You, me & Montaigne

It bugged me. I was looking for a vague unformed idea with the same persistency as you would recall a forgotten dream, a dream you had vividly experienced and now all trace of it is lost except for a blurry intuition that claims it existed and was real. So in the same way, I am looking for an idea I’m not quite sure what it is; but I know that it exists and it is real. The idea has something to do with History. History has been on my mind recently. It is impossible to dismiss history when its presence is unmistakably obvious in the prints of books. There have been many before us. So many that the vast majority have perished within the confines of thier solitude and few or no traces are left of their struggles and dreams. I’m interested in how humans see themselves. It may be called their Interpretation of Life. The fact that we live is obvious and granted. But what we think about life changes dramatically from one skull to the next. With so many distinct opinions I do not worry of finding the correct one. All seem to have a likely possibility of truth. But what is truth anyway? A forgotten quest of ancient philosophers… Our age does not worry about truth. It has lost its relevance; we pay attention to other things. So I’m not looking for truth, I’m sure of that. It has to do more with an understanding of how the human interpretation of life changes throughout history. I’m gathering opinions rather the same way that an entomologist would collect beetles. No beetle is more precious than the others, each one of them exist and are as real as the entomologist that collects them. How to make sense of the numberless interpretations of life?

I think I’m getting closer to my forgotten dream: my unformulated idea.

There are many kinds of beetles in the world. There are more beetle species than there are fish, amphibian, reptile, bird and mammal species put together. How did so different types of beetles arise? Our age explains the varieties of species with the theory of evolution. The theory of evolution has been so popular and successful in explaining many aspects of our natural world that it has propagated over many other fields. Technology, ideas and the development of human societies can all be explained quite clearly from an evolutionary perspective.

The evolutionary perspective
 

 

Time is a bitch. We cannot define it, yet our whole lives are tyrannized by the ticking of the clock. Elusive in definition but very real and concrete in practice. Time is a fact. We live in time. Calendars and alarm clocks bind us:

“I need to wake up early tomorrow”

“I’m late for work”

“Let’s meet at five near the fountain”

“Next week is my birthday”

“If I don’t finish this in time, I’m in deep trouble”

And so on…

Time is very real. Listen to your own voices. We mention it every single day.

 

But we forget about time.

 

We forget that time is not only seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years. It is also decades, centuries, millennia, mega-annums, and giga-annums. The universe is a very old place. It’s been here long before any human ever stood erect. It will probably be here long after every human life has been exhausted.

Awareness of the long extension of time is important to understand the various Interpretations of Life.

That’s how I can begin to make sense of history. Through Evolution in the broadest sense of the word. There has been enough time for everything to evolve. Every atom on this planet evolved from the interior of dead stars, life arose for the evolution of simpler forms to more complex ones, and societies, language, ideas and technology evolve from rudimentary human communities spending enough time together to develop these attributes. Given enough time a lot can happen. This is the Evolutionary Perspective. An interpretation of life common among those living today.

We are bound by time. This interpretation of life helps me interpret the interpretation of life of others before me.

Thales surveyed the world around him and declared that it originated from water

Berkeley surveyed the world around him and declared that everything you perceived is not the real world but only your own mind.

Freud surveyed the world around him and declared that a blind unconscious force called the libido directs human life.

And so on…

Every opinion in your head has a history. Every hair in your body has a history. Every word you say originated somewhere sometime, and if you create something new the long chain of causes behind it supports it. If you adopt the evolutionary perspective, your every move is united to the most distant past.

Now I’m getting closer to what I really wanted to express. Not a theory but a melancholic reflection.

On March 1st 1580, Montaigne completed his ‘Note to the Reader’ for his long and voluminous essays. He set his pen (or feather) down and submitted himself to the currents of history. On May 11th 2007 I opened his essays and began reading in English his ‘Au Lecteur’ translated from the French. Something about that date shook me. 1580. Long time ago. A long time ago this man set to write down his ideas and experiences in countless pages. Four hundred twenty-seven years later I pick up his book and read in the thick darkness of midnight till my eyes dropped with exhaustion. Today I woke up with an idea on the tip of my tongue. Trying to shape it and give it a name. Montaigne, a man dead for four hundred fifteen years, influenced my Monday and if you are reading this, he managed to sneak into your life too; changing the course of your life ever so slightly, making you sit before your computer ten minutes extra than you had planned for.

