God Doesn't Make Mistakes

"When I’m dancing, and I’m dancing, and I’m in the zone, that’s the closest that I’ve ever felt to God, in my life. I would never ask you to give that up. God doesn’t make mistakes. God’s made you a dancer. It’s not a mistake. It may not be your profession— but if it is your passion, continue."

Does The Heart Rejoice Only When It Pops?

Do fish stop swimming when they tire?

Do ants stop work when it's Sunday?

Do we stop hurting when we cry?

Do they stop worrying when they play?

No.

No.

I don't know.

I know it's a No.

Does the radio relish the quiet when unplugged?

Does your iPod devour the silence when it stops?

Does one still smile when he runs out of luck?

Does the heart rejoice only when it pops?

Observing The World In (Almost) Utter Silence

Much to the collective relief of the population, the Universe had finally given me a whoop-ass by holding my voice hostage. For once, Calvin Magnus was put on silent mode, forced to vibrate violently each time I wanted to get my ideas across. I gotta say (and I believe some dare-I-say-unfriendly people would see eye-to-eye with me on this) it's kinda nice to shut up, or perhaps more specifically, to have a reason to shut up. (Does the previous sentence have a cynical overtone?) Yeah, it was cool to kinda just zip it: not talking to people unnecessarily, not having to reply people when my arsenal of witty comeback was exhausted, not having to entertain people when I didn't feel like it. It's like you could exist, yet observe, yet live, yet be in people's company, without having to labour and contribute to the social obligation of maintaining insipid conversations. Ok, this may come across more sardonic than intended, but what I am getting at is that it was nice to finally be on the receiving end, and to have an excuse (a tangible and physiological one at that) to be so. It was nice to see the world function independently, yet without having to remove oneself from the picture.

Another revelation, that was kinda fun, at least for me, was that: when you talk less, you listen more. Big surprise, huh? It's like when you talk, you see people's reaction in response to you comment (assuming that your comment is controversial/sarcastic/interesting/emotional/blahblahblah enough), and you do not really see the true person immanent in that respondent (respondee?). But in the absence of this prompt or external stimulus titillating such cerebrally-tainted spinal reflexes, people would have to dig deep into the sediments of their dormant personality and come up with things that are somewhat a true reflection of who they really are. Be it boring or interesting, it's highly intriguing to observe how some people haplessly struggle, how some blossom (unexpectedly on previously and seemingly barren personalities) and how some remain indifferent or ignorant. It's funny to see what they say and how they say it.

All the same, it's a bitch waking up in the morning with a knot in my throat. I also discovered that I've been surviving on fried food this whole time. (How can you not?) Anyway, this is another topic worth another blog post altogether. I need to rest more (so I've been told by self and others for the umpteenth time). My body is really crumbling to smithereens, and to fall ill now is a no-no. Shucks, I don't even have the brain power to type anymore. Anyhoo, sorry for an abrupt ending.

Ciao!

Lil Cynic's Candid Lil Crit

Bummer, I swear just about fifteen seconds ago I had this major major (ok, no really) stuff to verbal vomit about, but now once I'm actually trying to type it all out, ZILCH, NADA, NOTHING, KOSONG.

Ok, let's take it slowly— slowly, surely, steadily.

This post is not gonna be an ambush against the Cosmos, though it may still be mindless and trivial (I mean hey, nothing on this blog has ever been otherwise anw), but I've decided to cut Cosmos some slack because, as evidenced by the numerous stage performances I attended—which by right I should not have, for the simple reason that I was supposed to be mugging for my papers— the poor Cosmos has been publicly battered and decimated quite horribly. I can never really and truly understand stage performances that make this epic showcase of an attempt of hating the world, you know: frantic clamouring, unwarranted struggling, intense frown into the abyss, et cetera. First of all, how do you get the inspiration for that? Do you wake up one fateful morning and suddenly say to yourself 'Hey! I've decided to hate the world for 5 minutes on stage.' I mean, what? How? Again, disclaimer: I'm not saying that these sorta items are bad (who am I to judge, right?), in fact, and I say this with all sincerity and humility, they are beyond me-- at least, beyond the grasp of my intellectual capacity. All I'm saying is that they are just not my cup of tea, not my bread and butter.

