s Place. You follow her orders by taking the next cab down—the fact that it’s only five blocks means nothing. Time is a resource that cannot be replenished.
The air is smoggy from the smokers outside the Continental. Second-hand DJ music blares as a Rastafarian on a bike sets off to rid the world of bad people. He’s become delusive, and his life is destructive to the human condition. But he lives to see yet another day.
You look around, but there is no sight of her. Has she slipped away? Where was my two weeks notice? It immediately strikes you that you should yell out her name. And you do so, in the busiest hour of the day, in the busiest street in East Village. People turn around and look at you. Some smile thinking you’re an obscene romantic. Others are annoyed and want to physically harm you. The bottom line remains: You cannot find her.
Two weeks pass, and the fervor in your heart still beats fast. I don’t like goodbyes in bed. Beds aren’t meant for goodbyes. All you wanted were two simple weeks: The first to ease in the acceptance that this isn’t going to last, to make yourself believe that everything was for the best, to learn to detach yourself from her. The second to reconciliate.
But the center of gravity fell that beautiful morning while you lay in bed. The mountains in the Pacific collapsed and volcanoes spewed forth an unending stream of solitude. Like sleep, she had come and gone. Like a dream, she had vanished as you opened your eyes.
Originally published on March 16, 2004 in the 16th Edition of Dequinix.com: Cautious Optimism.
Memories of Bittersweet Loyalty
September 04, 2006
Some of the most memorable and heartbreaking moments in my life are attached to those teams that I follow, blindly but surely, through thick and thin. I looked back in the past 16 years of my life, and came up with those five on each end of the spectrum: And as expected from a Houston-based sports fan, my heartbreaking list was about three times longer than my greatest, most memorable list. My basic criteria for those chosen was that the moment had to define the season, and could carry a level of vengeance from previous years, thus being partially influenced by past rivalries.
MOST MEMORABLE
1) Texas Longhorns over USC Trojans in 2006 Rose Bowl > Vince Young put on one of the single most impressive shows I've ever seen, capped off with that ridiculous 4th down run to win the game. I love the fact we knocked out USC. I went as far as to support USC vs. Notre Dame in the hopes that we would be the one, and we were.
2) Houston Rockets 94-95 Playoffs/Championship (4-0 against the Orlando Magic) > What made this sweeter than the 93-94 Championship was that we were the #6 seed, nobody thought we could do it, and we went on to beat the four teams with the best records in the NBA, including the comeback against the Suns and Hakeem posterizing David Robinson the night he got the MVP award.
3) Houston Astros winning the 2005 NL Championship by defeating the St. Louis Cardinals > I really didn't care that we got swept by the White Sox, what mattered is that we finally made it into the Series after all these years. But I have to say, Pujols' homer in Game 5 scared the shit out of me, and undoubtedly is on my heartbreak list somewhere.
4) Houston Rockets 93-94 Playoffs/Championship (4-3 against the New York Knicks) > The finals were absolutely amazing, including coming back from 3-2 down and the historic O.J. chase.
5) Tennessee Titans over Bills in 1999 Wild Card ("Music City Miracle") > There was no sweeter revenge for heartbreak #3 than this; if anything, this made me feel like that was going to be our year. Unfortunately, then heartbreak #1 happened.
MOST HEARTBREAKING
1) Tennessee Titans losing to St. Louis Rams in Superbowl XXXIV ("The Tackle") > What more is there to say? We came so close. So close.
2) Houston Rockets losing to Seattle Supersonics in 92-93 Conference Semifinals > The first game I ever went to was the Game 6; every team in that series won at home with a blowout except Game 7, which ended up going to double overtime. We had a chance to win it, but Kenny Smith couldn't cash in. What really pissed me off is that we should have had home field, but we didn't because the Spurs beat us in the last game of the season when the referree fucked up and gave Robinson points after the buzzer that took the game to OT (where the Spurs won).
3) Houston Oilers losing to Buffalo Bills in 1993 Wild Card ("The Comeback") > Thanks to the Yankees' for falling asleep against the BoSox, otherwise we'd still be laughingstock numero uno.
4) Texas Longhorns losing to Colorado Buffaloes in 2001 Big 12 Championship > Colorado had pulled off a huge upset the week before by knocking out #2 Nebraska, meaning all we had to do was to win this game to make it to the Championship (we had beaten Colorado 41-7 three months before). But as our fate would have it, we lost to the Buffaloes, who ended up getting mauled by the Oregon Ducks in their bowl game.
5) Houston Astros losing the 2004 NL Championship to the St. Louis Cardinals > For the first time in my life as an Astros fan, I tasted the World Series. We had it in Game 6. Then it slipped away.
Quarter/GO
August 28, 2006
Things never happen until they really happen. And that’s a little unfortunate because the art of the pre-emptive strike has now truly come into the mainstream. Competition for life, love, money and everything in between has propelled our sixth sense of anticipation into a new tier of ridiculousness. One has to wonder if half the battle is just to prove to ourselves that we can anticipate, that we’re smarter and better than the rest. But in the end, are we getting ahead of ourselves? Is the joke on us?
The greatest certainty is uncertainty.
And so, the crisis begins: What we have here is a moment to re-evaluate and re-discover. Time will watch over us as we circumvent our own ruinous mazes, those we made when we thought we were bigger and better than the rest. For now, it's up to us to ignore the battle, for the war is against us becoming the tail end of the punchline.
Where the Sunshine Ends
August 01, 2006
Not since my discovery of Haruki Murakami in the summer of 2001 have I been so excited about an author: In Platform, Michel Houellebecq cohesively examines and articulates upon fragments of Western sexuality that have often escaped my grip of understanding. In short, I find myself fascinated with the topic of why some of us in the West need to find newer, more “interesting” ways of satisfying our sexual nature.
Houellebecq (pronounced “well-beck”) takes few short-cuts in his storytelling, often digressing into the histories of his subjects and topping it off with graphic descriptions of sexual encounters. But while many authors will court these techniques as gimmicks, here they feel at home, integral to the understanding and feel of the final thought.
In Platform specifically, the analysis of why Western men find themselves in places like Thai brothels or Parisian S&M clubs is one of much discussion. Could it be that the modern, media-saturated society has desensitized us into not getting any enjoyment out of the most common of physical expressions? For those who enjoy delving into masochism, does it signify a sort of regression into our primitive nature? If so, is that just a harbinger of further regressions in our daily lives?
These are ideas that continue to fascinate, and while the novel itself has a few other ideas on the side (of which the most controversial is the seeming denouncement of Islamic extremism), this underlying discussion of the nature of Western sexuality keeps afloat interest from beginning to end.