If you adopt the evolutionary perspective, your every move is united to the most distant past.

Montaigne is an example of a life that has been recorded and has been able to influence people in the future. But the number of people that achieve this is negligible when compared to all those that leave no trace and return silently to the dark abyss from where they came. We like to think that life is Great. That it is worth living and that so much of it is special and worthy of commenting. That is why we meet up with our friends and tell them what we did, how we feel, what we hope for. It is sad and discouraging to think that our most troublesome struggles and our most dazzling joys will be lost completely and in five hundred years they will be of no use to anyone.

We are an island of consciousness engulfed in the ambiguous ocean of time.

I find something else discouraging. Of those millions and millions of lives, the lives of the masses that died in plagues, wars, and famines and remain in the history books only as a number:

8,000,000 dead in the Thirty Years War

75,000,000 dead after the Black Plague

100,000,000 dead during the Atlantic Slave Trade

and so on…

What about their Interpretation of Life. They had an equally valid opportunity of experiencing life, perhaps in the most atrocious circumstances. Their thoughts and yearnings are now lost under the memory of a number.

I’d like to compare all those opinions. The lush forest of conceptions that each skull harbors. There are as many as beetles in the world.

Is there a God?

Is there a soul?

Is there an afterlife?

Is there a purpose in life?

What is matter?

What are the stars?

What is happiness?

Every one has something to say. Every one has a right to that opinion. And every opinion is part of the legacy they inherited. The evolution of all forms and shapes; from the hair in your head to your thinking in verbs, nouns and adjectives. We are bound to the most distant past, perhaps too to the more distant future.

Whatever you do today, think what role it will play in the great course of things. When you pay for a pack of cigarettes, think of the journey the coin is about to embark upon. Perhaps a thousand years from now, that same coin is going to be dug up by a future archeologist and speculate about life at the beginning of the 21st century. Gaze up to the sky and imagine all those that have done the same, some seeing the wonderful creation of God, others the grand excitement of space, and others still, the unbelievable profundity of the human mind. Kiss your lover and wonder when the first human kiss was invented. Eat an apple and speculate from what distant tree it came from. Spit out its seeds and consider that in fifty years a child might be swinging from its tree branches.

Now go, and explore. Be part of the unrecorded history that unwinds daily…

A child’s wonder

The poet must rise and, in all opposition to the mediocrity of those living with eyes closed, must claim with a child’s wonder: I AM.

And to be is never dull and unworthy of our attention.

Every passing second grants us the deepest mysteries that can never be too highly esteemed.

From the rustling of blades of grass in the wind to the farthest kindling galaxies; from the ordinary to the extraordinary; existence in its entirety marvels the beholder.

A poet’s awareness is nothing more than a child’s wonder.

A requirement: the capacity to remain silent and observe passionately at what IS.

In that womb of silence we are all bound to become children, poets and philosophers;

Quietly revering the performance of an universe that will forever astonish us-

The humble spectators of the Great Unknown.

He came to know…

he_came_to_know_short_Story

Brave, defiant Contristo walked under the sharp but harmless leaves of the gloomy jungle. The ceiling of the forest was completely covered with thick branches of trees and the dense population of their leaves. The tenebrous darkness made the journey the more frightening, the unknown waiting for him at every corner. A beam or two of light would pierce the great darkness with its blaze as the wind opened a tiny slit in the heights. These arrows of translucent light reminded Contristo of the world he left seven years ago. At the age of twelve he was forced to enter this labyrinth, to follow an aimless course, to hunt after an unrevealed destiny. But the world he had left so many years ago was still bright in his memory, those endless hours of play and spontaneous happiness. The intense winds of adolescence had thrust him into this dark adventure. The old world had come apart, his new life was nothing other than wandering through the inextricable dangers of the forest. It was a difficult journey as strange gruesome animals threatened his survival, challenged his sanity.

Contristo’s world is not an ordinary world. A human could never recognize this world, not even in his dreams. The creatures that constitute this world are beyond the imagination of the wildest fantasies of fiction. The corruption of their forms would be the most painful sight, a holocaust for our eyes. Their voices would enter our ears like molten rock down the auditory canal, their shrieks worst than a thousand cries of despair coming from Dante’s Inferno. The sting of their fangs more deadly than any earthly creature. Poor and lost Contristo had to face numberless dangers on his way, when forced to leave the joy of childhood to meet the dangers of advancing youth.

