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http://www.butalas.wordpress.com

Here is an excerpt from a short story I've been working on. Enjoy the pictures and the writing.


Chapter 2
“On Forgetting”

There do exist a certain people in this world who are, as I would like to call them- forgetful. Other people may use more brash words, but I’m making a firm decision to stay with forgetful. These forgetful people are a difficult bunch to befriend. You have plans for dinner with them- they don’t show up. They say they will come by in a few minutes and they call you an hour later to see if you are busy. Although at times you really wish you could write them off, for some reason you keep them around. Well, I keep them around at least- I can’t really speak for you can I? I keep them around for reasons beyond my own head. It could be the stunning simplicity of the idea of forgetting that intrigues me. All that we know in life is memory and the present, well, everyone knows that present only exists for only a fleeting moment. The present exists for such a brief period, that the amount of time elapsed is simply inconceivable. Here is a challenge for you- gather up the worlds best scientists of all types: physicists, engineers, bio mechanical- whatever you want, and assign them with just one task; assign them to calculate the duration of the present. I bet you they can’t do it. I’ll even fund the project for you. All the brain power in the universe could not conceive the present, because, it simply does not exist. The moment that the present happens it is swallowed by the gluttonous notion of the past. But imagine now a world where the past did not exist. At first we are in a universe where the present does not exist- all is the past, but now the past is slowly fading as well. This is the life of the forgetful mind. The mind that says and does with no feeling or meaning behind it besides the most animal of urges. The mind that reacts to situations and its surroundings but does not act on its own accord. The forgetful mind puts its keys down because it got back to its house, but where the keys were left- the mind does not remember. The forgetful mind speaks and speaks to entertain, but does not realize what it is saying.
With all of this, we will have to put down on paper that yes, the forgetful mind is a bleak existence- where the only existing thing is that small fraction of the idea of a moment, and the past is if not instantly, soon forgotten, but! with all of this, the life of the forgetful mind is the life of bliss. What better way to live than to demolish time? Time only exists because the past exists, but if we destroy the past, than we also destroy time. The forgetful mind will be the only mind capable of shedding the chains of time that we are all shackled to. So long as our leaders: all the presidents, dictators, clergymen, Gods, priests- tell us to remember our past, the sole idea occupying our mind will be death. The threat of death. What better way to stay in power exists than to intimidate with the threat of death? All learned people are concerned with death, and in reality, all being learned, in the scholarly sense and in the pious sense, means that you are aware of death. I have met a few forgetful minds, and they are the types who don’t fear death. They live, as they say, they live every moment as if it were their last. For them the moment is the moment, thats all. While all of us “smart” people sit around on our high horse, we let that moment of now, of the present- essentially disintegrate. We live in a world of the past. We can remember, oh yes we can remember, but we can’t actually live. It makes me wonder if it is the smart one who does not feel, or if it is the forgetful one that does not feel.

A couple more from Mexico.

Some color shots from Mexico D.F. and a few from surrounding areas. These are long overdue; it took me weeks to find the right scanner and make it work. More will follow in the coming days. Enjoy.



Ben shows us brain, on his fork, at a seriously under-par/sketchy restaurant.



Carlos looks out from the roof of his building in Condesa, Mexico D.F.

