I’ve dyed my hair. I am Mónica Naranjo à l’époche ‘Palabra de Mujer.’ I am a bad boy! Sitting with my legs crossed in form of a four, sipping a bitter-sweet latte, I find on occasion myself staring at (yes at and not out) the window at my side. Here, I see my reflection; everything duplicated flawlessly.
1997 was a magnificent year. It was a great year for wine, and it was a great year for me as well. Perhaps it shall repeat itself, dare to manifest itself under the guise of a different and all-too arbitrary numeral, these fantastic numbers that we received from the Indians and erroneously attribute to the Saracens, though they simply transmitted them to us from the former. And was it not the Saracens who transmitted the learning of the Greeks to us (us signifying Western society)? Alas, they seem to have become stagnated, then again they are in their Middle Ages calendar-wise vis-à-vis Europe. Halt! Enough of this intellectual mortification! Enough I say. I refuse to engage in this tit for tat, in this indulgence of the intelletto.
Thus, as I was saying: 1997 was a magnificent year. Why so? Because I discovered something about myself that ultimately revolutionized my life. There are moments that are critical junctures in one’s life and December 15, 1997 was one of these; it marked me. As if by destiny, though I abhor and repudiate this idea, I was at the right moment at the right time. The event is as trivial and trite as one can imagine. I suspect that my falling-off-a-horse-on-my-way-to-Damascus could have equally have occurred upon my awakening on some insignificant day. I could have just as easily opened my eyes to the light infiltrating my room with the hardwood floors and come upon the same realization. I can imagine it now, rolling onto my back after having spent the night on my side. I’d blink rapidly in an attempt to absorb the change in light and then, in between the rapid onset of blinking, I’d see the light per se. “Oh!” I’d say as I’d break free from my stupefaction, from my subjugation to the mentality of the slave. And my god-like lips would form a smirk that would hint at this liberation. I feel that I should begin to add footnotes to my posts because I have the suspicion that some of my references will go unnoticed by some. Perhaps.
So I was changed. I was 15 years old or so. It was amazing. I might as well have been one of those silly people that one will have the unfortunate luck of witnesing on the telly around 6 am when one is struggling to find something worthwhile to watch, one of those people that are told “The power of Christ compels you” only to discover moments later that he can walk! Yes, the power of Christ Jesus has performed this fabulous miracle! His power is such that a handicapped person is now liberated from what quite possibly was to be his prison. Of course the evangelical man of God will not make reference to that ‘issue’ that I suspect an ill-adapted person like myself would naturally make: Why did God make this person handicapped in the first place? No, instead he shall point out the miracle and the power and the mercy of this God.
Oh enough of this anti-Christian, jejune diatribe. Why do I digress thus! Thank you Marcel! Thank you so much my dear!
[several hours later]
When I was writing what appears above, I was playing with my hair, with those strands of soft, dark hair that cautiously extend over my ear when left alone. They consitute perhaps and almost certainly, my favorite part of my hair. If I play enough with them, inevitably they seem to take flight. My hair is coming along nicely.
To-morrow (to-day by the time I finish adding this edit) will be Easter. The man-god shall return, proving his mastery over what to man seems unmasterable: death. I sigh at the thought. My God cannot be human not take any part in that which makes humanity be what it is, i.e., humanity. For humanity is flawed (or is it?) and if God takes the form of man, God becomes flawed too. Also, if God is the perfect form, why would God descend to a less perfect form? It makes no sense. Therefore, God will always retain its form for it is perfection. Q.E.D.
Enjoyable and pleasant. We mustn’t reduce ourselves into another one of those fanciful and whimsical conversations between I and l’autre. No, we mustn’t have that now … it is simply unacceptable. Let’s not.
Perhaps I can impart some words of wisdom.
Digression: yesterday some fool tried to lecture me on philosophy while I was having tea in downtown. I take philosophy seriously. He asked me to define it for him. Of course it was all a façade. He immediately proceeded to lecture me on what philosophy is. I was terse. He seemed to be under the understanding that philosophy concerns life and its meaning, that it deals with the idea of the afterlife. I felt offended. “You are thinking of religion,” I said to him. Alas he was not listening to me. Once more he asked me to define it. I told him what philosophy is to me. He then proceeded to tell me that I mustn’t give him a ‘text-book’ definition. I sighed. “Imbecile,” I thought. He then felt, what audacity, the need to inform me that I must stop reading books and live life. Philosophy for me does not conern ‘wisdom’ – which is what one gets from living life. Philosophy concerns truth …. And if I am to believe Plato, then this lies outside humanity … outside of life. One must die in under to understand truth. Fool! What a complete fool. I turned my face in disgust. I am contemptuous of the petty. I apologized to this idiot and said that I needed to work on something. Good day sir! And I lost myself in my book. Idiot, what an idiot!
So, as for my words of wisdom? Yes. If you are anything like me, then you must clearly stay away from alcohol. If you are accustomed to living at sea level, surely you must follow this advice to the letter! Also it does not help to be under the influence of Eros. I went out to dinner with Patrick on Friday. I haven’t been feeling well all this week I must add. With dinner, we had wine. After the first glass, I began to do that all-too-stupid thing I tend to do. I cannot explain it, but in me a desire to ‘poke’ comes alive. When I went with Amber to have sushi we ordered a small saki, since she was curious to have a taste. And although it was small and we shared it, it went to my head. I must also add that our waiter, this young man, had been keely staring at me and would give me this look whenever he would come to check up on us, a look that I am unable to explain but suffice to say that it made me feel awkward. Naturally I became hysterical. “I am going to poke him! I shall!” I said to Amber who was having a fit of laughter.
But, returning to dinner with Patrick. I had a second glass of wine. The wine put me in a lugubrious state. Our waitress was from San Francisco. When she had asked for my ID, for apparently I look young, she saw that I was from California. Subconsciously, I trembled at the thought that she might not be from Nocal (Sarah calls Norcal Nocal as in no calories). But the whole pantheon of Greek gods was on my side!
So after dinner, Patrick dropped me off at home and I proceeded to call Shane. I told him that I miss him and that I love him, as I collapsed emotionally. I began to cry and feel miserable. So I did that thing that all men who love do when they are drunk and find themselves in my circumstance … how pathetic.
And shortly after, once again I experienced another religious crisis. Alas as I shouted at the top of my lungs in despair for it does despair me to realize that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I shall forever remain a Christian. Just like an abused child will always have the scars, be they physical or psychological … I shall always have the contagion of Christianity in me. Perhaps my attitude vis-à-vis sex, which some have called ‘parochial’ is a result of Christianity. I much rather believe that I follow a more primal system of belief that transcends this absurdity piled on another absurdity. Good night!