Towards the end of the seventh year Contristo started to notice a change in his environment. Patches of sky would appear more often and the nightmarish insects were fewer and fewer. Until finally, exactly on the last full moon of his seventh traveling year, he came upon a valley. The jungle was left behind and he could observe at the distance a huge ominous castle, majestically sitting at the center of the valley. Certainly, he thought, this is my unforeseen destination.

Contristo approached the monumental structure and at the foot of the tall gates there stood two gigantic trolls, weapon in hand, guarding the entrance from any intruder. As Contristo came closer to these beastly creatures, he became sick and repelled by the dripping pus of their bodies, the green drool from their mouths and their stink of decaying meat.  “HALT, you shall not pass!” thundered the voice of both guards. Stupefied and trembling, Contristo spoke:

For seven years the winds of youth have blown
In maze and confusion I have not known
What distant goal was set for my life
Woe, my journey’s been nothing but strife.
In your castle some great good I must gain
Open your gates so all won’t be in vain!

The giant monsters gazed thoughtfully at this wretched creature. Then, in obedience to their duty, replied:

The gates of Veritas are out of reach
For those that cannot breach
The ancient riddle we now recite

‘This thing all things devours;
From the farthest suns to the nearest flowers;
The powerful king too must one day know
Defeat and loss against this invincible foe’

Answer correctly or retreat in fright.

Swiftly Contristo retorted:

Experience, mother of knowledge
To you I now pledge
If my answer be in the right
I will forever trust in your light
Guards, the riddle is sublime
My answer is: TIME.

The gates opened for Contristo, who was too well acquainted with the expanse of time. In the echoing solitude, his steps marked the ticking of the seconds as he gazed the high towers inside. At the heart of the castle a lofty dome shone with precious gold and crimson gems. Contristo gathered that under that huge vault his secret fate must lie.

He stepped into the glorious building and surveyed the ornamental complexity of the walls, patterns of exquisite beauty. Then, at last, his long journey reached its summit when he saw under the colossal dome a sight he will never forget. From the ceiling hanged an object he had never seen before, faintly glowing with a sort of musical flow. He approached it, but he was not alone. From the other end of the room he could now see another creature too was approaching the sacred object. He slowed his pace but continued to come nearer until he was face to face with his silent companion. Contristo then spoke to him but the other would only mimic his own speech. Then he moved to one side and the stranger did exactly like him. In an initiative to be kind he extended his arm to salute his companion. His partner was too quick and the tip of their hands would always collide, never allowing him to take the other’s hand. Contristo was paralyzed by a sort of fear and just gazed at the stranger. He looked into his eyes and he could see nothing but an abysmal sadness, a look of despair, a cry for help. He saw a fragile and feeble creature, lost and confused, joyless, utterly joyless…

It was then that he realized he was looking at a reflection of himself. And his thoughts began to weave the path of his future, treading the first steps in the unending journey of self-discovery.

‘Tis this sadness I saw reflected
And merciless was my despair
This brittle body so dejected
Home of the burden I will bear

In these eyes of crystal sorrow
Lies the grand secret of tomorrow
To understand the elusive mystery
The whole of my wretched history

Let today mark the beginning
The essential for all the living
To glimpse and savor the question
How to find one’s true expression

Finding myself always in travel
Among the marvels of existence
As the smoke of time will unravel
What is at an approaching distance.

We… post-postmodernists?

Our Age is too near to get sight of its boundaries, it is too early to understand its misconceptions. We are too dogmatic in our denial of dogma, absolutely certain in the impossibility of absolute truth. We refuse categorization, even the relativistic classification nauseates us with its blatant inaccuracy. We have exhausted the map of the expected, we have sailed off the edge of objectivity. Is there enough courage at last to tear open the last unexamined convictions?

 

Science has detonated such a bright flash in the sky of our conceptions, it left us bleakly trembling under the paleness of the explainable.  Our lust craves for some personal knowledge beyond the downpour of communication.  Yet, we are still too philosophical in the claim that philosophy is futile and irrelevant, too logical while we humiliate the world into meaninglessness.