On The Conviction Of The Innocent

What is it that allows the law, that is, the police- and their word, to have a much higher standing than my own, or your own? Why is it that one officer’s word can make null the words of the masses? I’ve been pondering this issue over the past week as I’ve watched a friend, a student here at Purchase College, go from top to bottom. We are always infatuated with the notion of the fall of people- we spend many hours watching those crime shows and reading novels that culminate in a grand court scene. The ultimate judgement. The final judgement. There is something so apocalyptic in the judge, the jury- deciding our fate. What is to come of me? Will they allow me my freedom, or will they throw me into a jail cell? Will they open the gates of heaven, or will they cast me into hell? When our freedom rests on the minds of the unaffected, surely hell is the most obvious option.
And hell is what the main character of my story is destined to experience. We shall call him Hart Seely: for that is his name in this story, and in real life as well. This is a story about the injustice of our court system, and to talk about this I have to adapt a new voice, that is, the voice of the court itself.
On the night of Friday, April 17th, Hart Seely was arrested. It was dark, it was chaotic- it was Culture Shock. We all know about Culture Shock. The once a year festival at our university where we get a chance to celebrate the spring, the upcoming summer, the completion of (hopefully) a successful semester of learning, thinking and working. We all want a celebration for a job well done, and this is what we hope to accomplish through this great music festival. Back to the narrative. It was during Streetlight Manifesto. It was wild celebration and there was a mosh pit. Emerging from this setting there are three stories: Hart’s story, the story of the police at the time of the arrest, and the story of the police the day after the arrest. We will examine Hart’s story first.
Hart was standing by the edge of the mosh pit during Streetlight Manifesto. The police kept stopping the band and telling the crowd that they must move back. “Take three steps back” was the catch phase of their set. The band was forced to stop playing multiple times in order for the cops to tell everybody to move back. Implied with this is that the crowd was too close to the barricades and the police that were positioned directly in front of the stage. Conversely, the police were too close to the crowd and needed some room- from the students, and from the mosh pit. Hart was pushed back by someone in the mosh pit, and accidentally hit into deputy King- a Westchester County police officer. More specifically, Hart’s hand hit into the officer’s hat. The officer immediately pulled Hart out of the crowd while he was pleading to know “What did I do?”, and the officer replied, “You know what you did”. Hart was arrested.
Now, just after this, that is, after he was pulled out of the crowd, I watched the arrest. Once Hart was put into a squad car, I walked up to the group of officers talking about what just happened. This is the story of the police of the night of the arrest. One officer, who I later found to be deputy King, was telling the other officers how Hart had hit into his hat, and it (that is, the hat) got pushed over his face. I caught the tail end of this story, so I asked another officer what happened. He conveyed the same story to me as I stood there in disbelief that Hart would do something like this on purpose. And yes, I know that if he had any drinks at all that night, he was not drunk enough to make a decision as dumb as that.
The next day, Hart gets back from jail. Yes, from jail. He accidentally hit into a person and spent the night at UPD, where he shared the facilities with a student who had taken psychedelics, and was vomiting all over himself for hours. In response to this, the a UPD officer came into the room, and told the student who was repeatedly vomiting on himself to “Get in the bathroom.” and threatened that if he didn’t, he would “break his neck”. These are the people who decide our fate- people who use physical intimidation and death to get their point across. I think maybe a word for this type of person is a “thug”. Listen, I’m not a scoundrel, I’m a student with rights.
Hart spent the next morning in jail cell in Valhalla. He was shipped to a cell outside of our humble campus at around 11:00 AM, where he was finally informed of what he was being accused of. Bear in mind, this is about twelve hours after he was dragged out of the crowd, while being told “You know what you did.” This cell was shared with a few people, some coming and some going. Among these were real criminals, you know, people who had actually done something wrong, such as being found with pounds of illegal drugs. And this is our Hart Seely, innocent and wrongfully accused. Now, overnight he became even more wrongfully accused, if you could imagine such a thing. Overnight, the police changed his story to not only purposefully hitting the cop’s hat, but added, yes in addition to this, that he was attempting to steal the officer’s gun. This new charge became so much the emphasis that the original offense, in which he was arrested for, has faded into the background.

“Hart Seely is accused of assault on a police officer, and attempted robbery of a police officer’s firearm”.

