thoughts on (ideals of) love

i am watching a movie, ‘Anna Karenina’ (which i highly recommend that you watch, because not only is the storytelling rich and immersive, but the cinematography is unique in a very theatre-esque way that i cannot describe), and it dawns upon me that what you said the other day is entirely true - that love and adoration is subject to a person’s current wants and needs, susceptible to change at the slightest perturbation, and victim of our whims and malleability of being human. and though this is not something new to me - that any emotion be fluctuant with the mood of the day - it disturbs me to think that an ideal so entrenched in society as listed above is so subjective, so precarious, so sensitive, that our own perceptions of that ideal between individuals is nigh incompatible. to others, the idealisation of love is different things - a comprehensive and almost unintelligible letter written in Victorian nuance and delivered in hand, a subtlety of unspoken words like between the protagonists of a Korean drama, an accent alleviated by a favourite language, the first glimpse through a proverbial veil that Egyptian princesses hold as dear as Japanese country-folk, and in the case of Anna Karenina as i am learning to appreciate, the empathic projection of a strong but sorrowful Russian tragedy. please, do not mistake my blatantness and lack of examples as a sign of ignorance or naivety. i have always known that if i were to base my utopian postulations of love on the writings of Austen, or Dostoyevsky, or Rumi, or Marcia, or Poe; i would, but for a sliver of a chance be disappointed time and again in the search for realisation - or at least for reciprocation. and to this, i submit, that the sacrifice of perfection is a necessary (but small) price to pay for the attaining of that which i idealise itself - love. but this is a far cry from acknowledging that it does not exist. if anything, i am a person of compromise, and should any hint of such concession be available, i would embrace it whole-heartedly.


this being said, i do not think i empathise with your feeling that love is not absolute (and you must pardon the use of the term ‘absolute love’, as you have aptly pointed out, there is no such thing, and my use of it bears only from the necessity of distinguishing an absolute form of adoration from a relative one). what you have said that love will change with time and place, is true - and though my lack of personal experience dictates i cannot say with any amount of authority, i find it dreary and distraught to believe that any change in such a strong emotion can warrant disengaging from a love. i feel that it is ironic that relationships are built on a wider base than once before (no longer do we extrapolate from dainty eyes meeting from across a room, or flitting fingers from a series of waltzes through the night, or shied smiles behind a curtain when elders come in stead of a wanting and proposing young man, or curved that writing that letters delivered in person in the shroud of starless nights), the imperative to propagate it is left with so much to desire. is it not designed that the opposite should be? that if there is anything to hold with unyielding devotion, beyond religion and family and friends, it should be the preservation of (a) love? i am not sure i am convinced, but i hope it is not wrong for me to want (and hope). regardless of peoples’ motives and how they go about realising such things (or abandoning, as i would distastefully warrant), i feel that, if only by semantics and definition for my own sake, love should be held at a post higher than something that is so mercurial and fleeting, and that once it is attained, there should be no questioning what it is.

parallel to this train of though, it would be pertinent to point out that i do not pretend to comprehend any of this. wherefore i should continually ask you for opinions and advice is because of this lack of understanding; do not belittle that i should want to understand something complex, far beyond me. if anything, i hope it is admirable that i try, for even in failure, i can only hope to think of myself as having searched, if never having to find. perhaps love really is purely utopian, and any manifestation of it in this world is a meek shadow of what it should be, and not having gazed upon its splendour is only befitting for those who worship it far too much. mayhap it is in vilifying love and bringing it down from a pedestal that we can truly begin to bask in its exaltation - and as such, it is better that any semblance of love that i may have in my mind stay there, lest it be defiled by something more ‘real’ and flawed.

p/s: do watch Anna Karenina if you get the chance. i have yet to complete it myself due to other commitments, but from what i have watched, it reminds me fondly of ‘the brothers Karamazof’, and i think you will like it very much.

paradise reprieve

little land ‘pon which i stand, is barely ‘nough for one,
yet bountiful and blessed like no place under the sun;
my little isle, of humble stead, whose limits reach beyond my head,
for all i see is governed but by that which i have read.

with golden shores of sun streaked sands upon the white that is this land,
how could lush green not grow like thoughts that wished for by all God’s good men?
hark! come the mores, with ill intent, the pirates, ruffians, thieves;
who knows what have their ill intents, and what they’ve up their sleeves,
but come, too, do the merchants, politicians, priests abound,
for where there’s gold, there’s glory too, and fortune to be found;
but with a sigh, i beg their leave, despite their fore or fun,
this little land, ‘pon which i stand, is made for only one.