 

Every man has always been in error. We scrutinize the lack of breadth in antiquity, humans living under the conditions of necessity. But has the wealth of leisure begotten any real savory experience of the magnitude of the universe? Do we not still live under the dining lamp, stuff our heads with hamburgers and neglect the vastness of space and time only to idle hours of curiosity?

 

Do we prefer to stand still in opposition to progress or move frantically to and fro in opposition to linearity? Is there much to gain in opposing the current of history? Does the weight of our question collapse under our temptation to doubt?

 

Why do we seek definition?  How can we induce our subjective universe to submit to our words before we have been able to glance it all? Existence is too chaotic to wear the stale garment of adjectives and deductions. Whatever we seek – if we seek anything at all – lies beyond the fortress of definition.

 

Let the living eyes of the future bury us with their dead words,

                                                for we will be by then … dead things.

The Great Unknown

There is a startling recognition in the first blink of the day, when the eyes open their lids, raise the gates of secluded darkness and the light-rays of colors come streaming into the cognizance of a new day. This recognition I speak of is far from definable, it is the unspoken conviction that life is altogether unknown and new. I awake to a new day, a new series of uncoiling sensuous experiences emerge passively from all around me. I say passively because I do nothing and the whole world around me pours into my consciousness like a voracious waterfall falling into a crystal diaphanous pond. As soothing as the morning light is it announces a silent scream urging me to interrogate my commonsense, to question my convictions, to ask this futile conundrum: where does it all take place? But as soon as I ask this query and reply with words the question loses all meaning. It is not a question to be answered by the wit of our words. It is a question answered in silence. It is to stop repeating compulsive nonsense in our heads. It is to remain still and perceive whatever 
 

IS….

And remain there. |Silent|Still|Calm|Quiet|Mute

Where does it all take place… forget about what you know about the mind, the body, consciousness, the human brain, the weary heart.

Focus on your perceptions in the same manner as you would look at a flowing river… nameless, ineffable, and unutterable.

THEN…


I come back to my computer. And write about it. Baptize it with names and riddles. I call it:

  

 

untitled poem

From where spawns the orgiastic revelry of words
The intimacy with language in its full ambiguity
The orgasmic explosion of poetry, rising from the
Deep unknown

The grand sea of letters that flourish in a titanic wave
Drowning the world with an army of symbols
And behold! They seize us like the fury of Jupiter
In the tempest of survival we hang to them
Our miseries have a name, they now bear a
Morbid face

Languidly reposing in the weaving of literature
The towers of pages whistling in the air
The voices, the cries and joys of forgotten lives
Many existences in a single sentence but a life
Never enough to peruse the endless deluge of
Human experiences

The lives of words carry the melancholy song
Of Death and Loss, perpetual fate of every born
Yet in lighter melodies thoughts inked in the past
Evoke the wonder of breathing, powerfully they are
Reminding us -the living- to seize the moment,
Always the moment.

Winter’s Lost

As if a long dreary dream had vanished like a dark cloud blown away by warm winds, the dim and vague dome of winter skies was lifted and fresh vivid rays from the sun basked the city with a joyful promise: a blossoming Spring was on its way. That long dream of darkness and chill was receding slowly into the past and along with it the sad and gloomy emotions that had conquered the lives of the creatures imprisoned by the cold and abysmal dark. Springing from an unknown source, like tiny white flowers peeking out in an ocean of green grass, words rose afloat in the consciousness of Mr. Vår, provoking him to hum the melody of his poetry as he strolled along the crisp blue sea. The awareness that sprung from the warm radiance of the sun was confirming one of Mr. Vår’s most optimistic assumptions; life was dear and enjoyable. Sea gulls suspended in the air, dogs playing in the sand, newcomer infants free to discover their new planet, Spring allowed earthly creatures to roam freely without the sting of winter’s cold. Hour and minute needles made their rotation round the clock’s axis and Mr. Vår aimlessly enjoyed his leisure. A cup of Chai tea, a fluffy white cloud, and the quivering of leafless tree branches were the pleasant impressions that struck deep in Mr. Vår’s perceptions of the day. As if the frightful command of daily duties was a forgotten myth of ancient history, the first part of the day was spent in trivial activities that far from emptying his spirit enriched it with new vigor. The complexity of life was reduced to the sipping of hot tea, taking deep breaths, rubbing a smooth pebble within his palm. The brief conversations with amicable strangers flowed like short pieces of Debussy’s piano preludes.