Hart Seely has been suspended from school. He is allowed to finish out his classes for this semester, but is not allowed in any residence area. He is not allowed to go into his room. This presents a large set of problems for someone whose home is in Syracuse and does not own a car. Next semester he is completely suspended from school. From this, what can we deduce? He is allowed on campus- and therefore is not a real threat. Even the administration knows that he is not a real threat, or else he would be never allowed at the university again. If Hart was someone who legitimately had criminal intentions, he would rightfully not be welcomed at a place where we advocate safe learning, and yet they still attempt to ruin his clean streak at Purchase College. At his hearing within the school, deputy King did not even show up. He has ultimately condemned a student, but does not care enough to come to his hearing and say “he is guilty”. Yet, with the lack of the accuser, or, the lack the police officer, the judicial board did not listen to my own story of the arrest, or the multiple character witnesses that included two professors. His criminal court case is on May 12th. Read that again- “His criminal court case.” Is Hart a criminal? You tell me. Tell them. Whether or not you are a detractor of the police- whether you are an anarchist or a fascist- surely you can see there is something wrong here. Something here is not right, something here is not just. As a student body, we can not let these charges stand. We must act, because it could be me who stumbles on the wrong person. Because next time it could be you who stumbles on the wrong person. I hope that when that happens you will be there for me, because I will be there for you. If we let the police get away with these false accusations, we are affectively letting them take a shit on us, as students and believers in justice, as a whole. This is the same justice that these police are installed in order to protect. Read this. Think about this. Do not let this story go, because it is more than a story, it is someone’s life. There has not been a moment in my time at this university that has been more urgent- and I can’t say for sure in yours, but I’m sure you can still see the importance. We are students. We are forward thinking. We are educated. We don’t just accept things, it is our tradition as students- from Europe in the mid 1800s to the United States in the mid 1900s, to Greece just a few months ago, to Purchase now? Only if you want it. Only if you care.

If you want to know what you can do, if you are dedicated, if you have an idea of what to do, no matter how large or how small, e-mail me. There is a petition that will be sent to our school’s president along with anyone else it should concern. Sign it.

alex.moskowitz@purchase.edu

-Alex Moskowitz

Thought Process

How can we just sit here and let everything just pass by? There is something ingrained in our culture that allows us to not participate; there is something that allows us to sit and to not think.

Tell me. Teach me. Gimmie gimmie gimmie.

While some lay in their hospital beds, IVs connected, food tube in their throat, others will always have their fork and knife ready to pick apart their meat. Some will sift through the good and the bad. "I don't want this, but this, oh this looks good". Some of us will eat what is good and some of us will allow others to decide what we eat. I would never let somebody else decide what I eat.

Of course this is just a metaphor, but I'm hoping you get the idea. When you read the news, you are sitting up in your chair, folk and knife handy, with a giant plate of food for you to devour. This sounds good to me. I have the luxury of doing away with the bad news, taking what I want from the plate. When you watch the news, you are in that hospital bed, unconscious, with the food being shoved down your throat- letting those fucks in suits telling you what you should believe. Do you want to choose what you want to believe or do you want to be told what to believe?

There is something in our culture that makes this okay. How many people have you met today that you are sure they haven't picked apart a single thing? Are you one of these people? Am I one of these people? How easy is it to not think? Here, in America, it's really easy- I can tell you that. In fact, it would be much easier to not pick apart each word, each letter, as if it didn't have some other meaning. Sometimes your words don't. And sometimes I think they do. For me each phrase is something else, it's alive. In my world, nothing can stand on its own. There is something behind it. It's in the way you look at me, one leg crossed while I talk looking at the ground, not afraid- but ashamed to meet your eyes for more then a second or two at a time. What am I ashamed of you ask? I would not be sure how I could even answer that. Ashamed is that feeling. You know it, when the only place your head goes is down. You are hiding your face. We identify each other through our faces, and so we hide them when we do not want to be recognized. I'm guessing this means I don't want to be recognized by you, but the ultimate irony is that I want nothing more than to be recognized, and nothing more than to be recognized by you. And yet I am ashamed. Did this occur to you at all? Although I can recall times, even dreams from years ago and still have them affect my thinking, I do not expect anybody else to be in a similar disposition.

