Focus..

I have slept and eaten well, and even though I haven’t exercised, I have kept active these past days. I haven’t gone out. I have paid attention to this phenomenon which we are all part of but rarely marvel at. The contemplative character is not a universal trait.
A full being empties itself of all distractions. Anxiety has kept me at bay when it comes to saving. I must focus, that’s the new trick this old dog wants to master. Focus. Not that I’ll forever be in this vegetable state, I won’t settle for the sedentary ways of a monk. I will nonetheless change the way I perceive events taking place in my life by transcending them, filtering these very moments through a different perspective.

How to find love and beauty... PART TWO, the conclusion

Hasn’t it occurred to anyone that seeking happiness in any other place than ourselves and our conscious decisions implies a possibility of being enslaved by the demands and ways of others, is, in a way, deceiving us. We must come with joy to the encounter of illusion, but not fool ourselves by it. If the other person is not ready, and by ready I do not imply that they submit themselves to our caprice and desires, but as an individual is unsuitable for happiness then we move along. We should seek to be happier than we are, yes. But not happiness. This one, as a possibility, should always reside in you. Besides, everyone wants people who they can’t either have or they will not make happy. It’s as if we had programmed ourselves for failure in anticipation. Those mostly developed personalities, the aces of our culture, the ones who possess beauty and mind, are, sad to admit, scarce, but they are involved with their lives and engaged with existence. Successful individuals don’t sit around prey of their circumstances, complaining of their bad luck; alchemists is what they are, architects of horizons. I’ve tended to be happy with less; now I want to be happier with more. Whenever I fail, I will find solace and comfort in the certainty that I have always a place to fall back on: my resolution to be happy. But we can’t expect to be happy if the person we choose isn’t; we could make the best of the worst for sometime, if necessary; but the idea is to make things better for the long run. Focus on the things you want, pursuit the life others can only dream of. Listen but don’t pay too serious attention to what they say; act and behave like you care and in time you will. Endorse a cause, take a different course if the results awaited are not met. Live a little, sin once in a while, talk to friends often. The remedy to all of your ailments lie at your feet. Don’t be a martyr for too long. But always care for those who cared for you. Don’t be afraid of what you want, throw down some walls, burn some cities, indifference is not my game. If you like what you see, then go and get it; if it doesn’t want you, there will be many others. Friendship is always the first alternative. Then you will deserve love, and it will render its weapons to you and there will be still something more to add. Something more to err on, something to fix, something to say. But our job is mainly reconstruction of all these old structures that are starting to crack and crumble. Make space for the new by tearing apart the old. More important than being reasonable is being flexible.

Beauty and our obsession with it.. PART 1

So what is the deal when it comes to the opposite sex? Women aren’t happy with men and just the same with men. I have been boggled by this mystery throughout my adult years ever since the pain of my first of many rejections (it happened when I was twelve: a girl named Maria Venilda accepted to be my official girlfriend only because her best friend thought I was cute; we never kissed, not even held hands but her rejection was nonetheless devastating, to say the least). Long ago, I realized that there was more than meets the eye when it came down to attraction and I solicited all of the free advice I could muster or painfully gained, and I can’t say that the love arena hasn’t been all that unfair to me. Then again, I stand six feet one inch tall, I’m in decent physical shape, and unlike many of the hunks out there I have been told I can quite well converse about anything. In other words, I’m sort of a smarty kind of guy. Now intelligence doesn’t guarantee success on love and, quite frankly, sometimes it may even spoil it. We will work on the money issue and the sense of humor later. But the main focus should be on this matter: if I can’t glorify myself as the great achiever in the emotional field and in the end is just as hard for me to get what I want, then what’s left for the average Joe out there? First of all, I think that the whole business of love equates in some respect to that of business. Unlike common wisdom, it’s sort of an art; economy can’t be trusted either at times, am I not right? The economic principle I apply to the affairs of love is the following: the more we have, the more we spend. This is also true of love. If I were filthy rich and famous, I wouldn’t have solved the dilemma because even then I would probably be stuck in a relationship with some gorgeous model or a famous cutie who could very easily make my life miserable. Does that make sense? If female availability were no problem to me, in the ideal sense, then I’m sure that I’d make up ways to come up short handed and feel cheated. We do tend to make ourselves miserable even when the table is mostly turned on our favor. Therefore, from the ugliest people to most beautiful ones, a little bit of pain is always in place. This is healthy, though. No one should live their lives in a perpetual state of bliss, and this goes for all of you hardcore hedonists out there. The obsession we have with beauty! Does that mean I would rather be a simpler, less tall, less handsome kind of guy? Absolutely, not. I like my semi-Adonis self. By the way, I immersed myself for a while writing a book on the subject. I wanted to be precise and concise on the subject, offer some advice to losers who would rather hear it from someone else’s mouth and then take on the next guru that passes by.

