Fringe 3: Insomnia

Had I remained a human rat in a research laboratory, I would have surely developed a keen interest in the relationship between the density of memory (or alternatively the magnitude of 'adulthood') and the propensity for Insomnia. In fact, I do not need Erlenmeyer flasks, ELISA blots, GROMACS simulations or dead mice to come to my pseudo-scientific conclusion: the more you live, the more frequently you encounter that strange disconnect from the (basic?) human need of sleep. It does not matter what the causing agent is, most of them are related to hurt or uncertainty anyway: a lover has dumped you, the fear of losing your claim to social prestige thanks to some absurd occurrence, or why Carotene pastes are not tanning you well enough. On second thought, hurt makes you sleep sometimes, so let's just say uncertainty. It really doesn't matter. What matters is how potent this agent becomes with time. While your body develops immunity to biological viruses, psychological ones only seem to get more devastating with time. They rely on a machiavellic survival technique where they simulate dormancy, giving the body of the victim the illusion that she has become immune and thick-skinned, shielded by the neutrality and indifference of adulthood. In reality, 'indifference of adulthood' is an oxymoron. In fact, the more we mature, the more we perfect our art of being someone else, and the science of denying our vulnerabilities. My alteration of the opening sentence from the French version of 'Der Himmel uber Berlin' that still haunts me would be 'Lorsque l'enfant etait enfant (when the child was a child) he could meet his promised cloud of dreams in 3 minutes'. That child who 'agonized' over his chewing gum which was ruthlessly devoured by the maid, or faced the 'disturbing disappointment' of seeing his TV idol of innocence drunk and happy, or experienced the 'immense trauma' of the paint colour in the Pediatric's clinic, that child did not need more than gentle light and a kiss on the cheek to surrender to peace. His adult version, who barely agonizes over the loss of a massive amount of friends, and who does not get disturbingly disappointed by the sight of his adult idol of innocence doped with religious dogma, and who does not experience any significant trauma from the ugly white walls of corporate offices, that neutral, evolved adult needs less than a minute to surrender to the vengeance of everything he negated...

Recycled Poetry: The Principle of Things (July 03)

Sometimes I remember to forget
and think not to think
I think that when I do not think
the holy whole thinks for me
The world becomes bigger and life rosier
and I, become satisfied
and on the borders of Shanti....

When I block my limiting thoughts
innate and cosmic intelligence radiates in me
and lights the integrity of it all
When I hide in passivity
Things happen and I change things
In silence blossom the lights
In stillness move the wheels
That I shall never forget
That is the way of evolution
and the principle of things

Annex from April 07: I think I have forgotten that. I do not think that the 'holy whole' thinks. I do not think there's anything 'holy'. I do not beleive in cosmic intelligence anymore. I beleive in cosmic illusions. Thus, I am not on the borders of Shanti anymore. Let me find a more pragmatic Port-O-Shanti.

Defining Moments: Spanda

The Ganga was definitely beautiful at that particular point. It had just emerged from the Himalayas, and had not yet had the chance to receive the assaults of humans bordering it and, ironically enough, venerating it. It was still transparant and playing music on stones. I on the other hand was dense with baggage. Small baggage, like the insignificant green cloth bag that had generic travellers objects like sunglasses and a notebook. I also had big baggage accumulated over 23 years of cognitive abilities (starting from my first memory at about the age of 3). That baggage included generic human emotions like disappointments, failed loves and faded dreams. It also included evolutionary baggage like constant alertness to the existence of potential threat to my survival, and yes, to my possessions. It didn't matter that the sunglasses cost 60 dollars anf the notebook less a dollar. They were just posessions, period. Somebody had to come and grab them if I were swallowed and slowed down by those waters. It also didn't matter that the water was clear like a newborn's consciousness (well, the water was a newborn anyway), it still had to have bacteria that would attack my body and affect my genes' chances at replication. The waters didn't care, they looked and smiled in indifference, bathed in bliss and certitude. The German tree-hugger didn't care either 'Tont woghy, chump! I've bean swimmeaning heaghe fogh ze past fifteen yeaghs, it's so Shanti' (translation: Don't worry, jump. I've been swimming here for the past 15 years, it's very Shanti). Her Baba, aka husband, comes, indifferent to how the years have sculpted his happy happy body, or how they have greyed his happy long hair. He also seemeed indifferent to baggage. 'Don't think, JUMP'. I jumped. It was 'Enchanting'. Is it a coincidence that the word 'Enchanting' has the sound 'Shanti' in it? 'Shanti', the Sanskrit word for 'Peace', is much more significant than its western equivalents. Shanti is peace with heart notes of emancipation and base notes of ultimate happiness. Shanti is repeated three times after Om in the ultimate prayer. Whatever it meant, that plunge in the Ganga was en-Shanti-ng. Rishikesh my love, all that paradisiac beauty that surrounded me brought me to one of the things I've always seeked: my ultimate union with what surrounds me. It was a very rare moment. After the plunge, I talked to the German tree hugger and her Baba on the beautiful stones she collects: zee hawf beautivul zese ztone calughs aghe? (translation: see how beautiful these stone colors are?). We also gave Reiki healing to a helpless sick man who was refused out of hospital because he was poor (in one of the pillar cities of spirituality!). It was also Shanti. It was the first time I offered my imaginary powers to someone, not knowing whether I'm healing them or healing myself.