But we still don't second guess a single thing that happens. We don't think. And maybe it is for the better. I doubt that much of anything would ever get done if we were all subjected to this chronic issue. If we all spent our minutes speculating on word choice from the middle of a nonchalant conversation, I'd imagine all of us sitting in our chairs, thinking. But what is more fascinating than looking at someone deep in thought. You attempt to get their attention but it is to no avail. That fictional voice in their head is a thousand decibels louder than your loudest yell. Do you know what we are talking about here? Your yell. Your scream. The way in which you make physical air molecules vibrate; the way in which you make real things move could never compare to whatever is going on in there. Sometimes it's just not worth the trouble. Listen, it really isn't worth your trouble; I'm a lost cause.

The Berlin Wall Tune

Twenty-five years ago, if you saw this, it would probably be the last thing you saw before you were gunned down. Now we can look, touch, take. We can do whatever.

Here is a little Joseph Brodsky for you. Ill get off this "other people's poetry" kick soon; I promise.

Dull is the day here. In the night
searchlights illuminate the blight
making sure that if someone screams,
it's not due to bad dreams.

For dreams here aren't bad; just wet with blood
of one of your like who's left his pad
to ramble at will; and in his head
dreams are replaced with lead.

Given that, it's only time
who has guts enough to commit the crime
of passing this place back and forth on foot:
at pendulums they don't shoot.

That's why this site will see many moons
while couples lie in their beds like spoons,
while the rich are wondering what they wish
and single girls eat quiche.

Come to this wall that beats other walls:
Roman, Chinese, whose worn-down, false
molars envy steel fangs that flash,
scrubbed of thy neighbor's flesh.

Thank You Bukowski

...I never post the work of other people, but I was just so enthralled with this Bukowski poem that I felt the need to share it with somebody.


Charles Bukowski- A Smile to Remember

We had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, “be happy Henry!”
and she was right: it’s better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week
while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’t
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: “Henry, smile!
why don’t you ever smile?“

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

I knew I would take the wrong train so I left early.

It's an old cliche, I know, but it really is true. Sometimes the best thing come in small packages. But wait, let's think about what we just said here for a minute. What is this notion of "things" (whatever that word means) coming in packages? Why does my great small thing have to come in any package at all? Because I bought it, that's why.
Next time you go into a store, any store really, take a look around. What do you see? Shelves lined with plastic see-through containers and cardboard boxes with images of the good that is contained inside it.
Think about this. We go to this store, we are overwhelmed with all these things they have for us to buy. Yet we are completely convinced that they have what we want. Listen, they tell us what we want. When we find a really nice shirt we think we've won- we have wandered through the depths of the aisles of this store and picked out this one shirt that is so for us. For me. Shirts, pants, socks- dozens of each type in different sizes and colors surrounding us and somehow we decide on this particular shirt.
"Mine" you think in your head. "This is my shirt".
Wrong.

We are told what to like and we accept it without a fucking thought. We let it run right into our heads like dumb little assholes. When we were young, we would pick and choose our friends by which clothes they wear- by which standardized bullshit their mom bought for them. And the worst part is we still do this. We are the product of a society built on exploitation that not only handicaps the exploited physically, but mentally handicaps the "beneficiaries" as well. In a word or two, nobody benefits from this. And yet we continue to work as hard as we can to keep it in place.

the everyday

What you look at everyday is going to affect your thinking. The university I study at happens to be quite unappealing, so I thought I would start first with this wall. When I go outside here, it is not as if a new thought is going to strike me. You have to create your own pleasure. What have you created?

It's a strange feeling, being the first one to wake up and the last one to go to sleep. You sit up, in a feverish state, reading, working, thinking. All the while, most everybody else is sleeping, doing nothing. It's always strange that while you are still alive, still awake, they are dead, sleeping. To me there hardly is any difference. You know that feeling, when you are reading your favorite novel, but your eyes are slowly closing. The words all begin to double, triple and and you can't read a thing anymore. The voice in your head, you know, that one that reads to you? The voice in your head starts echoing. You are in a cave, it's getting darker and the echos get louder. The light is fading out and why the hell are my eyelids so fucking heavy? Your thoughts begin to leave you. What was I just reading?

