“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were afire with a pink halo of hatred that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.

"The unexamined life is not worth living" -Socrates

"KNOW THYSELF" -- Socrates

"Wise is he who knows that he knows nothing." - Socrates

"Do not seek to have events happen as you want them to, but instead want them to happen as they do happen, and your life will go well." -- Epictetus

"No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but things which produce certain pleasures bring troubles many times greater than the pleasures." -- Epicurus

"Natural wealth is both limited and easy to attain, but wealth, as defined by groundless opinions, extends without limits." - Epicurus

Attached like muscle tissue,
Exchanging our ****** dew.
Danger, high blood pressure,
Epicurus pleasure.
Our flesh and bones leave red residue.

The pen is heavier than expected,
dragging on the page,
requiring more effort,
ruining the wondrous beauty of being effortless.

Epicurus beating through my head,
creating The Garden,  I ponder through happiness,
admiring how he can simply be peace of mind,
and how striving to be him feels completely mindless.

Waking up through a coma,
into a nightmare,
questioning reality, dripping with fear,
but ever so slowly becoming fearless.

Because embracing the idea of non-existence,
like you embrace the thought that maybe somebody loves you,
believing in that empty space makes sense,
creating the realm of possible, the realm of love, of senseless.

Language is what links us with anyone, and anything,
human beings merge the world of word with the physical,
so when you are experiencing great pain,
remember you are always in control,  to create the realm of painless.

If death is morningless sleep
As Epicurus taught
The mind might quest this quietude
Or distressed become distraught

To sleep forever and ever
Eternity an endless Night
Without a wakefulness
Nor things working out alright

To sleep perchance to dream
This thought gave even Hamlet pause
What dreams may come indeed
When we escape Time's finite laws

Impossible to know for sure
Our minds become quite mythic
Some see braindeath degeneracy
Some see sacred symbols -
     both human and hieroglyphic

To live well and to die well is the same task.
Epicurus

the song of the old rusty swing
like a frozen pane
(somewhere in a passing memory)
not knowing if there can be
such thing as genuine trust,
you wait for transparent nights
amid angst,
the turmoil of words, rushing gestures,
tired patterns
suffocating all
clairvoyance
you wake up from the lethargy of dreams
to the cruelty of life devoid
of connection
a door got jammed

your parents and their distant lives
-their past is your future-
carrying their never ending childhood
like a message in a bottle
the contraction of days bears you the same
the taste of death is just a habit now
no safeguard
you whisper your dreams to the ragged baby doll -
“Bebe” is here for you
You’re the pain taster
forcing dangerous juxtapositions
or the silent screaming melodies
abundant in misattunement
while mother flashes her cracked smile
on empty days
it might have been better to swallow
her thoughts
while father has a croaked ambition
never to rest
translating his will of power

the promise of tomorrow
left you unscathed
slipping out of time
needs practice,
a neat forehead,
to bear in mind that
light holds on to uncertainty
every time you fall

last mile home is the hardest

Epicurus put it well.

We need not concern ourselves with death, for
so long as we consider it,
it does not exist.
And when we cease to exist
and can no longer consider it,
it is of no concern.

So . . . what the hell?

Epicurus put it very well.

1.

Destitute with the search,
The realization is slowly creeping forward,
Where lies true love?
Where lies comfort and serenity?
The soft touch of glancing lips,
The heat and the passion for life’s eternity.

2.

Nothings sacred anymore,
Nothings true,
Innocence remains with the few,
The mind is being starved of pure thought,
The masses cavort in shallow seas,
Bypassing the breeze,
And embracing the screaming storm.

3.

Live for the moment cried Epicurus,
The garden philosopher of society defiance,
The omnipotent culture of corruption beckons,
Power and wealth has overcome knowledge,
And with it comes ferocious death,
Millions in a single breathe.

4.

And as beauty strives to survive,
It's essence being burned alive,
Endure the torture and pain,
For personal nirvana is real,
And soon you'll feel,
The silk caress of unconditional love.
...........................................................­.

“The hottest love has the coldest end.”
-Socrates

You were there. Like stardust ever dancing in the light as if infinity swirls to you. Your existence declines my being. You waived all presences, defying the mnemonics of what qualifies existence.

You were there—not now.

Before, we were strangers looking at some abyss. After, we are strangers excited of what the future holds for both of us. In between, we are still strangers cursing all pains stinging our hearts.

Time inflicts its greatest wound: recollection. Malt ferments. Soul dies. Mind breaks down. Bubbles in beers imploded to every motion of the hand swaying, wishing it never touched you. Dreams stitched to rags given to wipe dusts and rusts. Time betrayed us, then and again. You were there but not now. Time cursed the being. Time stabbed us causing my heart to burn.

If only I can love you without time minding us all.

Atoms fall. They swerve a little, says Epicurus. Repulsion with others creates the world. That repulsion is a lasting encounter.

What holds that philosophy to be true is antimony. What holds us after all is just an illusion.