By the way...

By the way, I never did call Maria. I will someday, not very far from now. I will venture outside again, and I am well aware that I had said I’d go out. It wasn’t long after I wrote it that I realized I wouldn’t. I spoke to Isabel on the phone. I was at work; she had just gotten back from work. It was a gorgeous night out, and as I exited the building, I walked towards the bus stop because at that very moment the bus happened to pull over, just as I was absent-mindedly checking out these oriental girls. I took the bus to the train station like I only have done twice before. At work, I had the opportunity to apply to several programs that offer college courses online. I had pleased my bosses, I had helped my coworkers, I had done my rounds and I had clothes and money to go out. It’s not that I regret it. Over the course of this week, I will make enough money. Certain essential home items will be acquired. Now it’s time to get back to leisure.

Prelude...

As usual, I am making my log entry. I should probably not call it so since it might end up in a book and a few centuries from now some college kids on a tedious literary project might have to go an extra metaphoric mile in order to decipher what it is was meant by “blog” back in the twentieth century. They could, however, take solace in the notion that I am not remotely focused on the issues portrayed here, and I do have bigger things to think of as of now, later and even then. I wonder if a capsule of time could be opened like a gateway vein and connect this world with that of tomorrow. In our dreams, uncertain circumstances emanate without that heavy rational load that makes reality appear to be bounded by at least several rules and regulations. But reality, if taken too seriously, can be deceiving. Who knows what I’ll do once I leave from here! It’s a gorgeous Saturday night and the day, aside from some late commotion expurgated with impunity by the tenacious hand of duty, has gone smoothly. The words open up to me a universe of possibilities, undauntedly flowing with little regard to or contempt for argument, sentencing structures, as I imagine my walk towards some fun far away from this venture. I will continue with this nonsense, and maybe I’ll surprise the reader, bored to tears by now, with a sickening twist to this insipid transpiring of events. I had the intention to go out again tonight, so this writing might just serve as a prelude to the next… how pretentious of me. But really and rarely have I gone out and not surface with a story worth telling. Let’s see what then.

Regarding Damien, my "alter ego"

I had the idea of compiling all of my writings concerning diaries of mine, some of which date back to a decade ago. I discussed it with Jorge, who designed utopicos.com and he was enthusiastic about it. For a very long time, I went by the name of Damien. It had occurred to me, not as many simple minded people had suggested as the theological nemesis of the Christian deity. Instead, the idea of adopting a different name had been ingrained in me ever since I realized, like most individuals, I disliked my name. I read Hermann Hesse’s Damien. It was also a symbolic demolition of my former self. The irresolute, timid, often introspective individual I was up to then. I am, in many ways, in an inside-out process which aims at seeing the world that I want through visualization, then making whatever amends necessary to see it come to life. I better stop all of this esoteric talk and get on with writing in a more mundane style. I have the potential to owe in the beginning and then fade away eventually, sort of a bang before the imminent silence. Anyone who has seen a storm in the openness of nature, when a lightning heralds a catastrophic thunder that descends like a bolt of fire upon the earth and brightens it all, may have also noticed the calm amidst the tempest. Isn’t that the second time I use this metaphoric analogy? Tautologically forthcoming, I’ll put it down in simpler terms: I made the mistake of writing down this very diary webpage along with my cell number and my email address in the paper handed to my mysterious cutie on the D train. I also had the bad taste of putting down as a name Damien; that wasn’t as crazy, for after all she is still a stranger. So I thought about correcting it. It’s that the paper that I actually gave her with my name on it and my phone number and all, was intended to be for Crystal, a friend at work who has recently started school and in order to instill some enthusiasm in her I offered my unconditional support when it came to study-related work. Now I know it sounds like there are many names in here but if anyone makes an effort to note will realize that in fact only two potential “conquests” are on my mind recently. One, of course, is my dear Maria. Secondly, my dear stranger traveling on the D train. This was an attempt to correct something that may not have any effect as I know that the most probable outcome will be nothing. Nonetheless, it is worth the venturing nerve of trying.