Your eyes shoot open. Whoa. What just happened? You reset you gaze on a few lines earlier and keep on reading. Slowly the feeling comes back. Now I'm angry. All I want to do is read this but no, my body has to to fight me. It says to me, "Close your eyes! Go to sleep! We need to rest...now!" But I really don't want to. The last thing I want to do is sleep. Another sip of coffee and you feel like you are going to throw up, but you cannot think of anything else to keep yourself awake. No, a nap and then continuation is not an option. This is called giving in. Giving into this crap is so bad for you. Sometimes you need to force yourself through these things, unless you want to become one of them. You know what I mean, one of them. One of them who drive around drinking large sodas. Eating burgers. Watching television. One of them who allows all their stimulation to come from some sort of screen. "Feed me information!" How much of this are you going to retain if you let someone else shove it down your throat for you? Do you really think? Do you ever think? I always wonder what goes on in the mind of these people. Do you think anything ever goes on?

I know of a woman. Constantly people are asking her, "are you alright, are you okay?". Her answer is usually, "Yeah, why do you ask?". She bares the mark, the oh-so-typical sign that I love. She seethes with experience, knowledge- she knows. She is someone I want to talk to, or rather, someone that I want to talk with. And I will talk with her any chance that I get.

Here are a few things that I once noticed.

Today I happened to overhear someones conversation.

"Yeah, this was a really rough winter."

Was it? Because if I'm going to be completely honest with you, I would have to tell you that yes, I remember what this winter was like, but I could not tell you at all what it was like last winter. Last winter for me was marked by events. Feelings. Moods. A nice little drawing of myself holding a Jack Daniels bottle and saying "I'm so depressed". How am I now supposed to compare this winter with last winter? Who really bothers to remember the temperature anyway? I'll tell you how it goes- in the winter it's cold. In the summer it's hot. How hot is it?
"Oh its hot"
Is there anybody out there who can tell me how hot it is? What instruments do we have to help us figure this out?
"Listen, we have a problem and we have to figure it out."

As people, why do we feel such a need to know these numbers, these specifics. What makes us so worried that we can't just let it flow. We invent these numbers on a glass tube filled with an "element" (what the hell is an element) that tell us, "you should go get a sweatshirt". We no longer have to feel the outside. The number will surely tell us what to do.
We invent these numbers. We become slaves to these numbers. In the past 100 years religion has died. Humanity is on the code red extinction warning scale. We better be careful or else any notion of human-ness will vanish as fast as the idea of good did with Hiroshima. Was WWII not the last "clear" war? There were the good guys and the bad guys right? Well that's how I learned it. That's how they taught it to me. In the end it all becomes numbers.
Lives become numbers. Numbers I can not imagine.
We find out they (yes, it's they again) want to spend a trillion dollars to "fix" the economy. What is a trillion? Does this number come from anywhere? Is there anything I can touch, I can place my pointer finger on and think "oh yes, that's a trillion".

Mostly, I'm scared of losing the last strands of humanity to something I could never comprehend.
Mostly, I'm scared of not seeing human interaction. A grandfather lights a firecracker that is in his grandson's hand- "Here, now throw it!"

Crack.

The sound of laughter seemingly becomes louder as the echoing of the mini-explosion fans out against the brick walls of a snow ridden Berlin landscape, and I know that somehow it will be okay.

Saturday hit me like a ton of bricks. Keep reading keep listening. Keep learning. Keep thinking. Someday it will all come out, and it will make sense. The question is when will that someday be? When you feel it you will know it. I've thought I've felt it many a times, but in reality I know I haven't felt it. When you feel it you feel it. It honestly is the strangest thing, but you know it. Be elusive. Running solo and running fast.

I want to shoot in black and white.

