Gokcen Ergene

Croatia, after decades of communism is probably the one republic of former Yugoslavia that is adjusting to capitalism slightly better than the others. The whole country is pretty much all renovated after the “last” “Balkan” war. I love coming here and everytime, I understand communism more and more. Even it’s gone, even if it’s not here. But its definition stays and understanding it seems easier at a country that left it behind rather than a country living in it.

Here’s how, allow me:

Tonight I went to eat delicious fish on the Adriatic coast. The Croats have amazing culinary skills when it comes to fish as the country’s coast is made up of 1,000, yes, one thousand small and big islands and islets. As I was savouring my fried red mullets (I had more than one), a spanish couple sat at the table next to me. The waiter came by and asked them what they’d like to drink. The couple ordered 2 cokes, diet. Simple choice.

A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with their cokes and 2 glasses; only one of the glasses had ice in it. Somehow the gentleman got the glass with the ice, about 4 cubes of it. The lady politely asked she’d like ice as well. This is where the waiter got extremely confused. Let me note that the waiter did not offer the ice to the gentleman because he is sexist, he is not. It just happened that way; there is no explanation as to why only one of the glasses had ice in it. Just luck. The waiter’s confusion intensified when the gentleman pointed to the ice in his glass and said “more”. He just didn’t get it; it didn’t get through. At this point, the lady pointed to her glass and then pointed to the ice in her husband’s glass. No. Nothing. The lady said, for the 3rd time, she’d like some ice as well. Nope. Nada. No communicacion!

The confused waiter finally understood; he took the gentleman’s glass and emptied the ice into the lady’s glass. They all laughed. Regardless, the problem wasn’t solved. Now, the gentleman had no ice. To resolve the problem, the waiter took the lady’s glass and tried to distribute the ice amongst them. One ice cube fell into the gentleman’s glass. Now, he had one ice cube and the lady had three. Still not working out. Once more they laughed. Finally seeing that his actions weren’t satisfying the Spanish couple, the waiter, using a fork and a knife, took one more ice cube out of the lady’s glass and put it into the husband’s. Finally! Both had 2 cubes of ice though most of it had melted in the heat of the Mediterranean night. Not once did the waiter thought to go get more ice.

This is communism at its best: You start with a bunch of ice. While trying to distribute and share the ice, most of it melts away and at the end no one has any ice. In the time it takes to distribute the ice, one could’ve had a delicious cold coke watching the waves of the Adriatic wash Croatia’s now capitalist shores.

La Concha is big. It’s a big big hotel. I am one of the 4 guests staying at La Concha in San Juan, Puerto Rico. With all the hurricane warnings and the incredible rain, only a few of us call this a vacation. Well, I am not here for a vacation. I am not here for any specific reason, to be honest. I am here because it’s 2008, I am 31, the world is still turning, time doesn’t end when you don’t believe it, I love coffee, I am reading a book on qualities, Bushmills is great whiskey, I do not wear checkered shirts, my father was a dentist and a clarinet player, I am going to make a feature film next summer, I wear size 42 shoes, people say I have nice hands.

None of these are reasons to be in San Juan, I know. But maybe there is a gap somewhere between those facts that requires me to be in Puerto Rico today and I am here because I trust that space between actualities, the space that makes room for the black hole between one’s justifications; the slot, the vent, the crack, perforation. Leonard Cohen said there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So just because I or you can’t pinpoint it, it doesn’t mean the reason doesn’t exist. For the confused reader, let’s note that I am not talking about fate. Fate is a manmade concept. I try not to believe in manmade notions.

As a result of the space between, well let’s say, my father being a clarinet player and Bushmills is great whiskey, I am in San Juan. What? How? This is why: One lives a narrative no matter what. The narrative has two authors; one’s self and the world. The world is always willing, it’s the good writer, so disciplined, working 24/7, helping build your narrative relentlessly, it makes nature, it makes people, it makes places, it makes food, it makes love, it makes hate, it makes cars. It makes the props. You are the lazy collaborator. You only work on your narrative when you want to, you don’t fill in your part as much as you should. You owe the world.