On the D train, a pretty stranger and a brief history of lovely failures

Last night, as I was making my way home from an exhausted day at Pfizer headquarters, I decided to take a walk down the streets with the objective of going to H&M, the clothing store on seventh and 34th street. Often, I have done the exact thing, in order to combat that all too common tedium that arises from every corner of life if the instinctual vital signs aren’t properly followed, and see the people cross us as we pass by, familiar strangers trapped in their usual existences, longing for an encounter that never quite manifests itself. I like being part of this whole hormonal phenomenon. Sure, I’ll be short for the week but I can’t resist inviting that completely perfect unfamiliar person to go out, as if it were the result of a spontaneous combustion. It’s sort of art: if you take too long, it evaporates, like most tangible dreams in their frail initial state. But if you stomp on it, they disappear immediately in the form of refusal, it occurs similarly when we rush into things and come out with the feeling that only if we had exerted some discretion it might have had a different outcome. The key is to be casual, to deceive with honesty, to disarm with hidden venom. Like jumping rope: you let a few rounds hit the floor and calculate the moment in which to jump in. It’s a process both instinctual and well thought out. Then you realize there and then that the moment has escaped you, that the chance you had is forever gone and that it’s you again walking down a street with your mind lost in oblivion, a cycling chimera of possibilities that never quite materialize. How many times we see the mixture of lust and tenderness embodied in a girl, the invisible social barriers that make a stranger such, and even if we dare to speak up or act on, we know more often than not it won’t come to be what already is in our minds? That’s why we must strive to make the wild outdoors resemble the most our inner child, have the courage to take the bull by its thorns and render to calmness the tempest, taming the beast.
I bought a pair of pants one for me and another for a generous cause, and this had already an impact on my mood. Those acts of kindness and vanity are healthy self-esteem progenitors that render our inhibitions useless.
I saw her on the 34th street platform for the D train and I was stopped on my tracks. I made sure that I allowed some space of discretion between us but it was too late then: she had already seen and was seen. Like mad children in love, we just stared into each others’ souls. I felt that all too strange familiarity that I have consistently portrayed on my writings ever since almost a decade ago I lost the opportunity to meet a pretty girl sitting diagonally from me in a seven train on my way to work. I remember at that time I was so shy I didn’t know how to respond to her responsiveness, I was absurdly stuck on the moment of indecision which quite frankly is one of the worst decisions that can be made. I got off in the same station she did, I remember that much audacity. I followed her down the path that leads to transfer with the number One and Nine trains. But then the whole situation got kind of embarrassing and we found ourselves in the mist of invisible crowds, streams of consciousness, and I felt vividly the harsh cold bitterness of having missed a great opportunity. It was one of the moments that propelled my new persona, a man who is no longer afraid of who he is, someone constantly redefining himself, still full of mistakes to be corrected and intensely alive most of the time. This is why I am kind of self-conscious about confessing that at times that old archetype of behavior comes across and leaves me puzzled. Now, ever since my high school sweetheart in disguised, one of my dearest people on earth and beyond, Melody, confessed to me long ago that if I had asked her out back in school she would have said yes; right there and right then, I decided that I will no longer be shy. In a more recent history of self improvement, when I met Claudia, of whom I felt a strong connection to, and then lost her due to not being quite the achiever she is, I decided to build myself from scratch and achieve a level of success that only a legion of self-improved gurus could dream of attaining. With Melody, I crushed my timid self; with Claudia, I became gradually successful. Rarely is the least to say that none of them know the impact that they had on me but honestly I believe that it was I who had the most impact on me. I saw that these tendencies were an obstacle between me and that sense of self-realization that any intelligent human being aspires for itself.
As I sat there, diagonally from the girl of my dreams, I realized that I am constantly in the same existential struggle. But this particular one I have already conquered. She was accompanied by a woman who seemed to be related to her, at least in looks only much older. There were people in between our eyes, and when the train finally cleared I read clearly the answer in her companion’s lips to her desperate question: “Is he looking” she had asked her. “Yes, he is” the female companion answered. Yes, I was. So, I simply wrote down some notes in a piece of paper, thinking perhaps of the boy I once was, and honoring the past and the potential future, I focused on the present. I approached her as she was leaving the train and lightly descended the gravity of my hand upon her shoulder to call her attention. As she turned around, I was facing my myth, which soon became my reality, and handed her my scrabbled note. I hope she calls; if she doesn’t, at least it would be of reassurance that it won’t be my fault. As I wrote briefly in a line on the bottom of the paper: “I know that the chances of you actually taking a chance on me are slim, but I gotta try anyway.” I did my part.

