By Harry van Versendaal

Albert Camus admitted that he preferred soccer to theater, but that’s not the only thing that makes him a great thinker.

January 4 marks the 50^th anniversary of the Algeria-born French writer and playwright’s death in a car accident. In the mud near the crashed Facel-Vega, driven by his friend and publisher Michel Gallimard, lay an unfinished manuscript of “The First Man” and, in Camus’s coat pocket, an unused train ticket. It was a tragic death, one which justified Camus’s description of the human predicament as “absurd.”

Man, a meaning-seeking creature, must squeeze value out of a universe that is basically godless, meaningless, and doomed to extinction. This, Camus held, makes this world an absurd place.

Camus would no doubt have had a great deal to say about the Greece of today. It truly is becoming increasingly difficult to make any sense of this proud yet troubled nation that appears well on its path to extinction.

And the gods do not appear to be answering any prayers either.

It’s absurd-overdose: Unchecked spending is digging Greeks ever deeper into a black hole of deficits and debt. Meanwhile the country is stubbornly stuck at the bottom of Europe’s transparency table. “Greece’s prime minister, George Papandreou, wrote a new page in the inglorious history of his nation’s public finances this week by acknowledging to his European Union peers that the Greek public sector was riddled with corruption,” the Financial Times commented on Saturday.

Political credibility has hit rock bottom. The younger generations are exhibiting a strong anti-political, if not nihilistic, streak as demonstrated by the recurring outbursts of vandalism and physical violence racking the capital. A series of uncomfortably earthly sins, such as the scandalous land swap between a monastery and the state, have cost our high priests their (metaphysical) claim to benignity.

City streets are packed with cars, and so are the narrow sidewalks when they are not blanketed with heaps of trash. Education is a mess; public universities are caught up in a spiral of vandalism and thuggishness. The judicial system is riddled with graft and corruption. And so too is Camus’s favorite pastime, soccer.

Greece is whirling in the direction of the absurd.

Unlike the majority of his hysterical doom-and-gloom peers, the author of “The Stranger” and “The Guest” did not see the absurd as a cause for despair. He went as far as to see hope in the person of one of those cursed ancient heroes of Greek myth: Sisyphus. After trying to cheat Death, Sisyphus, the cunning king of Corinth, is condemned by the gods to an eternity of rolling a boulder uphill, only to watch it roll back down again.

Sisyphus, the quintessential absurd man, keeps pushing only to see his pain and effort come to nothing. He then drags himself back down to the plain. Camus is intrigued by that very moment, the pause: “I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.” It is the lucid awareness of his destiny that transforms Sisyphus’s ordeal into victory.

The modern-day workman performs that same mundane task each day – and his fate, our fate, is no less absurd. “But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.” Does the realization of the absurd dictate suicide? Camus ponders. “No. It requires revolt.”

And modern-day Greeks do protest against their situation. Too much, perhaps. Athens is after all paralyzed by an average of more than two protests per day. Revolt here comes with a self-destruct button.

Stuck in traffic for hours behind the steering wheel of your flashy car, watching your life pass by as you snail your way to the office cubicle – those states of consciousness become uncomfortably ordinary. “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart,” Camus said. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

But for some reason, it doesn’t quite work.

“Live your myth in Greece,” the catchy tourism slogan urged. Modern Greeks do, in fact, live their myth. Too bad it’s the myth of Sisyphus.

It’s hard to live in the world. Suffering happens. Then more suffering happens. Then you die. In the face of these facts, Albert Camus wrote that the first question of philosophy is suicide. But if you’re not going to do that, then what will you do?

As I see it, the menu of options is actually pretty thin (and if you think I’ve missed an option, please share it):