So I came to San Juan because it’s my responsibility, because I owe the world and I have to pay my debt before I get out of here and my co-written fragmented narrative comes to an end. As a result, I am in San Juan on business. My responsibility to my narrative and the world at large is much bigger and inflexible than the rationale for vacation. I am not here to rest and swim in the pool, well, it’s also raining like crazy. My business trip so far has been good, I feel that I am paying back what I owe to the script of my life each time the bartender wonders what the hell I am doing here for the other 3 people staying at the hotel at least seem to take pictures. Now, I am going to get up from this chair, walk over to the bartender and explain my reasons, why the business of the world is important and why I had to come to San Juan to pay a debt and how it’s vital one honors his contracts with the world; the debt to the Act 2 of my life so the paragraph can now read:

“His father was a clarinet player. He went to San Juan in 2008. Bushmills is great whiskey.”

One sentence at a time.

At 10, chocolate and a bike
At 20, sex
At 30, sex and money
At 40, money and sex
At 50, money and validation
At 60, love
At 70, grandchildren
At 80, nothing.

I apologize for another quote post but I am completely engulfed by Robert Musil these days. Please, help yourself:

“No one who speaks of the greatest and most important thing in the world means anything that really exists. What peculiar quality of the world would it be equivalent to? It all amounts to one thing being greater or more important, or more beautiful and sadder, than another; in other words, the existence of a hierarchy of values and the comparative mode, which surely implies an end point and a superlative? But if you point this out to someone who happens at that very moment to be speaking of the greatest and most important thing in the world, that person will suspect that she is dealing with an individual devoid of feelings and ideals.” - R. Musil

It feels great to see it put to words so well after being in this situation most of my life, thank you Robert. You with me?

Tonight, I’d like to pass along a few quotes from Robert Musil’s essay-novel The Man Without Qualities. I recommend it highly to those who have in one way or another entered a skeptical plateau of life at any point. Also, it’s an incredible resource for those who want to understand Europe and Europeans; for indulging in the social and ideological history of early 20th century Europe is necessary to even begin to grasp its reality today. (Yes, it’s 3 fat volumes, good luck!)

“The man going quietly about his business all day long expends far more muscular energy than an athlete who lifts a huge weight once a day. This has been proved physiologically, and so the social sum total of everybody’s little everyday efforts, especially when added together, doubtless releases far more energy into the world than do rare heroic feats. This total even makes the single heroic feat look positively minuscule, like a grain of sand on a mountaintop with a megalomaniacal sense of its own importance.”

“Happiness depends very little on what we want, but only on achieving whatever it is.”

“Modern man is born in a hospital and dies in a hospital, so he should make his home like a clinic.”

“The difference between a healthy person and one who is mentally ill is the fact that the healthy one has all the mental illnesses, and the mentally ill person has only one.”

“The man with an ordinary sense of reality is like a fish that nibbles at the hook but is unaware of the line, while the man with that sense of reality which can also be called a sense of possibility trawls a line through the water and has no idea whether there’s any bait on it.”

Good night + morning.

I never thought travel essays made any sense as they are written by the person traveling almost for the same person. I did this, I did that and then the girl in the traditional outfit brought me a rose with my tea, etc, etc. I only have a few notes about Amsterdam, the rest remains for you to find out. And since I have already left and am in Zagreb now, I will still write it in the present tense, that should make it more genuine.

I am staying at a former jail. My room feels like I should be guilty and I feel guilty. In fact, I am guilty. Thank you for this opportunity to confess, retreat and rehabilitate. Shared institutional bathrooms remind me of my boarding school days and that’s good. I liked boarding school. I liked it a lot. I spent 7 years there. Most of western Europe has merged into the same notion of the western European cosmopolis and no that’s not because of the EU. It has become hard to distinguish between Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona and so on; not in the way they or their people are or look, just in the daily routine of things; the coffee, the trains, the so-called global intellectualism which bores me to death. I miss when you could sit at a cafe in Barcelona and not feel like you are sitting at a cafe in Paris and vice versa. I guess this sort of strict difference is brought upon by war. War always brings us back to what we believe we rightfully own or have invented. If there was a war between the Dutch and the French, the French cafe cup might very well disappear from the Amsterdam cafes and get replaced by the Dutch goblet in a matter of days?

Two more little notes and I will leave you alone:

a) The main difference between America and the rest of the world is renting vs. owning one’s life. In Europe and the Middle East, for instance, one rents his life from the history and the tradition that owns it. In America, one buys, makes and owns one’s life. More on this later..

b) I have discovered why prostitution is legal and over-marketed in the Netherlands; the local girls do not wear skirts. They really don’t. Don’t ask me why.

Bye.