so take the mores, by shiploads of the gleaming gems and stone,
i bid them well, as do farewell, that they leave me alone;
here with my peace, in company of all that i deserve,
to preach, to play, to lie and lay, with fatigue or with verve.

but once upon a crescent moon, that yellow, blue or red,
a special someone comes along in lieu of a mores’ stead;
to envy some who have their isles embanked for something - someone - bold,
indeed, it is for them to choose, to wisp, to wade, to hold;
but can’t i see, beyond the bend, that straight which light should curve?
we all accept the love we think we ought, and do deserve.

from shore to shore, and back again, i’ve lived and loved this land,
even when no envy comes for whom and who could stand;
upon this island, quite contrite, like webs of fiction spun,
oh, little land ‘pon which i stand, ’tis only meant for one.

it's caturday!

today, as i was walking home from the university, i chanced upon a domestic cat. not an uncommon sight, around the residential areas of nedlands, and definitely unremarkable a cat as ever there could be one. if my recollection does not fail me, she was brown with black stripes; and she had fierce, piercing amber eyes. of what breed she could have been, ask me not - i cannot tell a tabby from a siamese (well, i probably could, but i am not versed even in the slightest of cat breeds). as i normally would, with all cats that i should meet, i becked upon this cat (let us call her latifah, after the queen of sorts).

i think, it is relevant, if not also of some import, that i point out here that i am generally quite amiable with and towards cats. that i should normally be able to approach, if not befriend, and even play with a cat at the first instance of meeting is a fair given, and one that i am severely proud of, too! however, latifah, like all good cats, and all good queens, would not have any of this.

indeed, what happened is a definition of 'cat-and-mouse', which unfortunately, makes me the mouse of sorts (also bringing new meaning to the phrase, 'of mice and men'). i would squat a fair distance from latifah, say approximately 50 meters, and beckon her with mews and by the extension of my hand, only to have her crouch in a most apprehensive stance, and shy away from me. were i to close the gap, she would, for a while remain, only to skitter off to a more comfortable distance after a dozen seconds or so. and so i would feign giving up, and walk my way home, upon which latifah would begin to follow me - eventually meowing as if asking for my attention.

this cycle of pretense, disdain and inquisitiveness would repeat for a spell. maybe lasting half an hour, and having gone through seven revolutions, as i realise that i was running late. not to be outdone, however, i did manage to sneak in a final attempt at courting latifah - with the obvious and expected result of her running away quite swiftly (only to stop when she was safely behind a house's fence [which is uncommon here, as most houses are not fenced]). of course, in this particular case, it is easy to dismiss latifah, and any loss would be on her behalf (think of all the purring that could have been had! the neck scratches and the nose twiddles!). and, of course, it is made easier that there are many cats around the neighbourhood who would happily want for a little scratch-lovin'!

later in the day, it made me think: girls are like cats.

the longest reprieve

that which we have come to know as sleep.

i have wondered for a long time: why is it that we need to sleep? though neurophysiology has taught me little of an answer, and psychology has addressed the question from many vantages, i cannot say that i truly understand why we need sleep. in fact, i do not think i can even graze at an answer. but, i have also come to realise that it is not nearly as important as to why we sleep, as whenceforth. now, bear with me, and indulge a silly fan of shakesperean nuance - these are not the same. i do not know a reason for sleep, biologically; however, i do know that without it, there is a supefluence of disasters that beck upon my soul without sleep.

when i was a person of content and substance, i did not wander far from complacency. and sleep? it was only a convenience, a gift, a wonder. nothing more than an accessory to a livelihood littered with unnecessary wants.

now that i have become a person of self, that i am of less import than what i gave myself credit for, that i sometimes am in deject and loathe - now i see sleep for what it is. and it is indeed a requirement, a necessity, a craving and a bestowment without which, i could not wake from lethargy and (hopefully) death. which is ironic, because without sleep, how can there be waking? indeed, sometimes we slumber in our wake, more than we realise. at least i know i do.

as yet, i have not answered that pivotal question - whenceforth is this need for sleep? in words, i cannot explain. ineffable and indescribable - a feeling rivalled by desire, by love, by hatred, and even complacency itself. but i know this, that if you have ever felt that after a long day, you cannot wait to dream, or sleep an ennui-less eternity, even as your body does not tire, or especially so. then you know this answer in your heart.

