Friday, December 27, 2013
A Japanese proverb Umeboshi to tomodachi wa, furui ho ga ii, suggests a splendid analogy. Umeboshi are plums, and like friends and friendship better when old, meaning when aged well. This proverb has raised some charitable and other not so benign thoughts.
Over time, earlier in frustration, later with chagrin, and more recently in relative calmness I have attempted to understand why is it that those who shared time together in apparent friendship lacked resonance in essence of their friendship. It’s as though one is immune to good influences. Were no congeries of understanding developed over the course of sharing a bond? It seems nothing was ever learned! Was it perhaps that there was no friendship really or that only one side presumed it to be so, or was there merely a crass comprehension of the attributes of their friendship?
Apparently, these are charades revealing an alacrity to exist merely for oneself while corroding ones friend. Nothing dumb here or anything new; and ostensibly, the gains are dutifully one sided. How such venality sullies the brine of friendship, Obviously one wishes the best, and is inadvertently aware of practically shortchanging the other, as also oneself.
Such unanticipated thoughts are coming to my mind: Perhaps its a good plan to not reveal anything that enlightens such friends to ones virtues and refrain from alerting them to deeds one rendered unto others. Like loaning resources, lending a book, giving time: lest you be seen as an object of convenience. Hitherto not as aesthetic subject. Scheming papas’ and mamas’ response to such interpersonal and existential intelligence is: Well, you are a fool.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Yeah, how many roads must a man walk on before expectations materialize that he becomes one with the spirit of awakening? For that matter how many furlongs need to be covered to awaken to one’s being. Dasein. Must we allow modernity to tame us, certainly neuter/sequester us to give in? Should we be keeping a patch of wilderness alive for our numbered days?
The answer is a blowin’ in the wind—the whoosh of a fist looming toward the face.
In idiomatic vein: we come to blows over long embraced pet peeves; whereas in idiomatic veneer some gain an identity, with one blow. Furthermore lugubriously striking blows at the indigents. Sledge hammering their way through time!
Being driven astray is a wildering—an estrangement that deposits us into that cauldron of uncertainty. Wilder bewilders.