They arrange to meet. It won’t do any harm. It will be beautiful. His hair parted, her heart skips every other beat; there is future, it’s around the corner and it doesn’t matter what they do, there will be time to patch and rearrange even if it’s a bomb, an apparition, fraud, a fool’s paradise. Time will come on its own accord and lay the emergency aids on their table. That’s none of their concern.

She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it’s there, it’s in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.

A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn’t let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it’s ok because he loves her, he won’t leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?

Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.

Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.

Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it’s the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.

The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn’t come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn’t say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You’ve learned to forget, that’s good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That’s good. This kind of debt doesn’t get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.

A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.

On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.

He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.

He keeps everything she ever gave him in a box. Mostly obselete loose ends and meaningless word couplings, I and you this, I and you that, we then, we would. When the car did this, when your mother cooked that, building up, waiting for a sunny Sunday to be returned; in place and as it should be. The weather gets warmer, blossoms reappear, the days are a bit longer. He still waits for something to fall from the sky, hit him on the head so he never has to return the box wishing it would disappear on its own accord; quietly and without unnecessary debate. Go box, go.

The box doesn’t go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn’t get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can’t comprehend, it forms more words; I can’t this, you can’t that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let’s fuck.

We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can’t. Bathroom, fridge, let’s make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can’t hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.

The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.

On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don’t be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.

9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?

Now, whatever you do, do not let Thanksgiving get to you. The following are simple cautious measures I would like to pass on to all my dear friends this Thanksgiving:

First, if you have a dog; try to keep him outside without a leash as much as you can, he will be thankful for this and your relationship with him will greatly improve. At least, let him run around on the roof.

Do not worry about having Thanksgiving dinner if the day means nothing to you; it’s just another meal but also do not have Thanksgiving dinner if you have not harvested anything this year (this harvesting can be in the form of artistic work or a good return on your good behavior with a certain person). Realize that all these days have really lost all their meaning and you’re doing this because everyone else is. If you dig deeper, you might even find that you detest this kind of behavior and celebration. If that is the case, do NOT dig deeper.

Ignore all religious talk that might slip through the course of the meal. Do not fight against it. You are outnumbered. “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist.” You are not the devil and he really doesn’t exist. Realize that you are sitting around and pseudo-thanking pseudo-something while your army is killing people in another country. Keep eating regardless. You’ll have to eat something so this might just as well be it.

If you are a vegetarian, whatever you do, do NOT eat Tofurky! There’s nothing worse than pretending within pretending. Call your family; but only if you call them on a regular basis anyway. If this is the 3rd time this year you’re going to call your mom, hang up the phone immediately and take a shot of vodka instead. Do not worry too much about what you did last Thanksgiving but feel free to compare it to what you did on Halloween. If this starts making you uncomfortable about your personality; drop the thought immediately and take another shot of vodka.

Do not buy organic turkey. Eating organic food is not going to make you live longer; drinking non-organic whiskey with friends and laughing will. Realize that the people you truly love in this world are the ones you can’t work things out with but cannot let go either. If you are single, do not look at happy-looking couples and start thinking if you should pursue a “proper” relationship one of these days. The truth may be they are getting fat, watching TV and petting cats, that is the extent of their happiness. They will never admit it is because of security and habit. Your disfunctional relationship with that special someone with constant relapses and sudden turns and returns is probably much more realistic and will last much longer than theirs. If you are not single, never ever give up your whole self to the other person. Respect yourself but do not think you know anything better than anyone else.

Be proud of your lust, breasts or penis. Do not sleep with every person you find attractive. Only sleep with people you can have brunch with as well. Try to avoid hipsters. After the dinner, do not go to a party in Williamsburg and pretend Andy Warhol is there. He is not. Instead, go to a bar with real people and have a good time with them.
Do not eat too much bread. Smoke less but don’t quit. If you do drugs, start doing them once in a blue moon instead of every weekend. Stop biting your nails. Do not drink decaf coffee. Think about the last person you slept with; if it was good, admit that it wasn’t only sex. If it was bad, do not do it again. If you can’t remember; call them and see if they’d like to try it sober.

Do not try to change people. It won’t happen. Instead, wait for them to change themselves. Appreciate the kindness you receive. Do not put up with stupidity. Whatever you do, do not take anyone for granted. The most beautiful of friends and lovers will walk away the moment they realize you did.

In the end, every spoon will find its dish. Do not lie to yourself. Also realize that the lies you tell others most likely burn out before they reach the shore. People have an amazing ability to let you lie and pretend they believe you. In this case, you would only be racing yourself. Do not EVER race yourself.