Acting on impulse when it comes to emotions?

I’ve had one of those revitalizing siestas that have a surrealistic impact on the mind, questions of existential nature arise and the feeling that there’s a vast invisible world at its full machinery working, makes any attempt by reason to seem diminished in comparison. I also thought of Maria, again. I had an impulse to call her since we don’t know why is it that we decide to do what we do nor why sometimes when we decide on it, leave it. But I left it at that. I do not want to alter my reality by opening adjacent channels to flow through. Couldn’t, perhaps, these very same thoughts have a provoking, devastating effect if I, for instance, suddenly chose to pick up the phone and call her? That would represent a change, but we don’t entirely know if it would be for good. It would be a viceral impulse and common wisdom has it that it is good to apply it in respect to our emotions. It's not true: emotions also demand some of the same moderation and caution applied to business. It’s not that I abandoned the idea, of course; on the contrary, I want her and her gorgeous self more than I can confer here. What I am becoming lately is more effective in the way I handle emotions because after all they are the reason we are where we are right now. Rarely do we exert the discipline and abnegation that our reasoning demands, and if we chose, for instance, to give a detailed example of a perfect life the very picture depicted will have very little in common with our reality. We know best yet we seem to apply the worst. Let’s face it: we’re great at being miserable. Not to be cynical but we are not often the result of our best efforts. Our best efforts more often than not are limited by our tendency to slack off, to fall madly in love or in torture, to hide behind our fears and dreams, and in order to get the job done leave a margin of error far greater than planned sometimes. I was in this situation before, I can tell myself, and I don’t remember coming out of it victorious or any wiser than I was before. In fact, many of the situations in which I encounter myself daily have a consistent pattern not all evident, and at times it seems that I have gone through this very process over and over and over again. Until, that is, I get it right. Then I suppose a new platform, a superior level is achieved. True: instead of desisting from the plan at hand, find new ways to conquer it. But what if we have the wrong road map? What if we’re in for the longest repetition of failure as in the mirrored mirror effect? There are always ways to do things more effectively, granted. Educating the beast within happens to be one of these venues. Imagine the things that could be accomplished if we were all to work to the fullest of our potential. Potential, per say, wouldn’t then be potential. It would be capacity in motion. This is also a chimera, a utopia, an illusion. Now I will leave all of these potential scenarios to their desolate expectations and call my dear Maria.

Trinidad vs. Mayorga

I saw Mayorga versus Trinidad fight yesterday night from outside a window in a first floor apartment on the street of my desolate and dangerous looking Bronx. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. As I was making my way home, I stopped at the deli and then farther down the road home, I saw the quiet commotion of the bystander. I stood there and we exchanged comments on the fight. Mayorga was getting the beating of a lifetime but he was also missing the huge punches that he was throwing Trinidad’s way and finding asylum on the air. That took away a lot from Mayorga, who seemed nonetheless to have a titanic chin to withstand and absorb such punishment. Trinidad was not the overall dominant boxer on the ring; he was careful and even moved around well, like I’ve never seen him do in other bouts. It was just a bloodied affair. Mayorga seemed to get a second wing following a low blow by Trinidad that gave him a respite. If it weren’t for that, the fight might have ended earlier. Quiet honestly, I have a tendency to root for the underdog or choose the fight who more often than not loses. I had a feeling that Mayorga might win but I said, as usual, that I thought Trinidad would come out victorious. Coming out of a long retirement, Trinidad showed that rest doesn’t always equate rust. That briefly made my world make sense again.

