". . .but you can't run away from yourself."

I run. . .

I run to

burn the beer belly

and blubber

from my bulbous

behind

I run to

conquer the chilling complacency

and cynicism

within my carping

cerebrum

I run to forget the fickle fancy

and fallacy

of my fading

Faith

I run to

smoother the searing spark

and singularity

of my sacrosanct

soul

I run. . .

because I

have nowhere

else to go

And no one

to share

My solitude

The Prime Directive

Coming back from a prolonged holiday vacation to the Motherland, I have this tendency to reflect. So indulge me yet again, faithful reader, as I skirt on issues ranging from alienation, death, love, and balut . . .

'Tis an odd thing to have been born and partially raised in one country and then transplanted to another. It makes one feel a bit of an outsider on both fronts. With respect to the Motherland, one retains a base understanding of the culture -- i.e. the language, rudimentary social customs, superficial familiarity with geography -- yet somehow still feels anachronistic with the native environment. Meanwhile, one feels assuredly comfortable in the New World with its conveniences, distractions, and opportunities; however, there is also an inner feeling that no matter how hard one tries, they are always seen as the Other by more established New Worlders. In essence, one feels deep nostalgia for the Motherland and a burgeoning future with the New World. However, one does not belong to either . . .

Should death be feared? Obviously when death is unexpected and swift, one cannot even muster any type of emotion, let alone apprehension, of the coming end. It just happens, loved ones are shocked and mourn, and tales shall be told that it was not yet your time. But what if death is expected? What if the Reaper resides in your sanctuary, slowly and painfully draining your life essence away? What if your loved ones, with all good intent, take on the arduous and fruitless task of staving away the inevitable like some Sisyphean challenge? What of this sort of death? I have no answers, dear reader. I bore witness to this and not wish it upon any individual . . .

What are the boundaries of love? Yes, it is safe to proclaim that inter-species love is universally frowned upon! (To quote the immortal Chappelle: "Last night Chim-Chim jerked me off with his feet . . . only a monkey can show you that kind of love and tenderness!") Hypothetically, what if you found a love like no other but can never act on it for it will, quite literally, destroy so much? The sane thing would be to nip it in the bud, but no one ever does the sane thing when it comes to love. The soft dive of oblivion, indeed . . .

And, finally, when eating balut, make sure the requisite 17 days have passed or else . . . 'nuff said.

Ode to Joy or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Apathy

I am a firm disbeliever of happiness.

Dear reader, please do not mistake my statement for outright nihilism. I DO believe in and attest to the truth on certain uncontroverted matters:

i) The earth revolves around the sun;

ii) Laetitia Casta (circa turn of the century) was the pinnacle of feminine hotness;

iii) If an integer n is greater than 2, then a^n + b^n = c^n has no solutions in non-zero integers a, b, and c ('tis true, just use elliptic curves and solve for n=4 and prime numbers, many thanks Sir Wiles);

iv) The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing;

v) Yoko and me (and that's reality).

But, happiness? Nay, it can neither be attained in this world nor the next! Rather, dear reader, I subscribe to a slightly more skewed, yet practical, philosophy on life I term, "MOMENTS OF EPHEMERAL JOY SPARSELY SPREAD AMONGST ONE'S MUNDANE ROTE EXISTENCE and stuff . . ."

Moments of minute episodes of joy. No delusional promise of the city-state of Shangri-La happiness. Let your mind marinate on that for an atomic minute.

Interesting philosophy, you smirk with teeming condescension. But, pray tell, have you any concrete examples of such "moments of ephemeral joy"? Pergunta boa, meu amigo!

The key to this philosophy of joy, not unlike the underpinnings of space and time, is relative: the individual defines his/her moments of joy. For an avid runner like myself, running ten miles to and fro along the beach between Manhattan and Hermosa any given Saturday morning qualifies as a moment of joy. Or receiving a text from Maganda. Or waxing philosophies with Balong. Or drinking and chewing the cud with the Spearhead Commander. Or running (lately, runwalking) with Lard Boy. Or watching Ysabella with Mom. Or talking about the good ol' days with Inay. Or getting an e-mail from Elleigeiram. Or watching the sunrise. Or watching an old episode of ST:TNG (especially anything involving Q, Lor, or the Holodeck). Or seeing childhood pictures. Or singing Karaoke (that is the magic word!). Or watching the last scene of Field of Dreams when Ray Kinsella asks his dad to play catch with him (lump in my throat sprinkled with a warm fuzzy feeling everytime). Or reading My Blog. Or . . .

Dear reader, if there is one undeniably lame public service announcement I may espouse, it is simply this: acknowledge those little moments of joy that enrich your life. The cosmos shall grant you no less and no more. And, at the end of things, pray that your lifetime MOJs (that's "moments of joy" for you damned text happy freaks) total more time than your time spent wiping your asshole. A man can dream, n'est pas?

You Are . . .

You are not your insecurities,
You are not your bank account,
You are not your car,
Your are not your words,
You are not your body,
You are not your mind,
You are not your clothes,
You are not someone's bitch,
You are no one's master,
You are not your flat screen,
You are not your Blue Tooth,
You are not your laptop,
You are not your Black Berry,
You are not your breaking heart,
You are not your tears,
You are not mood music,
You are not your iPod,
You are not God's child,
You are not the Devil's cleft foot,
You are not your happiness . . .

You are the universe. Or, rather that part of the universe with the special temporary ability to be self-aware. For some, the self-awareness spans many decades; for others, the self-awareness is abruptly cut short in the womb. However, we are all blessed with it.

That is what you are: a piece of everlasting stardust with the brief ability to think, to know, to dream, to question.

This is the Word according to the Gospel of Goodguyako.
Amen.