1. The first is the ironic agnostic route through existence. This is the path of Socrates, who claimed not to know anything, but asked a lot of questions. Under stress, the ironic Socratic path can morph into the extremities associated with the hyperconscious “Hamlet Syndrome” (to think or not to think, to believe or not to believe, to do or not to do, to be or not to be). For its negative capability, poets, like Emily Dickinson, and postmodernists, like Jacques Derrida, seem drawn toward this life stance.
2. The next three paths are atheist routes grounded in pessimism. The first is the way of resignation. Things are obviously bad. I see that things are obviously bad. I’m not denying that things are obviously bad. I therefore lower my expectations dramatically. I recognize that desire and aversion are at the root of all suffering, so I’m going to stop desiring and avoiding things and learn to wisely “go with the flow.” In the East, this is the path of the Buddha; in the West, it’s the path of Stoics like Marcus Aurelius and Seneca, and the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. In theistic guise, it’s what Krishna teaches Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita.
3. The second atheist path grounded in pessimism is Albert Camus’s way of rebellion. Living in the full acknowledgement of the universe’s apparent absurdity, I’m not resigned to it, but live in rebellion against it, and in solidarity with others. I see that it’s futile to push the rock of my values and goals up the mountain of existence, and I know that it will one day roll back upon me, but I choose the way of Sisyphus over the way of the Buddha. As an actor on a stage, I play my chosen role in full knowledge that the curtain will soon close and all my actions will come to naught. In Camus’s great novel, The Plague, this stance toward the world is exemplified by Dr. Rieux. A permutation on this way of being in the world can also be found in ancient tragic drama, Sophocles’s Antigone  being a superlative example. Antigone, as you’ll recall, faces an irreconcilable choice (to bury her brother or patriotically obey the State’s command that she not do so). In this conflict of loyalties, she chooses to bury her brother in the full recognition that her gesture of love toward him is meaningful only to her, and that it must end in her death. I put in this category philosophers like Isaiah Berlin. Berlin was exquisitely aware of the impossibility of making the world fully cohere as a meaningful whole, and yet he was willing to live and think in the face of this fact, and nonetheless make—and embrace—the not wholly adequate choices before him.
4. The third pessimistic atheist route through existence is to acknowledge, with Camus, that the universe is purposeless and absurd, but remove from Camus’s rebellion the prosocial gloss, the solidarity with humanity. This is the path of the acidic Darwinist who has absorbed, in a crass way, the nihilistic implications, not just of Darwin, but of Machiavelli and Nietzsche, and sees the human world as a competitive theater for the exercise of violence, power, manipulation, will, struggle, and the survival of the fittest. The Nazi propaganda film, Alles Leben ist Kampf (1937)—”All Life is Struggle“—is an example of this way of thinking about the world. I would include among contemporary people who have self-consciously absorbed an acidic form of Darwinism those like Varg Vikernes, well known in Norway’s black metal scene, and other neofascists.
5. The next route through life is moral atheist optimism. The optimistic moral atheist thinks that nihilists, agnostics, and atheists who indulge in existential hand wringing and pessimism are a bit silly. Yes, we die, but we won’t know it when we’re dead, and the world can be lived in rationally and morally now, so get on with it. In other words, this is the path of Oedipus—the competent, good, and self-made man. Like Oedipus, the optimistic moral atheist is a “heroic vitalist” (Harold Bloom) unflinchingly devoted to knowing the truth and doing what is right. No gods are needed for help, or missed. Science is sufficient, thank you very much. Of course, Oedipus ended badly, plucking out his eyes when he reached full knowledge of the truth, but a pessimist (Sophocles) wrote the end of that play. If Ayn Rand or Richard Dawkins had written Sophocles’s play for him, they would have ended it very differently. Think of Howard Roark or Daniel Dennett in the role of Oedipus, shrugging at the news of a terrible fate, and getting on with his life just the same. The optimistic atheist is confident that Oedipus (and humanity) can, without the weary and capricious gods—and absent a lot of melodramatic existential angst—have a better fate than Oedipus.  
6. The next route through existence is the way of Don Quixote. Don Quixote is a close kin to the optimistic atheist, but a bit less worried about objective reality, and a bit more open to living in the strictly aesthetic imagination. Don Quixote is not a reductionist. The world, at one level, may be an unhappy place, and just a lot of atoms shuffling in the void, but Don Quixote is happy to escape from these facts into dream, fantasy, imaginative projects, self-chosen disciplines, games, and causes (from art, to vegetarianism, to travel, to environmentalism, to having children).  
7. The path of Jesus. This is the path of transcendence in all its forms, and is not exclusively Christian. It’s the path that looks at the world with a hard eye and says, “This existence is unsatisfying. I’m out of here.” It looks at the world in pessimistic terms, but by faith denies the pessimistic conclusion, positing some sort of world “next door” that can be leaped into for optimism, hope, and refuge (Don Quixote “born again”). It is Dostoevsky looking at Hans Holbein’s image of Christ after crucifixion and saying that, in the face of this horror, I nevertheless put my faith—against all outward appearances—in the resurrection.
8. All of the above paths are, to some extent, aware paths. They are all the products of thought. Each sums up the world in a particular way, and each offers a very deliberate response to the world. But there is another way of being in the world that I would call the path of Saturn—the unaware path—the path of thoughtless appetite, of the range of the moment, of least resistance. As you’ll recall from Greek myth, Saturn, on learning of his fate (that one of his children would someday overthrow him), proceeds to gobble them up as fast as they arrive, careless for his own children’s lives and future. This is the path taken by all undisciplined people. It is the path of rampant and mindless consumerism and cultural conformity. If you are content to not think, and to live with the cliches and common sense opinions that float around you, then you’re on this very sleepy path. Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden  that “the commonest sense is that of men asleep, which they express by snoring.” The indifferent agnostic, the sleepy atheist, and the self-satisfied, doubt-free theist are all on this path. Nietzsche called a person who lived in this comfy inertial fashion “the last man”. It wasn’t a compliment. 

So here are the eight ways of being in the world again, in a nutshell:

1. The way of Socrates and Hamlet
2. The way of the Buddha and Seneca
3. The way of Sisyphus and Antigone
4. The way of the acidic Darwinist
5. The way of Oedipus
6. The way of Don Quixote
7. The way of Jesus
8. The way of Saturn

Note that two paths are grounded in confusion and drift, three in pessimism, and three in optimism. I find myself generally trudging (stumbling?) along the Socrates-Hamlet path, but I’m sympathetic with most of the other paths as well. But are there other options? Have I missed something? And which path are you on?

“It is not the world that is absurd, nor human thought: the absurd arises when the human need to understand meets the unreasonableness of the world, when “my appetite for the absolute and for unity” meets “the impossibility of reducing this world to a rational and reasonable principle.” -Albert Camus

My art (my work) has blended into my life. Or should I say my work is my life. I’m having trouble these days separating the two. And why should I? Why should I work just for money? Why should I live for the weekends? I have stayed independent through the years so that I can be free. That was a lot of work on my part. Why am I not using it to my advantage? What I’m dealing with these days is I no longer want to do work that isn’t ideal for my health (or the planet’s health, -same thing). I also want to get paid to do things I would be doing anyway. What I usually love to do. What I do is my ‘business‘, right? This has been challenging because I love several things (well, more than several) & I’m not sure what they have to do with each other. Or if they could generate money & become a business. Sometimes I think this matters & sometimes I don’t. At times I feel conflicted. In general I do feel that I live between two worlds. One physical & one spiritual. -But of course I should! I’m both! How silly of me to think otherwise! It’s only the thinking that makes this balance difficult. Day after day, what are we here for? To have fun, to make love, to make money? I hope not! Because even when I have all of these, it’s not enough. I hope for seeing & feeling right now more than anything. To feel & to really ’see’. I want to connect directly with all that I do & with all whom I meet. I want to do this in a meaningful, lasting way. In a way that serves our highest selves, forever. So basically this would be a physical connection that becomes spiritual (unchanging). Or vice versa. To work with the physical (the temporary) in a spiritual way. This is my current challenge. And I’m certain that I’m over thinking it and that the solution for me is not only simple, but is staring me directly in the face! But just like my friend Sisyphus rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, I will find my work when I find my rhythm. When I can be present to each step as if it is the destination. This I believe is an ongoing task. Truly BEing (myself) is why I’m here. Sharing that with others is my work. It’s what I love to do.

“Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.” -Miles Davis

“Be yourself. No one can ever tell you you’re doing it wrong.” -James Leo Herlihy

**Happy Holidays Everyone! Enjoy. Xo!**

Its been quiet at the zoo – snow does that, but professor said the humans are still doing strange things.  He lives on a hill it’s not a steep hill but you do need to tackle it with a lower gear in the car, and most cyclists will stop as it is long.

Professor then told us of crashing cars, the damaged street light which people reversed into and the pot holes that will need some urgent attention sooner rather than later.

Sisyphus is still a role model

Amusingly he told us about four men with mats in a car who were going to get up the sodding hill  a metre a time even if it took a couple of hours.

As hills go it’s not that steep (there are worse gradients)  but the irony in all of this is that theres a longer route to the place with a salted road that requires no door mats to help grip a car go up.

Determination and rationality  – too different things, and entertaining.

The recession has seen the economy bled dry and countless unfortunate souls are facing week after week with no trace of a job on the arid horizon.

However this is not the moment to despair. Instead we must glorify in the labours of the Sisyphean Heroes who draw on fresh reserves of strength each day to make a fresh assault on the job market.

The bankers, the gods of the recession, have condemned these absurd heroes to this ceaseless struggle. Yet each time their exertions are unsuccessful, the human spirit soars and the protagonists dust themselves off and begin their struggles anew. They take a deep breath and start to roll that rock back up the mountain.

In the words of Albert Camus:

“At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.”

“The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

There are no gold watches anymore. Sadly, we live in a different world now.

My generation, by and large, will not retire from a company after 40 years of service. That ended with the Boomers, along with company picnics and smoking at your desk.

Ours is a generation of professional nomads, forced to traverse the landscape as seasons change, following after food. Doing our best to weather the storm.

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve worked somewhere, or how much you know. Skill, passion and dedication mean nothing when contrasted with the bottom line.

Retirement is for our parents—it’s a myth.

I admit, I’m still easing back into the unemployed life. I’ll get used to it again, I always do.

But…

Quite frankly, this is something one should never have to get used to.

I spend my life working, struggling, fighting my way up to the mountain top. Metaphorical, yes, but the incline is steep and rocky nonetheless.

Sometimes, I get close—I can see the top just ahead.

But the gravity of the world always somehow finds a way to pull me back down, a boulder rolling over me—crushing me.

Leaving me back at the bottom of the mountain, back to square one.

Wanting to reach the top all the more.

I never can remember where I’ve left my car keys.  It slips my mind that I’ve been told to stop at the grocery for milk. I forget to swing by the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions and occasionally I forget to feed the outside cat.  I’m always forgetting this password or that, and I’ve completely forgotten the names of some of my high school chums.  People who claim to know about such things tell me this everyday-forgetting is unremarkable.  A little more age here, a few things more interesting to ponder there, and the mind wanders off, unconcerned with milk, kitties or keys.

Most recently, I very nearly forgot I’d promised Ruth, of the lovely blog Synch-ro-niz-ing, that I’d accept her invitation to join with a group of bloggers and write about the beginnings of The Task at Hand ~ more specifically, how it received its title.  It’s a story I’m happy to recount for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the sheer pleasure of remembering those first, halting steps onto the path called “writing”.

In late 2007, a project or two brought me to the point of wanting to learn how to post images to the web. Simply in order to have a place to “practice”, I began a  blog at Weather Underground.  It wasn’t an obvious choice for a blogsite, but I wasn’t a blogger. I simply was messing about, exploring and experimenting.  My first entry was a pecan pie recipe. My second, about a trip through the Texas Hill Country, suddenly veered off into memoir, and I was writing.  I posted again, and then a fourth time, amazed to discover people  reading and enjoying my words.

Two months and a few posts later, on a whim, I joined the Bay Area Writers’ League.  I certainly never had thought of myself as a writer, but I was curious to see what people who defined themselves as writers might look like.  As it turned out, they looked pretty much like me: in love with words, with stories to tell and more than willing to spend their time listening to the first, halting efforts of beginners or the polished, compelling presentations of published authors.

At the January meeting, I was introduced to the concept of “flash fiction” and decided to participate in the monthly contest.  The challenge was to respond to a photo posted in the group’s newsletter with a hundred words (or fewer) of either poetry or prose.  When I saw the photo selected for the contest, it took less than a second to recognize Sisyphus.  Too clever for his own good, Sisyphus may have brought his punishment upon himself, but images of that punishment have compelled artists for centuries.  Unfortunately, I had no idea how to cross the gap from image to words without falling into cliché.

Three days later, while working on a boat and thinking about not much in particular, the first line came to mind, fully formed.  The title came next, and then days of shaping words for meaning and sound.  In the end – and quite to my surprise – I’d written a poem rather than a piece of prose.  It’s title? The Task at Hand.

 The Task at Hand  did win the little “contest”, and from the beginning it seemed so right, so truth-filled, there was no question it would serve as the title for my first “real” blog at WordPress.  A non-writer, I’d written a writer’s poem, with room for all of the discipline, all the surprise, all of the faith and clenched-teeth perseverance that writing requires. Did I know it then? Of course not.  Even now I only know it only in glimpses, in fits and starts, and in those passing moments when a “right word” appears.

At the Bay Area Writers’ League, it’s the custom for the winner of each contest to read their poetry or prose aloud at the next month’s meeting.   After I’d read The Task at Hand, a fellow came up to me.  ”So. This your first poem?” he asked.  ”Yes, I’ve just started writing.” ”Let me tell you something, then. That poem’s like a suit of clothes that’s two sizes too big. That’s ok. Don’t worry about it. You keep writing, and in a few years, you’ll start to grow into it.”

I’m like a kid that can’t wait.

The Task at Hand

Even the right word takes effort.

