Log 2 / 1-08-13

August 1, 2013

Living can be dangerous. I am not even talking about the dangerous variety of living where one is required to jump out of airplanes to test experimental parachutes – scale the upper reaches of the seven great peaks without oxygen…I am referring to plain ordinary everyday living – the boring sort where a man wakes up, brushes his teeth, puts on his tie and joins the rest of humanity to march off to the glorious life of a post modernist battery chicken – the model worker.

So ordinary that life proceeds at roughly the speed of a motorized wheelchair and requires probably the same amount of brain power it takes to tie your shoelaces to get through a day – the sort of living where one can even seek comfort in the sugary and homily familiar, predictable and the assurande that today will begin and end exactly like yesterday – where nothing ever really changes and if it did, it always has the courtesy to do so by respecting your space and privacy to do so in steady increments – no, nothing changes. Each day is a perfecr facsimile of yesterday, except perhaps the diminishing size of your toothpaste or its time to have a hair cut – everydayness is a sort of meditation.

Come on be open minded for a change and go with me on this one – everyday is a sort of meditation – it’s not so different from a man rolling a prayer bead in between his thumb and index finger – as one day slips by uneventfully and another unfolds – its not so different from one prayer bead sliding past another to one that resembles the last in every detail – there is no beginning or end – just the happy litany – where the pages of life turn. Automatically. One chapter comes to and end. Another begins. So on and so forth.

One day this man who has till now marinated himself in his God of everydayness wakes up and suddenly he finds that everything he once regarded as timeless, immovable and set in stone has changed irrevocably – this man is suddenly finds himself flaying like a drowning man – he tries to reach out to something that he can hold on to keep afloat. But there’s nothing – at first this man puts up a fight – but eventually the cold and desolation whirls deep into the marrow of his bones – sending shards of grieve that seem to cut right through his soul – eventually all he wants to do is give up – to just let go and sink – no need to struggle. No need to fight any longer. To just let go.

But this man holds on. As there is still enough of old him left to remind the shell of the man – that he needs to go on.

Somewhere between these thoughts as I stood on the hill and looked out at the ocean of swaying palms – I felt the tenderness and warmth of a woman as her arms embraced my waist followed by the blaming weight of body into a my back.

I knew it was Jia Jia. I did not stop her. I don’t have the power or will to stop her. Or maybe…..no.

Living can be so dangerous. So terribly dangerous.

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