Do not play games of Catch. Every horse gets tired at one point and gives up. Do not let people run after you for too long. The more they run, the more they are looking around to see what else is there. Try to get used to hot sauce and whiskey. The sexiest men eat a lot of hot sauce and the sexiest women drink whiskey.

Your siblings are probably the best friends you’ll ever have. Give them money. If you can’t give them money, let them get away with something. Hang out with your grandfather. Buy nice shoes. Do not believe in God. Do not put up with people that believe in God. The biggest sinner of them all is the one who talks about sin. Watch Charlie Chaplin.

Stop trying to look for the truth. The word itself is bogus. Do not wear too much make up. Eat fish. If you don’t already know how to swim, jump into the ocean next chance you get. Know that everything you perceive has been created by you and you have been created by everything that perceives you. Everything happens in this life and stays in this life. It’s like Vegas here. Do not postpone anything. Do not let half-ass things linger too long, either. Admit to love, hate, distrust, care, fetishes, tenderness, loss, gain, hope, weakness, strength. Denial is the enemy of all.

Do not ever ask for pity. The rest comes by itself. Now, put on MEAT IS MURDER on the stereo and dig into that turkey!

Thanksgiving 2007

black sheets. claire. a boat my grandfather burned. the mercedes-benz i’ve fallen in love with. your last goodbye. awful vile pathetic conversations that loop. my last goodbye. overgrown high-school love affair. cigarettes. she talks about herself until even her self doesn’t listen anymore. red. one black tie. glad to have lived this far. robert walser. sharon. bunkbeds. are you married? amazing friend nobody else likes. katie. kati. kat. cigarettes. a grave in the middle of nothing. an indian wind. inheritance. nick cave. this film. pregnancy scares. a telephone call never made. a telephone call should’ve never made. whiskey. too much whiskey. coffee. a bone that hurts on rainy days. rain. do not like rain. great man around town. a boat in greece. a lie about a boat in greece. carlee. my apricot tree. a room full of watermelons. nietzsche. the summer that lasted too long. trying to figure out how it started, what started. a spark. confetti. her virginity. honking car at 3am. phoebe. 10 days in prague. laura. lost boy in tangier. a girl who held my hand and jumped on stage. a face i couldn’t remember. when i jumped on stage and broke my leg. locked myself in my car. deer close to headlights. she cried. tace. father’s cancer. nice shoes. elisa. repeating french vocabulary while crying. a turkish girl with an amazing ass. fucking. hotel room in morocco. a door that creaks. stoned english couple on boat to italy. moustache. emily. a house torn down. year-long fights about money. kill uncle. shalalae. not too much ice. liz. the other liz. the rabbit that died. winking at each other in 4th grade. great roommate. great friend. nicole. cactus and harbors. mad man at the piraeus harbor. $27 stolen. $50 found. another nicole. german. heather. i really can’t remember her name. a hole in my face. lucinda’s death. hospital smell. an alarm clock wrong. the morning i woke up to find my father dead. kids at play watching us secretly as we made out on the rocks. magdalena. a 28-year old crying for a 15-year old through a bus window. maya. never got beaten up. lebanese woman with endless pseudo-romantic requests. i broke someone’s finger. 3 people whose names I cannot mention. the girl who stripped for me in porn heels. trying to avoid a never-ending loop of yes and no. the most beautiful girl who wrote to me. indian friend so dear to my heart (never thought i could be such good friends with a woman.) she said “we have to talk, you’re killing me!” constant guilt games. retarded macho-gay hipsters. games of pity. pathetic games. jessica’s breasts are 34c. my guitar i haven’t touched in a year. fish. more fish. fish all around. bullet. half a person. the other jessica. 29th birthday. useless phone conversations at 5am. sitting in front of the fridge naked. impossible alcohol withdrawal. merrill. people that force you to apologize. bob dylan. you liked it. the girl who looked at my penis in the basement using matches for light when we were 14. the man who shot my dog. small breasts and penniless depressed lady in the middle of istanbul whose cab i had to pay for because she kissed me. my new work. dreamless. fucking your girlfriend’s best friend and wondering what kind of best friend she is. crissy. the night i made it home alive. daphne. weird self-assesments. freddie mercury’s death. beets mistaken for blood. the vast archive of next moments you are guaranteed to come on top. chocolate. luisa. kurt cobain’s death. claire’s earring in my beard. cobra. tiger. the girl i am ashamed to have slept with. honesty. disgusting human being accusing me of nothings. my two beautiful secrets. rumi. forgetting how. harmful distrust. understanding too much too soon. hurtful relapse. sex in the garden with wet leaves. rebecca. how she wouldn’t believe me. my father’s clarinet. lost tooth. nice hands. dressing up for me. the letter i wrote to a lover covering the basics of existence and the meaning of worthlessness. emma. you are man and you age better. there’s more. a deal made without details. i’ve really only fallen in love twice. learning to have enough. leila (how beautiful you are). people’s names you can’t mention so you don’t break the magic. green tea morning with your winning smile. masking tape on her nipples. that blonde’s long legs and small breasts. binary code. the tattoos on her ass. bruno s. million-dollar blowjob. absinth. a kiss that came 3 years late. feeling right to have learned to put an end to things. nice fat zeros. sticking her ass out of the cab window. two paintings buried deep in my closet. rude person asking for pity. m. rude person always wanting to be the victim. red heels. bruno schulz. all this will soon be over. selfish slut. thinking why you while the others thought why them. the bruise on her breast. william s. burroughs. spend at least 20 minutes everyday completely naked. one early evening on that couch twelve years ago. standing still with my eyes closed and trying to fall flat on my face. lhasa. sitting by the big rock in spain and telling each other it was over. 6 fucking years of never ending. another 6 years with another never ending. monica. all that i am forgetting. the joy in forgetting. racing eventhough when you know you are only racing yourself. my hand up her skirt as the boys watched through the bar window and she smiled at them. sex in the corn field. stuck in the middle of the pond. sharon’s naked picture. another’s virginity. werner herzog. she only seems smart because she doesn’t speak much. remembering a particular room of sleep. the one-night stand that turned into 6 months of torture until she had to be carried out. best brother. tom waits. my mother. everyone’s mother. the bliss of finding out that you’ve learned to change your ways. red book, black rose. federico fellini. constant acknowledgement of relapses in everyone else’s lives. good posture. a threesome that stopped at the right time. klaus kinski. the turkish army. the year-long lie. walking out on time. knowing how to turn tables for ones you used to care for. the slap in the face that I certainly deserved. jorge luis borges. slow games of chess. always missed when gone. you’ve read this far. that sunny sunday you decided not to put up any longer with people who are reckless with your heart. i can’t remember the name of my first girlfriend and feel awful about it even if it lasted just 3 weeks. the monday you learned not to be reckless with other people’s hearts. incapability to keep your mouth shut. disregard. cybil. truly beautiful gestures that keep us alive. always wondering how she can even keep it together enough to buy cigarettes. debts. bargains. expired conversations. one day goodbye will be farewell. she used to carry me on her back. mirrorless. the night i couldn’t make it home. the story is old, i know, but it goes on. lucinda. where were you?