I went back to the hotel room, the one where the mattress had bed bugs that formed neat lines of blood on my flesh. That chapter from 'Radical Healing' on detox was boring. In an unusual act I skipped it and moved to the next one. Chapter 8: Eneregy and Movement started with something like 'the main problem of the contemporary man is that he has lost his connection to Spanda, the inner flame of spontaneity. This is why modern man is so depressed'. That was the meaning. I'm not sure if those were the exact words. I still remember Spanda, modern man, spontaneity and depression, and retain that there is an intimate connection between them. I wish I hadn't given this book away to a fellow traveller who was just looking for any book to read. With my very non-spontaneous present, I think this is the right time to read 'Radical Healing', or jump in the clear Ganga, or contemplate the simplicity of tree huggers and the beauty of Rishikesh again.

Recycled Poetry: Amnesia (Sep 06)

The weight of the fleeting dreams pushed me
To the fleeting realm of a virtual amnesia
I deal with the past as if it does not exist
I watch the time elapsed all neutral
And I know, my jubilee
That it won’t get back to me

Green or panoramic, silent or dynamic
I’m not sure how this densely populated terrain of matter
Turned into the hazing dryland that surrounds me and materializes everything
That passed, and became a tram note
Or a phone number
Or a buried scar
Or a boarding pass
Or a thin magazine
But almost never
A member of the undisputable certainty of true matter

I think life is interesting
Like the headlines on the first page of newspaper
Puzzling,
Like the crosswords on the page before the last
I think it’s also entertaining sometimes
Like the news on the last page
In all cases it is very much read
And thrown away on a table
Much like a newspaper
Before you move on to matters that matter more
One difference though
You are the news
And it is you..

Fringe 2: Postscript to Memory

...I am not even bored or lonely. Like a lotus flower springing from a pool of dirt, I have risen above those strange sentiments that often accompany the human species. Supposedly, boredom and loneliness are linked to certain environments, or circumstances. Practically though, these sentiments, along with their more positive counterparts (like joy, fulfillement, and other nonsense) seem like intermediates in the process of constructing the 'adult' person: the perfectly neutral, indifferent, non-reactive evolved creature. Thus, I am an evolved creature who doesn't have anything to do (in the meaningful sense), and has no one around (again, in the meaningful sense), yet is neither bored nor lonely. My 'adult' moments of happiness seem to spring more from the victory of fetching Aramani Jeans on a limited, single day discount from Harvey Nichols, rather than from meeting someone, another 'evolved' human being, who has the potential to enter the repertoire of that fleeting 'present tense'.

Fringe 1: Consumable Memory

Accumulation of memory saves the day when things become a bit too bland. Luckily the past exists, and so does the capacity to daydream, and to be able to freely transform memories into a more consumable present moment.One serious blow to the value of memory is that it can be replaced with Polo mints, a walk down a corridor with rain pouring (not necessarily, a walk would suffice), or futile searches in insignificant magazines stacked on a desk begging for sympathy and thus advertising space. I sometimes do justice to the value of memory by replacing it with significant magazines: Forbes Arabia, Arabian Business, any combination of money and Arabia will do. In reality, Mondanite or black coffee are as entertaining, and as effective as their more 'mission vision' distraction tool counterparts in replacing the memory regurgitation game.