No great thrills but the night out still beats staying home

It was not a good idea to go out yesterday night. I had my doubts ever since my friend Jorge jumped to the offer to go out and we agreed to meet in Antigua. The thing about Antigua is that there is no dancing and as I was going there, I thought maybe a different course might be in place. So starting early in the day, I had already my doubts and taking the subway with a can of orange juice and vodka was not quite the nirvana I had envisioned. I reprimanded myself for having this selfish outlook but what I really wanted to do was go all out and wild. So I suggested lightly that we could go to Kaña. At the beginning, Jorge effortlessly rejected the idea because after all it’s the city and not around his neighborhood like Antigua is. These friends of mine having cars and being subjected to the same venues! I take the 4 from the Bronx into the city and still I’m not sure which is the fastest way to get to 82nd street and Roosevelt in Queens. I transfer at 59th and take whatever happens to pass by first between the R and the N trains hoping it’s the latter that does so first. But on massive transportation, you don’t get to choose.
In Antigua, I was growing wary of the same scenario. I was careful not to sound pushy about leaving but Jorge had reassured me that as soon as his father in law and his son in law came back with his car we will leave. Michael called and said that he would show up in a half hour. Which he did and then we left. Sad to say that at that moment, Antigua was looking better than when we first arrived. They were charging at the entrance. There was going to be a band performing later on.

We got to the city in no time. Michael drove us there in his car. We spoke of politics in the same deli on the corner as we drank our beer. That was, I believe, the most fun of it. Kaña is in its decadence. A shadow of its former self. The 15 dollar cover charge for men and women alike has gradually killed the party. At least the girls should be allowed in for free. Or they could have them pay ten dollars instead of fifteen and, in order to make up the difference, make the gentlemen pay twenty. Wherever there are girls, there is business. But at the door of that particular establishment there is only greed. We stayed there in astonishment as we saw that if there were three good looking girls they were already taken. But there weren’t. We did, however, had fun. Michael was wasteful of his resources as usual inviting these three girls (one of which I spent a portion of the night dancing with) and in the end giving the wrong digits to call him. I don’t get where he pretends to go with this plan. Mine was very simple: make the most of it, have a blast, celebrate the company of your friends, and if the place is not so great and you already had tried another place, well, there will always be another time. No great thrills but the night out still beats staying home.

This was actually written yesterday

I received this morning my bronze trophy from the International Society of Poetry engraved with the following inscription: “Outstanding Achievement in Poetry Awarded to: Boris F. Amar.” It follows: “On this 15th day of August, 2004, by the International Society of Poetry.” Along with my trophy, I was granted a membership card with my name on it that expires on September, 2005; also, a golden dark medallion and a 100 dollars discount certificate for any future convention before 2005. I am not as thrilled as the occasion would merit. It’s an achievement, nonetheless. In a little while, I’ll send my sister in Colombia her weekly pension. I received word from Paola, my other sister who lives here in New York that my Colombian sister lost her job and times are hard. Luckily, she still gets to finish her college semester. Aside from my small contribution to them, I just completed a 45minute aerobic session. I spoke to Jorge, my friend in Queens, about the possibility of publishing ourselves a book of mine. He seemed enthusiastic about the idea and even offered me input and financial support. I will work on this project for the next few months and then I will seek out the best online deal to market my work. What a great time to be alive.
Now, later at night, I’m listening to a selection of music that consists of five compact disks playing at random, some of which have different artists, including the ones I had said to buy today: Juanes’ latest album, Mi Sangre, and Franco de Vita’s Stop. I shall listen and then decide whether they were worth the economical effort. I was kind of thirsty for something fresh but musically inclined to give a vote of confidence over new bands. Besides, the last time I satisfied my adventurous taste. I bought an album of greatest hits by Jimmy Hendrix. That was just an enormously delayed tribute. Constructively, I indulge in my senses, have a nice cold beer and some great music, if you happen to smoke, smoke. We work for the fun part of life. This has been nothing more than sheer pleasure. Tomorrow, a long day of simple minded labor awaits me. Now it’s time to turn my attention to the party. The one they have inside.

This is today:

Now that I have listened to both albums, I regret to inform that Franco de Vita's effort is of a far, greater quality than Juanes'. I am now immersed into household chores. The one I had left forever unattended: the closet full of correspondence, manuscripts, letters, ancient stuff.