(to be continued and extended till death do us part)

We’ve come a long way. Within hours, minutes, split seconds. I am talking about trust. There’s no way of telling what it even is. If it exists, I’ll be the first to admit it’s necessary. I denied its existence for a long time. I am about to give that up. There’s a big misconception out there between what is existentialism and what has commonly been referred to as nihilism. Neither definitions are necessary. We would only complicate this tangle further if we rely or base our day-to-day opinions and feelings on either. Let’s just take them out. They are merely reflections; both uneasy; both desperate; both lost in a bottleneck of what is and what isn’t. What you do is what you are. We are constructed by our actions (maybe). And maybe we are constructed by what we enforce on the momentary and “the longer run” by manifestations that feel right more than they are right (or wrong). It may very well be we are not constructed at all. I have a gut feeling none of these are true and they don’t really matter. We must eat, I know that. We must drink that water, you know that. That is something good. And if it feels better to do it together, we’ll do it together. Me specific and you specific. Me at large and you at large. Personal and universal. The rule is true for both.

Some things happen. There is no denying it. The world and its apparitions happen, to us, and somewhat on a daily basis. In sleep as well as awake. We deny a portion of them, admit another, open doors, close them, let a certain light in, leave out another. I am well aware I am speaking generally and metaphorically. It doesn’t matter. I am not at all speaking generally or metaphorically. The last three sentences before this one travel together. Once again, that is ok.

Man writes because man thinks when written down, these things are validated at a slightly higher level than their feeling counterpart. Unfortunately, this is not true or let’s just say I don’t think it is. Let’s do more. Let’s not give up writing them down or thinking either.