Anyhoo, all this dubiousness (yes, dubiousness is actually word) brings me to the next point. WHAT IS UP WITH PREACHERS THESE DAYS? *pause for dramatic effect* Ok, I gotta say I can be one critical sonofabitch at times when it comes down to preachy preachy asking-for-a-slap stuff. *cough cough Mitch Albom with Tuesday with Morrie* I've been so for quite some time now. But, what is up with preachers not integrating logic in their sermons? I know religion and logic have had a bad break-up nong nong time ago, their current relationship much like that between me and floor work— these two things are just not meant to be put in the same pot. BUT SERIOUSLY. And this only happened last Sunday.

Here's the thing: first of all the preacher said: God is (for the lack of a better word) magic/miraculous because He has made many miracles. At this point, Calvin did step 1: nodded in approval and comprehension. Then the preacher said: look at Adam (the first man to walk the earth, or so they— I mean, the Bible says), Adam is made from dust and ashes, NOT through man and woman. Calvin repeated step 1. The preacher continued: look at Eve (the first lady of... the world), Eve is made from Adam's rib bone, she is made through MAN, and NOT woman. Calvin did step one, albeit now in anticipation for some ingenuous revelation at the end. The preacher then said: look at Jesus— insert summary of the nativity story— He is made from WOMAN, and not man. Calvin stayed quiet in anticipation. Suddenly, THAT'S WHY GOD IS MAGIC, GOD IS MIRACULOUS, GOD HAS MADE MANY MIRACLES, blah blah, et cetera. Calvin literally made a face and yelped a loud 'HARH?'

Calvin's friends laughed at this impulsive reaction.

Again, I am not questioning the credibility of the premises the preacher relied on. I did, and do agree that God is all in all, all that jazz, almighty, all-knowing, Alabama, Aljazeera, Al-Ameen. However, as a preacher, you can't and shouldn't make a point simply by raising your voice and acting all worked up and convincing when in substance you are not making an argument. There's no causal thread pulling your very first statement and your conclusion together. I'm saying all this not because I've the law-student mentality (please dun give me this crap). It's just basic common sense. If there's no sense, there's nothing. Without a point, an interpretation, an argument, you are merely stating the obvious. To a born-Christian like me (bold statement huh?), the whole service would just become meaningless— captured in the cliched one-liner: Tell me something I don't know.

It is this sorta explanation (or the lack thereof) that makes people like me who are edging on the religious-agnostic border wanting even more to jump to other side. The very basis of Christianity is, well, belief— which means faith, which essentially means (and dun go one a hate rampage on me for this) blind faith. There's nothing wrong with that, and especially to me, acceptance of such blindness is relatively easier because I was young and naive when I had it, or to put it in more cynical terms: I didn't know any better. However, in spite of all this, Christianity has develop its internal logic, through which we derive understanding and comfort that there's coherence in it, that everything is not fallacious and amorphous— or worse still, bogus. (Sorry, this last sentence looks like an extract from Boringtown University Journal.)

So, coherence, logic, good argumentation, or whatever you wanna call it, you cannot— and I repeat— cannot lose it. Help me help you to convince me that you are making sense, that there's something there immanent in this spiritual, religious belief— from which revelations after revelations may flow through a vessel that is you, the preacher— that a faithful-wanna-be like this dude right here, genuinely hungering for the Word of God, can latch onto. It's not about speaking in tongue. It's not about making people deaf with a loud voice. It's not about beautiful singing. It's not about long prayers. It's about understanding (or more specifically, trying to understand) Him. If I do my part right, so should you, no?

P.S. Believe it or not, this is not what I had in mind 15 seconds before I sat down.

Epistemically-closed Cognitively-open Transcendental-logical Autopoietic System

...

Need I say more?

I Have No Eyes

Hi. Hello there.

Can you see me? I'm here.

Excuse my question, you see, I can't see you.

I have no eyes.

Hi. My name is C-- C for Canvas.

I spend my days and nights in the studio,

lying on an easel.

It gets cold at times, but that's okay.

I'm okay.

Well, because, occasionally, people come into this

cold studio,

some stare at this blank canvas

for one to two seconds and then leave,

some stay-- for a while more.