Let's get out of this country.

contempt-content

Why do I travel? Why do we travel? What is it that draws me to pick up and leave; to go some place new, or just some place different so quickly? For one I don’t think it is that I dislike my current physical setting much. I do enjoy it here, but there is something, some feeling you get while on the road, while in the air.
Traveling reminds us that we are capable of doing what we want. Our parents, the older generations- they left here to go to war; they were in Europe to drop bombs and to shoot men. Now, we go to Europe to understand exactly what happened there. We travel and we understand that in that country, there too exist people, much like ourselves, that all are grappling with how to get on in a world such as ours. When we travel, ideas of money and life become clear. We see in all other countries the struggle for life that we are all subjected to, beginning at the moment we are born. When we go to a new country, we think we will come back enlightened of a new culture and our lives will change accordingly. What I see when traveling is the different ways in which we bear the chains that we are all shackled by. There exists a great connection between all of humanity in this. We are all in this world, trying to figure out how to live in this world. We travel far far across the sea and find that beautiful humanity exists on all corners of this globe, wherever we want to go. Once again I will bring up our older generation. The myths of other countries and the peoples that live in them separate our parents from humanity. Mexico is not full of thugs and robbers. Paris is no full of artists and cigarette smokers. Do not get me wrong, these people exist, but these people exist everywhere. You too have your own prejudices against people from other countries. You don’t even know it.
The biggest thing that separates us from each other is the basic notion of countries and nationalities. For us to leave our own country we need to apply for a passport, we get searched, questioned, x-rayed, patted down. We must fill out papers saying what we are doing, why we are doing it, how long we are doing it for, how much money we will spend while doing it. We tell them what we bought and what we are bringing back with us. It is quite an ordeal. They do this for security, yes? Yes. But what feeling does this give us? We are American and America is where we belong. Theodore Roosevelt in 1907 gave a very harsh speech on immigration and the American peoples business in other countries. Although I do not have this speech directly in front of me at the moment, I can paraphrase from memory for you. For us.
Roosevelt says that immigrants coming into the United States are more than welcome, but they are expected to drop all the traditions of their homeland and their past life, and to become American. There is only one language to be spoken here, and that is English. He continues with Americans going abroad. He talks about how if an American spends too much time in other countries, he ceases to be American. That a true American is one who loves his country and nothing else.
This frightens me. This idea basically speaks to the idea of “us, and no one else”. When the border patrol begins to question me, I feel as if they are accusing me of being “un-american”. The questioning makes me want to make a big brother reference here, but I prefer not to consider America my brother. America is not a brother. Argentina, Italy and England are no ones brothers. These countries, these names are all joined in one, successfully fooling their respective inhabitants into thinking that they are so fundamentally different from one another. This illusion goes much further that a geographic setting, and although this idea is worth thinking about, it does not fit here.
When we get off the plan, we feel as if we were cast into a new world in the way we throw a life-preserver into the sea. We instantly take note of the adverts on the wall in this new (well, new for us) language. We can’t read them. They mean nothing to us. We look around. Everyone is shorter than you, or maybe they were taller than you. Their skin is lighter or their skin is darker. It is only after we get over these visual changes that we can understand what truly exists in this new land. Some people can never get past this first hump though. They constantly feel the need to refer how everything is different than the way it is at home, and they spend their entire time comparing. Comparisons are good and constructive, but when all you notice is the way things are different here, you do not gather anything new from the experience. You are constantly thinking of home, and the way home is and when you finally get there (home, that is) all you have to tell your family and friends of your travels are comparisons. “They don’t serve you water the moment you sit down at a restaurant!” Useless. In our new country we are hindered by language, mannerisms, physical appearance, physical distance, diseases... the list goes on. But these afore mentioned barriers are not what makes up the human identity, and this is what must be understood. We must understand that when we travel thousands and thousands of miles across the land and over the sea that the conventions that try so hard to split us and keep us apart are exactly the fibers that will string us together. When we can finally realize that “hola” and “hello” are one in the same, and it’s not the word itself that is important, but the ideas that we use words to conjure up, we will be able to see the breadth of humanity that exists.

The Spree in December.

When I take a picture, I think in my head “I want this”. Maybe we take pictures so that we can keep something forever. It can be a building or a person or a field or anything really. Once we have a photo of it we own it. I think I don't like to let things go and maybe photography is my way of holding on.