Quarried from a crevice of the mind
it stumbles into context from a surprised tongue
then slips again toward silence.

Breaking chains of metaphor,
pulled from its page by the gravity of doubt
it defies usefulness,

heaving past frail allusion
blocking passage after passage
with its heavy presence
until turned and nudged and tried again
for perfect fit
by one who never tires ~

the Sisyphean poet.

Comments are welcome.  To leave a comment or respond, please click below.

This will be a short post.  It’s Saturday, I’m going to a gig later (there may be more on that at a later date) and I don’t really feel like spending too much time with the computer today.  There is one observation, possibly accompanied by a bit of speculation, that I’d like to offer.

I’m always interested to see which search terms have resulted in visitors being referred to my blog after using a search engine.  One of the most frequent that pops up is the phrase ’steak meat.’  Somehow I doubt that the folks performing that search are looking for my ruminations (do you see what I’ve done there?) on the environmental impact of the meat industry and my reasons for severely restricting my meat consumption.  Maybe a few of them can makes sense of my ingredients list for steak au poivre.

Far and away the most frequently searched for terms that lands people at the Omphaloskeptic’s door is ‘Sisyphus.’  I can pretty much guarantee that the people who perform that search aren’t looking for my complaint about laundry and I really hope that they manage to get a better idea of the figure and myth than my posting offers.  I have images of school kids who’ve left a short essay assignment to the last moment and are desperately trying to figure out who this Sisyphus guy is and, having neglected their reading, leave this blog with some garbled impression that he’s the god of rocks and laundry.  I know that probably seems far fetched but that kind of process would explain some of the more bizarre assertions I’ve come across in students essays in the past which claim to be supported by some spurious web page somewhere.

So what have I achieved with that particular posting?  Well, it’s possible that I’m contributing to the general store of ignorance and confusion in the world.  Given that today’s Saturday, I think I can live with that. . .

Muéstrame tu Verdad

Temas: Yaoi, drama, romance
Personajes: Defteros, Asmita, Sisyphus, Aldebaran, Albafica
Spoilers: Cap 152 pasado de Defteros.
Resumen: Luego de una rebelión, de la liberación y del exilio, no queda mucho entre ellos. La culpa, el dolor, la muerte misma ha corroído lo que antes los ataba… ¿o no es así? Quizás deba ir a buscar su verdad.

Capitulo 1: La Herida

El ardor del fuego que se consumía en aquel oscuro lugar, cuya luz era tragada de forma embravecida por las sombras y su olor a azufre penetraba hasta su cerebro. El crujir de las piedras haciéndose pedazos, sucumbiendo antes las altas temperaturas, junto al ruido acuoso de burbujas de lava hirviendo que explotaban dejando en el aire un intento calor, eran señales que abrumaban todos sus sentidos. Allí, entre el espeso humo y saliendo de la oscuridad de la penumbra pudo sentirlo. Como la sombra de una bestia enfurecida que era capaz de explotar los mismos elementos del universo, con ojos ardiendo de ira, de odio, de un rencor fundado, se deja ver imponentemente. Con solo un paso hizo que la tierra bajo sus pies temblara compulsivamente, dejando un rastro de ardor en el aliento al pronunciar esas palabras:

−¡Vete!

El santo dorado sintió como toda la isla se hizo eco de esa orden infame, con la cual bloqueaba todo intento por parte de los que se acercasen. Resignado, volvió a su templo, en el espacio de un segundo…

−¿Entonces no vas a responder, Virgo?

Aturdido, sube su rostro oyendo la voz de quien lo estaba visitando en su morada, mientras él por medio de sus habilidades había intentado, nuevamente, hablar con el ahora residente de la Isla Kanon.

−Aldebaran de Tauro… −Murmuro Asmita reconociendo la grave voz de su visitante

−Ni siquiera tienes la educación de responder al mayor que te está hablando

El comentario, dicho con tono afilado, incomodo a Asmita en el momento, frunciendo sus cejas y mostrándose ante su acompañante con rostro severo. No entendía que estaba pasando, el toro dorado jamás le había dirigido la palabra y no concebía las razones que lo habían llevado a quedarse en su templo y hablarle de esa forma.

−No entiendo el motivo de tu visita, Aldebaran.

−¿Ahora harás como si nada hubiera pasado? Tengo más de 15 minutos parado aquí haciéndote una pregunta que te has negado responder. Dime quien es el descortés, santo dorado de Virgo.

Con ello finalmente entendió lo que estaba pasando. De seguro Aldebaran de Tauro había llegado a su casa cuando él estaba camino, de forma impersonal, hacía la isla Kanon. Suspiro un momento, entendiendo la incómoda situación en la que estaba metido y sabiendo que no podía excusarse diciendo que en ese momento no estaba allí. Se levanto, cortando con la meditación y con un rostro lo más afable posible.

−Lamento haberte hecho esperar, pero mi meditación no me permitió oírte. ¿Podrías repetir la pregunta, Aldebaran de Tauro?

El cosmos del toro vacilo un poco, sintiéndose molesto antes de proseguir.

−¿Qué le dijiste al patriarca para que creará ese ridículo plan en contra de Aspros de Géminis?

La pregunta cayó como una gran montaña sobre la mente de Asmita, quien desconcertado, dibuja en su rostro una expresión de espasmo. ¿Él haberle dicho algo al patriarca? Jamás había hablado con el patriarca sobre Aspros, mucho menos de Defteros, ¿de dónde habrían sacado tan estúpida idea?

−¿Qué te hace pensar que he hecho tal cosa?

−No intentes engañarme virgo. Aunque digan que las dudas venían del gran patriarca, sé que algo tuviste que ver. Estabas allí con él, ¿porque el patriarca te elegiría a ti para su protección siendo el santo más indiferente a las leyes del santuario?

La acusación no solo infundada, sino llena de prejuicio, fue suficiente para que Asmita entendiera que esto no era una conversación. El santo de Virgo detuvo su temple, se quedo en silencio escuchando, indignado.

−¿No piensas responder?