play the game (queen music in the background)

what is this game i see you play? it looks so weird but fun,
oh, now one hides, and then one jumps, and why does that one run?
it feels a match where one gives chase and prances, dances, spurns,
but then like a non-sequitur, the other does in turn!

i toss a ball against the wall, it's returned with due force,
then to and for, and back again, with nary a brief pause;
when suddenly, we drop our all, and whereforth the ball goes?
is no concur, you've missed the point, it's of who next now throws!

but wait, there's more, with sleight of hand, what false is now made true,
with magic words and mirrored glass, we've deceived, misconstrued;
so why do what? that chase, that dance, what essence did it pass?
its purpose was, to win, of course, and make it such that thus:
that when one's won, the other's, too, but play the game for fun,
when no longer can you tell start from end, then both are one.

oh, yet again, i've missed the point, i still don't get this game,
who keeps the score? am i ahead? or is the tally same?
oh, my, you say, i've always lost? how's that, we've but begun!
(for anything that gives you points is all under the sun).

so tell me not, the rules of play, derived from calvinball,
for if it were that one could win, without speaking in drawl -
if we hit that bullseye, all the dominoes will fall
like a house of cards - checkmate! (hooray, we've won nothing at all).

the promise of god

nobody really asks me if i believe in god - the assumption, based on background, social standing, cultural influences and religious environment is that i do. i think this extends to myself, as well. so, i never really stopped to ask myself, up till i entered university (which now seems like such a long time ago!) whether i believe in god, or not. i think, a large part of it had to do with that god never really was this being you could opt not to believe in - just that you could choose to believe in through many different means, or religions. and even in those ways, i never thought that there could be different interpretations of god (or godliness). when i first started questioning this about myself, i was very hasty to divert my attention elsewhere. it was, and still is, quite a taboo thing to question the presence of god, and blasphemy was more than just a label, with familial, social and even economic repercussions in the environment i was brought up in. it is bittersweet that in going to university, i had found a place where none of this applied any more, and through continually questioning, and allowing myself to question (myself!) i soon lost this jaded perception that god was too ultimate, too transcendent, too ideal to question. and i found myself wanting by so much.

this is not to say that education has made me a non-believer (though i would have a hard time denying it). this is not to say maturity has made me lose some part of me that before could believe. but, i think somewhere along and between the comparative religion, the interreligious discourses, the self-doubt, the (repeated) failure to appreciate the fatalism that is intrinsic in so many religions, and the illogicalness of so many aspects of (religion and) how religion deems to work out a multitude, if not all cases (but does not); the leeway i used to have for dismissing 'evidence' against god has worn so thin that i am not sure that it exists anymore. if i were to analogously put myself in a court of justifications, even inherently and purposefully biased towards justifying the existence of god, i find that judge, jury and audience (for lack of executioner) all find the defence laughable (though they are all myself. i think of it as a judge dredd-esque proceeding, where there is no other find but guilt). 

in any case, recently (more or so 8 years now, if that can be called recent), i do not feel the urge, responsibility, obligation, or want to hold out for god. i do not wish to suffer his trials, and i do not want for a paradise that is all but promised - not because i am impatient, but because i do not feel that, if i were to be on course, that i should be eligible (and by far unworthy) of such, and if i were not on course, then the purposefulness of such belief is apparent. as much as i would like to analyse the recentmost developments that have encouraged my devotion in such a blasphemous claim, heresy is not what i wish to advocate (as much as i do not wish to sway any liberalist otherwise). indeed, let's not burden ourselves with the semantics and nuances of a single individual's life (of which and whose fallacies and caveats are more likely his or her own, than can be attributable to god), but for simplicity, i would like to touch on the outcome of (any similar) belief:

as any simple statistician (or simple-minded geneticist) will assure you, a 2x2, two-variable square to display results (which, for the geneticist would be a punnett square) is probably the easiest way to do so. and so, let us consider the two variables that:

1) do you believe in god?