As the day progressed Mr. Vår fell into a lazy reverie. Rejuvenated by the richness of the sun’s light his steps seem lighter, closely resembling the hops of a small Goldcrest bird. He found his way through the city’s plaza, brimming with cheerful people and lost in the tides of idle pedestrians he gave rein to his memory. Transported through time in the lucidity of unclouded remembrance – Mr. Vår alone in the attic, smoking from his pipe, drinking his chilly whiskey, reviewing papers of bygone years, wind carrying unbearable temperatures, hail disturbing the sound of silence, alone in the attic, Mr. Vår.

Winter, slayer of light and color, had blurred the gay images of a warm autumn life. Trapped in the small confines of a wooden attic, restless as he poured all his weakened strength into completing his memoirs. In his most dejected moments he suspected the effort was in vain. A life, one in piles of numberless generations, one life recorded – for what? But Mr. Vår trusted the evidence of his years, the heights of his passion for life, the fathomless cliffs of his suffering, his message of hope to his people, his nation, his world. How urgent was the need to preserve his experience as an anonymous man, torn by the cruelty of solitude yet endured by his relentless attention to the question: what is life? His doubts were brushed away, guilt of pride withered away. It mattered not who had lived it, but that it was lived. Fully, totally.

Mr. Vår picked his memories of wintertime like fallen apples on a country field. The torture of writing his reflections on life, of reliving the pain and despair, the fear of death and the misery of lost loves, was observed from a distance- like standing on top of the pharos of Alexandria and making out the ships that came from other civilizations, bringing with them rare riches.

Fire crackling, the cold in his veins and a rough blanket covering his fragile old body. The years had swept away legions of dear faces, happy moments, and astounding dreams. What was left was a near carcass enveloped by the cold dark air of a winter’s night. But still a faint light glared in the menace of dark extinction, his memory, though severely battered by time, retained the core of his experiences and as the last ticking second of the clock of his life came closer, his passion was poured out through the tip of his pen. The candle on his desk flickered to and fro resisting its death when a strong breeze came gushing down from the chimney. The light of his memory similarly faced extinction, battling with the ailments of old age and fatal disease.

Mr. Vår found a resting place under the oblique shadow of a big Beech tree. The sun had traveled more than half across the dome of the sky. The memories of this winter’s past resumed. They were lonely nights. Uneventful. Searching for elegant words as you would search the beach for shiny pebbles. Retracing the steps of his life, reviewing old notes and unlocking repressed emotions. Then finding the words to express all of that. All of that which is inexpressible. Why? Mr. Vår had no definite answer. As futile as it was to record the fluidity of his experience with the rigidity of words he had no other choice. Language can at least communicate, however imperfectly, the inward life of any person. What no eyes can see, no hand can touch, the true experience of life as felt by everyone inside the dome of the skull, the moment of life – what no word can describe but merely point to it.

Before the sun set in the glaring sea, before the final light of the day revealed to human eyes the variety of color in this world, before the starry night came sliding over Mr. Vår, he walked back to the shore, in search of a last moment of tranquility. The great body of water in motion. A chaotic yet comforting spectacle. The sun drawing near to meet the distant arc of the earth, to sink behind the gigantic mass of this rotating orb.

Mr. Vår struggled through those last freezing nights to rise from bed and continue his project. Life was leaving his body, draining with each sentence, with each memory. But as Spring approached an unknown force reappeared in the marrow of his bones, a new vitality was felt as the final apothegms were being inked. He remembered those last days when he was closer and closer to finishing his work, he felt a second opportunity to live, to savor the fullness of life before he must submit to his ultimate departure.

The sun gliding down like a droplet of water down a window pane. A satisfied day. A satisfied life. He had finished his work after all, he was free just to live the new springtime. The memory of previous Springs came to mind but the moment refused comparison. It was the beginning of a new cycle, a new journey. When the last brim of the fiery star could be seen, Mr. Vår closed his eyes, abandoned all memory of himself, utter no thought to himself and in a profound silence experienced something he could never describe.