La imagen de Aldebaran se hacía cada vez más agresiva, como pocas veces se había visto en todo el santuario. El dorado de la segunda casa era conocido por su paciencia pero todos estaban conscientes que al molestarlo, se encontrarían con un toro dispuesto a despedazar lo que tuviera en frente. Justamente, eso estaba sucediendo.

−¿Dudas de las palabras del gran patriarca? –Respondió Asmita en tono altanero−Yo solo cumplí ordenes.

−¡Mientes! – El grito de Tauro sacudió el ambiente de la sexta casa, poniendo a Asmita en alerta – ¡Aspros no es el hombre que me han dicho sus palabras! ¡Estuve a su lado durante tantos años, con él entrenamos a la gran mayoría de los santos que ahora sirven a Athena! ¡No halle rastro de maldad en él, no podrás convenceré de lo contrario!

−¡Entonces esta discusión no tiene sentido! –Respondió Asmita molesto ante la intromisión− ¡Si no estás dispuesto a admitir la verdad, no hay nada que discutir!

−Te voy a enseñar unos cuantos modales, virgo. Para empezar, ¡como debes referirte a tus mayores!

El cosmos de Aldebaran empezó a incrementarse, mientras este se puso en su posición de Lai, con sus brazos cruzado, erguido, siniestramente aterrador debido a su altura. El santo de Virgo no dudo en hacerle ver que no estaba dispuesto a seguir su juego, por lo cual volvió a su posición anterior, en forma de una flor de Loto, para seguir con su meditación, aunque aún alerta para defenderse si era necesario.

−¡Basta Aldebaran! – Escucharon ambos en la entrada del templo.

−Sisyphus, ¡no me detengas! Este muchacho aprenderá a respetar a los santos de Athena

−Aldebaran, ¡ha sido suficiente! – Alzó la voz el santo de Sagitario, con un tono abrumado, entre suplica y orden que dejo al toro descolocado− Ya Athena está sufriendo por la muerte de Aspros de Géminis, ¿acaso tu le darás otra razón para su tristeza? Nuestra diosa no quiere que peleemos entre nosotros, debemos estar unidos, por sobre todas las cosas Aldebaran.

Más que las palabras, fue el mismo tono de voz de su compañero que lo hizo retractarse al denotar en él una terrible carga, que se sentía casi insoportable. Dejo que sus brazos cayeran a cada lado de su cuerpo y observo de nuevo aquel dorado que en medio del luto del santuario seguía meditando, incluso, justo frente a él había decidido simplemente ignorarlo.

−Virgo, tus acciones no me dan confianza y tal parece que no intentaras remediarlo. Meditando, con esa extraña religión, justo en este momento que la casa de Géminis llora de soledad, ¿qué clase de comportamiento es ese para un santo dorado?

−Déjalo ya Aldebaran. Déjalo ya… −Rogo Sisyphus con un rostro lleno de dolor y luego volteo su mirada hacia el guardia de la sexta casa −Asmita, ruego que disculpes este altercado, no sé qué tan inmiscuido estuviste en todo esto, pero reconozco que debiste tener tus razones y no pienso ponerlas en duda. Espero que esto no sea la causa de problemas mayores.

−Solo pediré que me dejen a solas e intente no desconcentrarme− Murmuro Asmita con recelo, provocando en Aldebaran un gesto de desespero.

−No soporto esto…

Aldebaran abandono la casa de Virgo con una ira enardecida, indignado, molesto, buscando un culpable para la caída de uno de los santos con el cual había compartido tanto. Sisyphus lo entendía claramente, nadie espero que Aspros cayera de la forma que lo hizo, y el dolor en cada uno de ellos era latente. Para todo el santuario fue una abrumadora sorpresa. Su diosa, desconcertada, lloro amarga lágrimas al saber lo que había ocurrido. Solo recordarlo le provocaba un intenso pesar en el pecho de sagitario.

−Asmita… −Musito Sisyphus con tono dolido – ¿esa misión que haces es de tal importancia que ni siquiera en este momento te puedes detener para despedir a un compañero?

−No pienso despedirme de un traidor.

Con esas palabras, Sisyphus bajo su mirada y subió hasta su templo, intentando no juzgarlo aunque las circunstancias le obligaran a hacerlo.

Precisamente, hacía una semana que el santuario recibió aquel golpe infame. Todos los dorados observaron, abrumados por el desconcierto, las dudas, la impotencia, a aquel cuerpo dorado bajar desangrentado en brazo de un desconocido. No podían entenderlo, todos lo habían conocido como un hombre justo, de buen carácter, que solo pensaba en el bien y de la noche a la mañana, se había convertido en un cadáver que cayó por la ambición. No podían creerlo. Sisyphus cayó arrodillado en su habitación, oculto de todos, y dejo que toda su frustración cayeran en forma de lágrimas. Él también había compartido tanto con él, lo conocía desde muy jóvenes y su muerte era una perdida temible ahora que la guerra santa estaba en puertas. Además, con su muerte, quedó irremediablemente atado a una responsabilidad que nunca busco y de la cual intento huir con todas sus fuerzas. Las preguntas empezaron a embargarlo… Sagitario se veía inmerso en un torbellino de dolor, de sofocante desesperación, que se acrecentaba ante las dudas entre la armada que estaba empezando a corroer la unidad, combustible invaluable para la victoria de Athena. Todo pesada y caía duramente en sus hombros.

Asmita, por su parte, percibió en el santuario un ambiente mucho más lúgubre y siniestro. La mirada de todos los santos caía sobre él, con ojos acusadores, murmullos y dedos que lo señalaban como culpable de algo que tarde o temprano caería. No era la primera vez que se sentía así. Cuando obtuvo su armadura dorada era normal estar en soledad, pero Defteros había llegado para hacerlo más llevadero. Ahora, ese no era el caso. Defteros estaba muy lejos y para su dolor, lo cual era lo que más lo lastimaba, no quería verlo.