When I stumble upon old things finding some boxes, I remember you. When I see your picture in an old frame, forgetting becomes a sickness.

Is there a pill that can selectively erase your fading silhouette in my memory? Confession: I took that pill long ago. My mind fabricates immunity.

You were there in the horizon standing, holding an umbrella, ready to swerve from the rain that once made our love so cold and true.

I was there.

That night, the rain substituted to a poet’s tears.

a little morning light
hey now, Epicurus

I slept on the floor
and woke, though you assure us

death is endless Night
never morning glory

but does the final door
begin the ending story?

“…knowledge of the beginning and the end, and of that all-pervading Reason which orders the universe in its determinate cycles to the end of time"
- Marcus Aurelius's definition of the sage

*I’m starting to think poets are bleeding ink
Longing for true understanding, an oath on the stand
Mentally sinking in quicksand, trials never finish
Fear of diminishing quicker than our escape plan

Seeking wisdom in time for our demise,
and as we're writing our words, our fears are in disguise
Intricate word-weaving, we’re prisoners of the moment,
spilling ink on the paper and anxious for our atonement

The dream of a dreamer’s quick to take him places
A limbo of the unknown, and filled with many faces
Endless deliberation with the jury of the mind
Furious and made in a hurry, truly “one of a kind”

But truthfully one of many, and so it’s up to you
Live an Epicurus life, happiness is a truth
Patient examination of nature is natural
A masterful snap of the mental camera is factual

The sage’s knowledge of reason is unilateral
Theory of forms and as Plato had put it
It’s reason you see before you that offers spatial relationships
Properties seeming apparent - hope you relate to this

Believe nothing you hear and half of what you see
Our fears are found in the lines written by you and me
So keep the words coming, never stop pursuing wisdom
Enlightenment of the soul towards a new beginning.

Counting electric sheep
as I toss and turn and sigh.
I'll pray to Chronos if ever
I get to sleep tonight.
If ever, whenever, whichever, little heaven.

We lost another one
or so it would seem.
She left us High and Dry,
Walking On A Dream.
I'll wander my memory
under the covers (of sleep)
and remember so little
of that which I dreamt.

"Et in Arcadia ego";
Even in harmonious Arcadia
there is death.
So practice those words
which Epicurus left.

It's impossible to be serious
once you consider
the absurdity of existence
so keep in mind
his letter to Menoeceus.
Staring at the Cirrus clouds
as they drift by, Pan
(paniscus) is by my side.

We are beings-towards-death, said Heidegger. Death is not some far-off . . .  sudden point. We carry it moment to moment. We cross it from moment to moment. We are death mules with no destination. Just “towards”. Two words. Fall in. Fall front. Face first. Eyes closed. Death. There is another gap to bridge. What is death like? Imagine. We can never exist at the same time as death, said Epicurus. But don’t we? Is this not death’s bridge we are standing on? Ok. We are off. On now. Back down. Here again. Shiver at the forever first step on the wooden planks of death’s bridge. It’s wet and not rotted. Over before we know it. On it again. Crossing it is sinking down. Is going up. Is becoming more three-dimensional. Is speeding up. Is heating up. Is melting slowly into the veins of the wood. We can never guess where this bridge ends. Begins. Sand blocks between the water. Dry as bone. The paper between printed words. Soft as stone. Being has requirements. It builds death’s bridge. For us. We must. Shine our shadow over it. If death is a lighthouse we are its gasoline. Its penance. We are the ship and the closing distance. We’re the collision. Cake crumble concrete. We are so many cats landing on feet. We are this moment dead and that moment reborn. Again. Again. Again. We are the bridge we take moment to moment. We are.

Dear Readers
I am no philosopher, nor had I taken any course in philosophy.
Furthermore, I have read very little though there are some philosophers who are close to my heart---Montaigne, Marcus Aurelius, Epicurus, Seneca, Epictectus, Nietzsche, Sartre, Camus and a few more.

However, I have plunged myself into the writings of Confucius, Lao-Tze (author of Tao Te-Ching) and his followers', Buddhism and Zen.

I never planned to write this 'life series'-- after having written a few,
I couldn't stop. But these were not 'forced' thoughts--it's as though they had been latent somewhere in the labyrinth of my mind--in incubation-  waiting for the right time to hatch.

A writer must have honesty and integrity.  I did not have a book in front of me so that I could copy an idea and then ventured to restate in my own words--all the ideas I have expressed are my own.  
It's intrinsically me thinking about life and my own experiences
and my way of perceiving things.

They had been written at home, in the tram, in the library, in coffee-joints--even mentally when I had my regular walks.

No doubt, some would not agree with what I have said and I am not the least offended or unhappy in any way as such---I welcome their comments so that I could re-examine what I had expressed. I would even learn from them.  

I realised right from the start that I could inadvertently stir up a hornet's nest but I was prepared to take that risk, even to the extent of
being challenged or ridiculed.