Writers Block

For me writing is usually directly influenced by how much I've been reading and how much I've been dreaming. And I mean dreams in their literal sense, you know, like the ones while you are sleeping. To be honest, I have been reading much more than usual recently. And it has been some seriously amazing stuff at that. But I have not had a dream in quite some time. Last night I woke up every ten minutes from 4 AM to 9:30 AM, or, in other words, the ENTIRE time I was asleep. Dreams become almost impossible with this.

But sometimes something else happens.

You sleep through most of the night, let us say a good seven hours (this is assuming that you get eight hours of sleep a night, like four out of five doctors recommend for a healthy lifestyle) but you wake up. Maybe you had to piss, or a drink of water was you wanted. Yes, a drink of water was exactly what you wanted. You gorge and back to sleep you fall, quenched and satisfied. But now, when you re-enter that strange state of sleep you begin to dream. Not only do you begin to dream, but you have some outlandish, vivid and emotional dream. Now you are saying "I know! That's so crazy! Wow!". Yes, my ability to connect to many different peoples is truly extraordinary. But that is off topic here. We really can't talk about this certain ability of mine for too long, for that is not the purpose of this essay, or conversation. Yes, now we can consider this a conversation. You have spoken back haven't you? The conversation simply is the idea where two beings communicate. Although, it is not always between two beings, for the state of being, even in a human being is quite controversial. Let us take the example of "stupid" people, whatever that means. Are happy stupid people really living, or being? "Yes, of course" you say. "How un-humanistic you are being with this assertion!" Fine fine, you obviously don't buy this idea. Well, how about those who resist suffering. Those who resist it so much that they hardly know what it is. Now before you attack me once again saying that I don't know what suffering is let me say another thing or two. Yes, there is suffering of great proportions in the third world, while I type this to you on my nice little computer. This is not suffering. At this moment, I am not suffering. But anything can be suffering once you have dedicated enough thought to it, where this idea you had literaly pains your stomach. When you throw your fists in the air at nothing in particular because you are suffering from this something, this is suffering. You can fool yourself into suffering. You can fool yourself into believing that what is quite insignificant actually is very important. "What about true physical suffering?" Yes, yes, I've pondered this as well. Don't think that you are really one step ahead of me. Really you must be contemptious of me by now. Leave if you wish. I am not keeping you here. As a matter of a fact I would have no indication that you gave up on me, or that you were not following, or that you just got bored. This is in the same vein that I will not know if anyone should actually read this. But don't think that I am writing this just for you. I am writing this for us. But, if that us doesn't exist and it is only me who exists in this realm, so be it.

Yet our conversation continues. True suffering is quite a romantic notion. When we are in a state that I will call "normal" for the time being, we can enjoy its presence. The presence of normality, that is. But, sometimes we pass by a couple on the street. They are yelling at each other, or maybe they are crying. Maybe you notice a couple walking in the same path as you everyday on your way to the market and then, today, you noticed just the man. Sans-girlfriend. And he was crying. Boy was he crying! How amazing! How simply awesome it is that we as human beings can experience emotion to such heightened levels that our physical state changes. We can be so shook with tears that we drop our plate of toast onto the floor. The plate cracks and scatters its small porcelain bits across the kitchen floor. You will clean up what you can, but you know that hidden behind the oven and under the sink, there still to this day exist those miniscule bits that you will never find or see again. Plus, on top of all of this, the toast landed jam side-down. What an incredible notion! Do you also sometimes wish that you were the crying man on the street? Sometimes, just sometimes don't you wish that you were feeling and living as much as this man? When you sit there, all content and satisfied with the current state of things, with your current state of being, in your normality little secluded happy daily scheduale of balanced sleeping working recreational and learning. When you go through the motions of your day like you have one-thousand times before- so much that you needn't even open you eyes to see where you are going, because you know where you are going by sound by feel by taste by smell by know-how don't you sometimes, just sometimes stop for one moment. One moment is all I ask of you. Just sometimes...I take that back. Sometime. Tomorrow will be that sometime. Sometime won't you think that maybe just for one moment you want to really live.