La liberación de Defteros de la sombra de su hermano tuvo un precio muy alto, un precio que ninguno de los dos tenía entre sus cálculos. Cuando el gemelo sobreviviente se entero que Asmita estaba al tanto de todo aquel plan para probar a su hermano, se encendió en furia contra el santuario y contra él, el hombre que una vez había amado. No acepto ningún tipo de razón, para Defteros, Asmita debió haberlo advertido de lo que estaba a punto de ocurrir. Al final se sintió como una marioneta de todos, de su hermano, del patriarca y sus leyes, del mismo Asmita. Por ello se fue a la isla, alejándose de todos, prometiendo ser más fuerte para pelear, solo, por su propia cuenta.

Extrañaba su sola presencia, aunque era mayor el número de veces que se quedaban en silencio, solo disfrutando del latir de otro corazón además del propio, allí mismo, conectado. Memoraba con nostalgia su olor corporal, el sonido de sus pasos y de su respirar, todo parecía que se esfumo en un momento. La única casa que lloraba no era la de géminis, virgo también lloraba la ausencia del único ser que había amado.

Asmita intento concentrarse en esa meditación aunque era virtualmente imposible. Lo ocurrido hace una semana todavía lo embargaba y desde entonces, la negativa de ser recibido por quien antes lo anhelaba le dolía muy por dentro, muy hondo, allí donde nadie antes había tocado, solo él. Virgo intento aún así, al menos escapar del santuario. No importara si no podía traspasar las paredes del infierno de nuevo, ni tampoco si no era recibido por los únicos brazos siempre prestos para abrazarlo. Iría a donde fuera, para despejarse y olvidar aquel fatídico día donde todo se desborono. Aún así, su mente lo llevo inconscientemente a ese pasado inmediato.

Esa noche los vientos anunciaban el cambio estacional sobre ellos, agitándose fuertemente entre los templos, aunque no había señal de nubes. Asmita subió cada uno de los templos con un aire que le huele a mal augurio. Se detuvo un momento mientras cruzaba las escalera hacia Piscis y se deleito en el olor de las rosas que cultivaban, cuyo hermoso aroma no tenía nada que ver con su mortal misión. Suspiro y siguió su camino, saludando a su guardián quien luego de darle paso retrocedió una distancia prudente. Asmita reconocía que esa actitud de parte de Albafica era entendible. Su veneno mortal podría matar si alguien se acercase demasiado. De su belleza solo conocía lo que le comentaba Defteros, se lamentaba de nunca poder ver tanta hermosura encarnada.

Llegando a la recamara del patriarca, se arrodillo colocando su yelmo dorado a un lado, atendiendo el llamado que había recibido. Recordó cada una de esas palabras del patriarca y el cómo oírlas le estaba causando una fuerte conmoción en el pecho, viendo caer cada pieza de ese enorme rompecabezas frente a él, tomando forma, dentro de su espíritu. Tembló en ese momento por lo que vendría, un presagio, cada vez más certero, que le estaba clavando desde hace tiempo atrás y no comprendió… o decidió no comprender.

Bajo de aquel lugar como si cargara una pesada carga. No podía decir absolutamente nada, era un secreto de estado, un plan meticulosamente formado para probar a la próxima cabeza del ejército de Athena y él, no podía ser más que una pieza en ese enorme juego de ajedrez que el patriarca andaba jugando con el destino. Rogo dentro de sí que todo fuera solo una preocupación mayor, algo que luego comentaría con Defteros como una anécdota más de su vida, de esas cosas que luego de haber ocurrido no son más que leyendas. Aún así, su interior sabía, que luego de esa noche, todo sería distinto.

La reunión dorada recorrió pesadamente para él. Al ver en frente veía a un Aspros que no vislumbraba rastro de maldad pero que por dentro le creaba una alarma. Las palabras de Defteros recorrían su mente una y otra vez, intentando detener ese torbellino de ideas que querían atravesarlo. Respiraba profundo tratando de mantener su mente en aquella conversación donde se revelaba el destino de sus vidas. La amenaza había acrecentado, los espectros estaban reviviendo por lo cual, el dios de averno estaba en la tierra. La guerra Santa había comenzado. Inmediatamente los ojos de todos los presentes pasaron del temor a la determinación, aunque la preocupación de Asmita no era por el pasado ni por el futuro… era su presente. Lo terrible es que al intentar escapar de su agobio, solo se hallaba pensando en aquel hombre que lo ha seguido por tantos años, a quien le había entregado más que su corazón. Solo imaginar en lo que podría acabar esa treta le provocaba un intenso ardor en el estomago, una señal que duraría un tiempo más.

Podía sentir como su corazón impaciente aguardaba esa noche, tal como el patriarca se lo había pedido. Aún pedía al destino que nada pasara. Aún deseaba con todas sus fuerzas, de que si algo ocurría, él no estuviera inmiscuido. Deseaba, hondamente, que nada malo acaeciese. Todo ello se vio mortalmente atrapados y llevados al abismo al mismo tiempo que oyó esos pasos y el jadeo, tan primitivo, tan conocido. Asmita sintió en ese momento como un aire frio recorrió su cuerpo, y trago grueso, para mantenerse en pie en el plan minuciosamente trazado.

El cuerpo se acercaba. Esos pasos, el ruido de esos pasos se asemejaba a cuando llegaba nervioso hasta su templo, tímido, en espera del permiso del mismo aire antes de pasar. El jadeo, al respirar, sentía el mismo ritmo de su corazón, acelerado, ese que escuchaba cuando sus cuerpos al final se habían unidos. Lucho dentro de sí por los deseos de interponerse y llevarlo lejos de allí, lejos del santuario, lejos de su hermano quien vilmente lo estaba utilizando, lejos de todo lo que pudiera lastimarlo. Ya no había manera.

−¿Por qué no detuvieron esto desde antes? – Pensó Asmita desde el lugar donde sentía que todo ocurría− ¿Por qué simplemente no le dieron su lugar a Defteros? ¿Por qué llegar a este punto? ¿Por qué provocar esto?