Ode to the moon

 

Open fields of silent dark
Crossing grass prey of ice
Fragile tunes weaves the wind
Leafless trees form the horizon
Gazing up a gem of ivory
Thin clouds conceal the starry sky
Yet through the blanket of gray gas
A wealth of glow can be seen

A familiar face blotched in craters,
                 Mountains and furrows
Gazes back on this lonely traveler
intently shadows my linear pace,
delivers an eloquent sight to my eye,
pierces through my world,
submits to my wonder…

Oh aged queen of the sky
whose journeying dates back
                              to forever
What histories have you glanced!
From barren rock to green conquest
Evolving beauty on this planet
                  Your inseparable partner

How insignificant my stupid little life!
An instant for your heavenly clock
Let this insect sing you a praise
allow my admiration be lost
                   in the gaze of millions past 
                                 & millions future.

Shared Solitude

In ardent exhaustion

 the pair of lovers fell

asleep in each other’s arms.

 

The wind blew a cool

  secretive melody through the slit of the window

while the fire of their passions extinguished into a fluid

                 relaxing dream. 

 

In that shared solitude

    of the night

the warm nude bodies

merged into a passive communion as the vibration of the air reverberated with the wise words of ancient religions. 

 

The weight of their satisfaction drew them into the abysmal depths of dreamy unconscious poetry, forgetting momentarily

chapters of uncertainty

and impatience in their lives, allowing the nightly river to carry them to the shores of rest and accomplished desire.

 

Cuando la belleza muere

 

 

La vigilia de los días se compenetra con el letargo de las noches. Somos criaturas que inventamos nuestra realidad. Construimos elaboradas ficciones como una imperturbable Historia del Mundo. En ardorosa adicción caímos frente la autoridad de nuestras convicciones. Nos afligimos por la deleznable calidad de nuestra existencia, morimos un poco con el ocaso de cada experiencia. Ignoramos la relatividad de nuestras creencias y la monstruosidad de nuestros prejuicios. Vivir es conocer este juego, esta chispa que brevemente ilumina la insondable oscuridad y luego regresa a la fuente de su origen.

 

Miremos sin miedo la condición en que vivimos. Somos pequeñas vibraciones en la inagotable turbulencia del oceánico universo. Si pudiéramos ver la evolución cósmica de catorce mil millones de años en un minuto, podaríamos ver las estrellas nacer y morir como lucecitas en un campo colmado de luciérnagas, un movimiento hipnótico como el del agua, una transformación perpetua sin destino previsto ni lamentaciones innecesarias, un baile alternado por luz, vació y tinieblas. ¿Seremos la culminación de tal proceso? Somos parte indiscutible de él pero no esencial. Nuestro heredado antropocentrismo nos hace resistir tales posibilidades.

 

El recorrido de nuestra especie es fugaz e inasible. Nuestras alegrías y penas se concentran en este pequeño glóbulo de piedra, metal y fuego. Tenemos una pasajera oportunidad para cultivar un asombro por nuestra milagrosa y contingente existencia, retar siglos de timidez especulativa que consideran al humano, con este cuerpo simiesco, como el único ente vivo capaz de inteligencia y de satisfacer el propósito del cosmos.

 

¡Se vive con la colgante certeza sobre nuestras cabezas de una realidad impermanente e insubstancial! ¿Acaso no vivimos en nuestros sueños con vehemente convencimiento de que enfrentamos verdaderamente esas situaciones ilusorias, nos llenamos de terror cuando no podemos correr en casos de urgencia o regocijamos en el encuentro con seres queridos muertos — no es nuestra convicción en la vigilia la misma cuando transcurrimos por los días en miedo o felicidad por las revelaciones del mundo? ¿Qué medida tenemos para considerar uno más real que el otro? La memoria nos insinúa constancia en nuestro mundo dominante de vela y tal vez tenga razón. Pero cuando cerramos los ojos en terminante cansancio, este mundo despierto se desvanece en negro olvido.

 

Lo cierto (? juzguen Uds) es que nuestras transitorias experiencias son capaz de transportarnos a realidades no cotidianas. A un plano de consuelo donde todas las cosas bellas que evocan la inspiración y la admiración deben también morir, pero en su muerte se resucita otra belleza: la constante transformación.