2) does god exist?

the dilemma here becomes moral, if god does not exist - would you live an 'ethical' life if you did not believe in god? personal experience, and the way that i would live mine dictates that this is independent of one's beliefs. many non-believers i know live lives more admirable than many pious people i know. just the same way, there are those who don't. and what unsavoury traits or display thereof, i cannot say that i can attribute to any (dis)belief in god. but, for argument's sake, let us say that believing in god makes you a better person, regardless of the existence of god. and what if one does not believe? then not all is lost, for as equal as there will be persons who are good, regardless of motif, there will be good that comes from people in general. i have to say, though, that my inclination is to believe that people will be people: what you believe does not necessarily dictate how this manifests. 

and what, perhaps, if god does exist? that if you do not believe, you are on the wrong team to begin with (and let us not forget, that even in the 'believe' camp, there will be many factions, of which only one is supposedly 'right'). then non-belief does not only condemn you to a life of unpalatable decisions, but also to an afterlife of suffering and languish! and, of course, the converse is that being a believer guarantees you a place in eternal paradise (apparently regardless of worldly action, which i have claimed is not reflective of one's belief in the first place! if only because of this, i think, i will choose to believe. for, any authority has long past left me, and cannot convince me otherwise, any empirical evidence i have had to bear by actually makes  me disbelieve, and any other knowledge i may purportedly harbour is of no significance, because i cannot deduce the existence of god, as much as can i claim to even possess the knowledge to fathom him. indeed, it may be that the true meaning of faith is seeing past such misgivings, regardless and against the light of otherwise. if such is the case, then i am ashamed to say that i do not have enough faith to secure a place by god's side, and if i even tried, i would find myself ever more so lacking. it would be nice, though, to be able to learn from someone with untamed faith; blind and relentless. such as myself in my youth. but then, times were simpler and tribulations were justifiable. what i feel life has manifest now is unbecoming - unsightly and revolting, such that if i were not to believe, the default is only an abyss of wanting. one that does not sate, and does not sleep, and is scarier than the thought of what comes when god ceases to exist.

perhaps, this, actually is such a terrifying thought, that it is hell manifest. and in not believing, i have condemned myself to such fate, even before death! one can only hope, i suppose. 

when tragedy was written, that upon hell's gate is seen 'ye who passes, abandon all hope', it was not said whether such gate would be present for mortal eyes to see, and i can only hope that i am too blind, rather than be blinded in the presence of god.

if he does exist.

The slowest way to kill a man

whose sullen frame now weary lies,
that hopes in vain that 'fore he dies;
a visit 'pon what former light,
that now betrays his very eyes?

troubled beats erratic hear,
with tempo; flitting fluttered flailed,
what made that your all life depart,
a shell so empty, cracked and frail?

in silence since this gentleman,
his eyes as dead as his black pen,
his suit is rugged, elbows torn,
his faded jeans of ten years worn;
of years are thirty, young and bold,
his heart, however, is much more old.

as next door flits his maiden fair,
who dances dervished with young flair;
from man to man she flits anew,
their lusts run through her ebon hair.

allegro music to the beat,
with lyrics; sickly sorrow sweet,
between which exchanged lustful quips,
her body tastes more than her lips.

yet none to blame, not of her souls,
how could one who such beauty holds?
with infinite sapphire wishes,
and right to break all promises.

perfection is the young girl's world,
her eyes shine bronzed like tarnished pearls,
her skin, soft as a languished wave,
her mind like lenses made concave,
of sweet ambrosia, honey, milk,
her words, her heart, softer than silk,
a velveteen rich garment worn,
as is her rose that to his thorn.

so begs the question, to be asked,
that set upon said maiden's task,
what knavish, shadowed, sleight of hand,
is slowest way to kill a man?

a silent blade between his ribs, precisely she'd have stung?
or coffee laced with curare, to whet his parched white tongue?
a silver bullet for his heart? against his temple's vein?
perhaps a tragic accident, a car crash in the rain?
a jolt, a scare, designer drugs to make his heart palpate?
what heart infarct or from a stroke, to seal his undeserved fate?
a hired hand, one of her men, her lover as her will,
to garrotte at his troubled neck, to hurt, to maim, to kill?

maybe something more subtle, to throw off all the cops?
or serve his body to her hounds in little bits and chops?
for evidence is meaningless when you can have your way,
but none of these will take too long, so tell me this, i pray:
what would you think a best way for the maiden's heartless whim
to slowly kill her gentleman, while barely touching him?

the answer - one that she has known,
that gives him life and takes his own,
is not to harm his corporeal;
by not to brandish or to wield,
in arms , with strike - these aren't the means;
so's not the cancer in his genes;
'tis not to kick him in his low -
here's how to kill a man so slow:

give him promise, give your heart, your love to which he'll throb and ache,
then take it back, with all his, too, and of himself his own will break;

within ten years, or better still, between thirty and who-knows-when,
what better way to break a soul, the slowest way to kill a man.