Asmita cerró fuertemente sus parpados, como si con ello quisiera dejar de escuchar el jadeo desesperado del hombre que amaba, peleando en contra de una maldición y su propia mente humana que no debía entender aún que había sido engañado. Batallando contra todo en lo que había creído una vez.

El golpe que recibió el patriarca hizo palidecer al dorado. Si, ese golpe llevaba toda la fuerza que Defteros solo le había mostrado en sus momentos más íntimos. Asmita mordió sus labios, intentando no gritar en respuesta a esas palabras que Defteros clamaba desde su cosmos. “¡Detente!”, “¡Basta!”, “¡Es suficiente!”, esos eran los gritos de su conciencia que peleaba agonizante contra el maligno poder proferido, de una técnica mortal que debió  haber quedado sellada eternamente. Y luego, esa voz que entro al salón, con elocuencia, esa voz que el maldijo en su ser. ¿Cómo había podido caer hasta este punto? ¿Por qué tuvo que involucrarlo? Definitivamente, si algo haría sería hacerle pagar lo que le había hecho a su hermano, al hombre que él amaba con todas sus fuerzas.

El momento había llegado. Usando su poder detendría el ataque hacia al patriarca tal como este lo había planificado y se enfrentaría entonces, directamente, al hombre de la ambición y su marioneta. Cuando él salió de la cortina, no tuvo necesidad de ver el rostro de Defteros para entenderlo. El mismo cosmos de Defteros vacilo en ese momento lleno de desesperación. Le hubiera gustado gritar que todo estaría bien, pero nada podía hacer, debía seguir ese plan, derechamente. Intento mostrar su rostro de mayor orgullo, volver a mostrar aquel porte que tanto detestaban sus compañeros, fijando entonces la vista directamente en el traidor: Aspros.  Lamentablemente los planes cambiaron… al final, le toco enfrentar a la persona que amaba poseída.

Con cada paso que daba frente a él, podía sentir como el cosmos de Defteros le gritaba abrumado que no se acercase, que se alejara, que no quería lastimarlo. Los gritos parecían desgarrarlo por dentro, lamentándose internamente de haber sido el escogido para jugar ese juego. ¡Maldito destino! Ya no había paso atrás, aunque odiara admitirlo, estaba claro que solo había algo que hacer. Debía liberarlo de esa maldición y de lo que le ataba a su hermano. Debía hacerlo, a costa de lo fuese… sin importar que.

Asmita regreso a su templo luego de sentir que alguien tenía demasiado tiempo esperándolo allí. Subió su mirada, después de terminar deambulando en los espacios de sus recuerdos y sintió ese aroma de rosas llenando con su fragancia toda su morada. Por un momento hasta se sintió totalmente desubicado.

−Creo que te desconcentre – Escucho el murmullo suave, apacible, de esa persona que por el sonido que dejaba el viento a pasar sobre ella tendría una larga cabellera, sedosa y suave. El olor lo había reconocido, además de su tímido cosmos que siempre escondía para no llamar la atención y el hecho de haberse sentado frente a él, pero como a unos metros de distancia le dio a entender de quien se trataba su visita.

−No te preocupes, Albafica de Piscis. Si estás aquí debo considerarlo una ocasión especial.

El dorado de la doceava casa se sentía apacible. El olor que traía junto a sus rosas le permitía olvidar, por un momento, que estaba en su templo. Aquel lugar que ya no se sentía igual desde que Defteros lo había abandonado.

−Quería hablar, sobre… −El santo se detuvo un momento, apenado. Desde su lugar sintió cuando el ruido del oro contra el mármol anunciaba que estaba dejando su casco a un lado. −… temo entrometerme en algo que no me incumbe… pero no he dejado de pensarlo…

−Adelante –Interrumpió Asmita salpicado por curiosidad−, no hay nada que temer.

−Sobre lo que ocurrió con géminis… −Murmurar ese nombre hizo que el cosmos de Asmita vacilara−… no tenía intención de oír la discusión que tuviste con… el hermano… dentro de mi templo.

Asmita palideció al escuchar esas palabras, quedando mudo de la impresión.

−No sé que tanto se conocerían… para mí fue una gran sorpresa solo saber que ese hombre existía… pero, sentí que había un lazo que se destruyo en ese momento… Lo lamento…

−Te pediría que no comentaras esto con nadie más…

−No pienso hacer tal cosa… Debo admitir que no me sorprendí que lo conocieras. Los rumores dicen que paseaba los templos sin que nos diéramos cuenta, pero, por tu vista…

−Lo sé…

−Supuse que de alguna manera así se conocieron.

Asmita recordaba esa discusión, tratando de verificar que no se haya dicho “demasiado” en ese pase de palabras aderezadas por el dolor y decepción. Respiro hondo, más tranquilo, luego de comprobar que efectivamente, no revelaron muchos detalles en ella. Toda la discusión fue un reclamo por la confianza.

−Debió ser difícil para ti callar todo para seguir las ordenes del patriarca. Eres tenaz Asmita.

−Era mi misión−Susurro el dueño de la morada con tristeza−. Solo tenía que cumplirla.

−¿Porque no le explicas eso? ¿O dejarás que se vaya con tanto rencor hacía el santuario? Yo al menos no lo dejaría…

Virgo comprendió finalmente lo que estaba sucediendo. Entendió que Albafica lo que intentaba decirle es que no dejara ir a la única persona que había estado a su lado. Quizás, al estar condenado a la soledad de su veneno, entendía lo difícil que era vivir, totalmente alejado de todos. Asmita le regalo una hermosa sonrisa al comprenderlo. Aquel hombre se había acercado a él para evitar que sufriera su mismo destino.

Sin decir nada, entra de nuevo en meditación, dejando a Albafica descolocado, sin saber qué hacer. El pisciano se molesto un poco por la extraña reacción ante su manera de ser amable con el perjudicado. Viendo que no podía remediarlo y era totalmente inútil enojarse, Albafica se levanta tomando su casco y camina hacia la salida cuando siente que algo lo rodeo, por su pecho. Una sensación cálida que coló por todos sus nervios y lo dejo inmóvil, totalmente impresionado ante lo que sentía.