No one looks at life in the same way as we are all unique.  At the same time, none has the monopoly of knowledge or wisdom--not even the brightest among us.  Life is such that we could only understand some parts of it with most being unknowable.  There are limits to our understanding but we don't throw our hands in the air and give up-
we are thinking creatures and are never content to stay stagnant-
it's in our nature to explore, to reach out, to understand and try to make sense of things that matter or our life would have little meaning or value- we have to push frontiers and test our limits to be able to come to our own.  

It's in the light of the above that I have marshalled enough courage to
write this 'life-series'.

I sincerely hope that readers would come forward to talk to me.

My best wishes to all of you.
4th December 2017, Melbourne

Try Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Epicurus, the Buddha's  and the teachings of Zen.

If the mind doesn't choose in its neutrality,  the person cannot be thrown out of his equanimity and equilibrium.

Death is nothing according to all these modes of thinking.

The right way of living conquers death.

Holding on to security is the greatest impediment to peace of mind and happiness.

Thus, accepting impermanence is the greatest wisdom.

The self that holds too tightly to itself lives in fear and causes its own suffering--it has not grasped that it exists only in temporal time and that soon enough, it will perish as all living creates must at the end.


Be empty, be grateful, be gentle with yourself in self-compassion,  be in harmony with yourself, with your fellow-beings and with the universe, exercise compassion and humility, embrace and accept the moment, be it joy or pain, discard all trivia, drop all regrets,

forget time--the past is no more and the future exists only in thought,-- enjoy the simplest of things, have humour even in your darkest hours and when calls on you, walk into its shadows in fullest acceptance, grace and dignity.

Morningless sleep
That's what Epicurus called death
A Republican wetdream
Nobody Woke

What Americans value most is money
All those SUVs
Doctors with degrees
George W. Lied. Nobody spoke.

Avatar 2 was boring
Paul Theroux's Deep South
Buy a sword
Sell your cloak

Mr. David Markson
Viva Mexico!
Senyor Santayana yo ...
Alone. Tired. Old. Sick. Broke.

Rest in Peace, they say
and surely they mean well

is annihilation rest?
ain't no tongue can tell

peace only briefly possible
in this world of woe

if death is morningless sleep
therefore, speaks Epicurus:  farewell, I told you so.

THE ART OF LIVING

the gigantic wave
of the mountain
hurling itself upon

the impossible blue
of the land
of the sky

the moment
set in stone
happening

again &
again
in my mind

*

First time ever in Greece and I step out the door that first morning and the whole landscape is doing that OREAD thing and the moment claimed me for its own.

Epicurus   - The Art of Happiness

Oread
BY H. D.

Whirl up, sea
—whirl your pointed pines,
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.

If death is morningless sleep
As Epicurus taught
The mind might quest this quietude
Or perhaps recoil at such a thought

To sleep forever and ever
Eternity an endless night
For some the ultimate rest
For others an image of fright

To sleep perchance to dream
This thought gave even Hamlet pause
What dreams may come indeed
When we escape Time's finite laws?

Impossible to say for sure
Our minds become quite mythic
Some see Plato's noble lies
Some see sacred symbols - both human and hieroglyphic.

But the black plan of 1973, I do not know.
1973, 1973, 1973-1973 and 1977 Death ...
Bar Bar 40, 1943, 1973 and 1973, Cars 2,
7 Percent, 40th Century, 980 (4) 80 980
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/ Ancem 1973 / IHH H30-1650 2980 1037
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"family history" Italian Call 40,450 20 40
40 197 197 1974 19 73 1973 980-1 Ethiopia
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Brown Shoe TSGL 40% F 50 40.45 / 21 1973
1973 21 119.345kg Personal Privacy Notice 2
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40/73 Carro Valley, 2, 1973 -1973. Since 1973,
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"Standard" "This is the first interpretation
of the New Testament." Barry-40, Divide 1943
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and in the "9th and 50th Centuries Between
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of Prado Dodoism 1, 2, 7 -40, 11-11, directors
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and John William Amanda 73 73 450, special
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and Nineteen 40 30 - 1650 2980 1037 100 17
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Sanctions bombs MS: Ban Summer
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"Met cafe" Estimates 40,450 20-20 Ihiya 197 40 40
1974 19 73 1973 Ithi 980-1 Yavari 2 0 - 40 40 biviv
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980-1037, LucySync, 40, 45, tdt 0.23 average 5.7 mm,
40 kg cart, 2, 1973-1973. 1973
variusadalli, nyajaya "Rumi and Pamela" Translator
version. 1973, 1973-1973, 1977, & quote; Sandal
& quote; Like & quot; Manugug & quot; "... Karl
Mohamed Barr Guti Baño Gog Galcasululus"
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1037 100 8 1207 17:20 Sunday, Sarah in Italy
19 73 Free 40,450 20 40 40 197 197 1974 19 73 1953
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2, Rahra Karat Mat Rachach 40 1 73 45 0-450 403
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