It's rather funny, you see, because I can't see them.

I have no eyes.

But, I can feel them.

They're warm.

Out of these warm few who stay,

some are artists.

With a palette on the one hand,

and a paintbrush on the other,

they colour me.

I can't see what colours they put on me, you see, I can't see them.

I have no eyes.

But I can feel them,

painting colours on me.

Gentle dabs on one corner.

Pause.

Hard strokes on the other.

After some time, they stop.

But I know they're still there.

I can feel them.

I also know that the blank canvas is now

a wet canvas,

but to these rare artists,

the blank canvas is now

a masterpiece.

Chortling. Chuckling.

I wish

I can see what it is they see on me, you see, I can't see me.

I have no eyes.

Is there blue on me?

Why did you use blue?

Are you sad?

Blue is the colour of the sky, right?

Is there yellow?

The sound 'yellow' tickles me.

Does yellow mean you're happy?

As happy as the sun?

Now

I'm not lying on an easel anymore.

I'm hung on the wall.

I'm framed.

I'm a masterpiece. Your masterpiece.

Thank you.

Thank you, and you, and you, you, you, you... Wait!

Where are you going?

Don't go.

Oh, excuse my question, you see, I can't see you still.

I have no eyes.

But, I can feel you-- all of you.

You're warm.

Chortling. Chuckling.

I feel so dumb. I know you can't hear me.

I have no tongue.

I wish

I have eyes though, so that I can see.

See me.

See you.

Trip The Light Fantastic

First of all, don't ask me what the title is all about. I was poised by my idle thoughts to churn up something unique for the title of this post, and uninterestingly, the first word that came to mind was 'dance'. Ever-so-trying to be super cool and different I was, I consulted the thesaurus and guess what? This phrase means dance! So, yeah, err... not very interesting.

Actually at this very second, I am supposed to be assembling my arsenal of draconian arguments which I have to spam expediently, strategically and perhaps even cunningly on the day of my moots. However, I chanced upon my doppelganger's blog and just like that *finger snap*, I am thrown into this yet-another pensive mood. Sigh.

Sometimes I hate it that Fate has mould me into this good-boy persona in my family. Not that I mind, but really, I have always been that small boy who is... good; who instead of running around the neighbourhood chasing after frogs and dogs, decides to be cooped up in his own little corner swamped with comic books while secretly labouring to copy his maid's drawing of ducks, which to him is equivalent to the Mona Lisa; who instead of being that kid who has the audacity and the courage to throw away his lousy exam scripts into the gutter beside his house, ends up being the kid who partakes in the national physics olympiad (shocking huh?). Sometimes I hate it that my parents take so much pride in me.

Don't get me wrong, I can only feel ever-so-grateful that they feel the way they do. It's every child's dream (or at least, normatively and conventionally speaking, this should be the case) to make their parents happy and feel that they have successfully discharged their parental duties. Ok, fine, I don't hate it (capricious much?), but when these people whom you hold very dear to your heart treat you like a trophy, flaunt you to the left and to the right, you can't help but to end up having these self-imposed expectations on yourself. And kudos to my folks, they aced their attempt in imbuing such dare-I-say masochistic trait. Well, at least sometimes, particularly when my teenage hormones are bubbling through my veins such as now, I would take a step back and view my life at large, sadly, only to find this tendency to feel that the universe is ganging up on me surfacing.

Perhaps this is the reason why my soul is so aged? Gotta get a face-lift real soon! Chicken soup anyone? LOL. I don't really know what I want to get from venting out all this. I'm not even sure whether I would want to get anything back. Everyone has a motive in doing things, but that does not mean that everybody knows what that motive is, and whether that motive is actually too much of his own good. Perhaps I just feel like doing things that's unprecedented-- unprecedented by me, of course? Attempting to crumble my clampdown on things in my life-- to be less overreaching, less paranoid? OK, coherence level hitting the zero mark now. May be I want to stop being that kid who always colours inside the lines. May be I just want to colour the feathers of those ducks green, the beak red, the tail purple, and everything else black? How are these things connected again? Especially as regards the title? Discuss.

Apology if this has got a bit Freudian.