Contemplation and orderless cataloging is our nature. Absolutely. But we mostly rely on it when we can’t rely on its birth mother: Life itself.

When we do and live more rather than talk about it, this might not be such a bad place to be if talking about there is less than actually being there and I hope that it is.

I could end this with a million metaphors. They are all as good as the next one. They are true too, but the meta is useless without the phor and vice versa. It’s everyone’s responsibility to fill BOTH parts. Personal and universal. On their own and together.

Death will win every battle but it is wrong to think of death as enemy. I am not writing this to contemplate about that, neither am I writing this so you contemplate it. I am writing this to you, to you who is alive. You specific and you at large.

I usually do not write this directly without metaphors but this one just begs for it:

I can not mention her name out of respect so we’re going to go with “she” or “woman”. (I hope you are not reading this. I just had to do it, sorry.) She was hesitant to believe and stay or to forget and walk away. She stood there. I stood there. At guard but also willing to drop it at any moment, waiting for the right (or wrong) word to be spoken. We both knew that one of us might not be there tomorrow to speak even right or wrong. We were old enough. The conversation took place as follows (or as close to it as possible):

Man (I) : I like your hesitance.
Woman (She): I am 34.
Man: I will hold your hand and please react as naturally as possible.
Woman: As in?
Man: No pretense.
Woman: No premise.

I thought she had said “promise” but she had actually said “premise”. Man holds Woman’s hand.

Woman: That’s too tight but it’s ok.
Man: Should we stop talking about it?
Woman: No, we’re old enough.
Man: But words will ruin it, no?
Woman: No, that’s your own past. Don’t curse this by what has happened before. We will talk.
Man: We just met.
Woman: We will talk before we “have” to talk.
Man: Thank you. That’s like this thing called petitio principii.
Woman: I know. We’re avoiding it.
Man: You know what petitio principii means?!
Woman: I said I was 34 and I read books.
Man: I love that word. I mean, yes, the word is cute but the meaning.
Woman: It’s beautiful.
Man: You know there are two types of it. Both as puzzling.
Woman: Yes.
Man: Are you fucking with me?
Woman: The conclusion comes before the premise OR the premise is the consequence of the conclusion.
Man: Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?
Woman: I said no premise. (smiles)
Man: I thought you had said “no promise”
Woman: I said premise.
Man: It took me years to even come close to understand petitio principii.
Woman: It’s the closest thing to the word “love”. It might even be a better word for that feeling.
Man: Literally, it means “looking for a beginning” but it supposes there’s already an end in place and it’s like..uh.. swimming backwards.
Woman: No, no. It means “looking for a premise”. That’s different from a beginning. Principii means premise in Latin.
Man: Then it doesn’t suppose there’s an end.
Woman: No, but it supposes a conclusion which has already been accepted by both parties.
Man: Are you talking about love or logic?
Woman: It’s the same thing. It’s like saying magic and work are different. They are not.
Man: It is so strange to me that we’re talking about petitio principii. I think about it all the time. I write about it. I am trying to understand it. I am always trying to explain it to someone and I inevitably fail. I’ve never met anyone who knows the word even.
Woman: Me, too. Me, neither (laughs) It is so hard to explain because when you are trying to explain it, you are once again in petitio principii.
Man: Fuck.
Woman: How did you come upon it?
Man: An exgirlfriend told me. Claire.
Woman: Did she know what it meant exactly?
Man: No, she just liked the way it sounded.
Woman: Petitio principii.
Man: Stop it! Aristotle’s version is written on the wall at my apartment.
Woman: Some people say it means “begging the question”
Man: That’s an easy way out.
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn’t be here talking about it. We’d either be fucking or I would’ve been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant “false dilemna” and then after that it said “perfect solution”

Both laugh.

–to be continued (I need to sleep a bit)-

In this world, I am, foremost, human. Don’t confuse me with other species, that is; I have legs, arms, a face with a mouth, blue eyes, black hair, and other mishaped parts but I am (a) man, that is; I have a honorable-sized and fully functioning penis.

In this world, I have a sense, a sense of things, my own sense, infinitely circling its own; intermittently breaking its orbit, swimming out to other’s dreams and occasionally, haphazardly locking in, conversing, talking, calling and shifting with them. Sometimes, in this world, we don’t dream alone. Stars and clouds do match up on given nights and in reflected daylight.

In this world, pretty girls fart too and some ashtrays overflow.