−¿Qué es…

−Shhh… −Susurro Asmita al oído, mientras de forma impersonal, como tantas veces había hecho con Defteros, le regalaba un abrazo, fraternal, lleno de agradecimiento. – Esta es mi manera de darte gracias.

−Asmita…

Albafica se quedo sin palabras luego de ese susurro, al que luego trago, soportando las lagrimas que se habían avecinado por sus hermosos ojos, disfrutando de tal vez, el único contacto que tendría por el resto de su vida. Ese abrazo que fue fuerte, cálido, un “gracias” que se diluía en la atmosfera.

Fue solo un momento, pero suficiente para que Albafica se viera embelesado en una paz interior consigo mismo. Recordaría ese gesto del guardián de la sexta casa, que le permitió saborear al menos una vez el contacto de un igual. Volteo, al sentir que el abrazo había cedido y efectivamente, Asmita subió su mirada para devolverle una sonrisa cómplice.

−Tienes razón… no debo dejarlo ir tan fácilmente…

Albafica sonrió tímidamente, e intento, con todas sus fuerzas, recobrar su porte para volver a su morada. Ya solo, Asmita solo se susurro a sí mismo, con una sonrisa que denotaba decisión:

“Te haré revelar tu verdad Defteros, la verdad tras tu exilio, la verdad tras lo nuestro…”

Sueño de Libertad

Temas: Yaoi, drama, romance

Personajes: Defteros, Asmita, Aspros

Spoilers: Cap 152 pasado de Defteros.

Resumen: ¿Qué tan libre quieres ser, Defteros? Esa pregunta podría ser determinandote para la vida del geminiano, justo cuando parece que el tiempo esta por cumplirse. ¿Esperará a la promesa de su hermano o se aventurará a buscar su propia libertad?

Capitulo 4: Libertad y Promesa

El aire refrescante agitaba los tenues cabellos castaños del guerrero quien dejaba descansar su rostro entristecido entre sus manos, al lado de su compañero, su más fiel seguidor, aquel que lo había estado acompañando en múltiples misiones. A quien le confiaría hasta su alma.

El Cid se quedo en silencio, solo sentado a su lado, sujetando sus manos entre sus piernas y en espera, de que en algún momento, su compañero hablare.

−Cid…−Murmuro el arquero aún con su rostro agachado− Puedes ver, todo lo que está debajo de nuestros pies, ¿cierto?

El español dio un vistazo general, observando como todas las casa, el campo de entrenamientos y edificios del santuario estaban, justo, a sus pies. Solo detrás de ellos se encontraba la cámara del patriarca, la habitación de Athena y los dos últimos templos.

−Así es.

−¿Puedes decirme que ves? –Pregunto de nuevo sagitario, con su voz ahogada en pesadez−

−Todo un santuario dispuesto a obedecerte− Respondió El Cid decidido.

Sisyphus levanto su vista, dejando entrever sus ojos abrumados de la impresión. No le había pronunciado que era lo que lo agobiaba, pero parece que el ya lo sabía. El español respondió la mirada angustiada de Sisyphus con fuerza, con fluidez, con la tenacidad de su signo.

−¿Acaso dudas de ello?

−No lo dudo… pero aún así… −Sisyphus arranco la cinta que solía sujetar su cabello, dejando que este se viera azotado por la brisa que agitaba al santuario− ¿Cómo supiste?

−Los espectros están renaciendo, el viento de guerra se siente en el ambiente. La necesidad de ir escogiendo un sucesor es lo más lógico –Confesó El Cid, mirando hacia el frente, dejando que su cabellera negra siguiera el ritmo impuesto por la brisa −. Además, tu semblante es un espejo.

Sisyphus soltó una leve carcajada, que más de alegría, escondía un intenso pesar, cosa que para su compañero le pareció extensamente doloroso. De improvisto, Sisyphus se dejo caer sobre el hombro del capricorniano, acto que sacudió las membranas del santo de la decima casa desconcertado.

−Sisyphus, aquí…

−Solo un momento Cid, solo un momento…

Trago grueso, intento mantener la compostura y verifico que efectivamente nadie estuviera cerca para verlos. Luego, cuidadosamente, capricornio estrujo la mano fría de su compañero, infundiéndole compañía, respeto y complicidad.

−Yo, no sé qué hacer… Para cualquier santo, esto debe ser una oferta tentadora, pero me siento indigno de ella.

−Exactamente, ¿qué te dijo el patriarca? –Pregunto el español, deseoso de entender a cabalidad todo lo que estaba pasando.

−Cuando vio que estaba a punto de negarme, no me dejo hablar y me dijo que tenía todo este tiempo hasta la reunión dorada para decidir. Me confesó que siendo yo el más cercano a Athena y de gran estima para mis compañeros, veía que era el indicado, pero que no me viera obligado a aceptar la responsabilidad.

−Eso significa que tiene un apoyo en caso de que tú desistas.

−Tal parece…

El español apretó con mayor fuerza la mano de Sisyphus, como si con eso intentara infundirle valor aunque comprendía perfectamente el desosiego que sentía. Para alguien a quien amaba poner su pecho en frente para proteger a los débiles, debía ser terrible la idea de ver morir a los débiles para protegerlo.

−Sea cual sea la decisión que tomes, cuentas conmigo. Recuerda, yo siempre seré tu espada.

El susurro mudo, asintiendo, fue lo único que escucho de su compañero y así en silencio, se dejaron llevar por la dulce brisa que los acunaba, dejando que esta se llevara lejos todo lo que los agobiaba y así disfrutar, enteramente de la paz que les quedaba.

Al mismo tiempo que esto ocurría en la decima casa, la sexta estaba totalmente desconectada de las noticias de guerras, de los dioses e incluso del destino mismo. La mano de Defteros posicionada en la nuca de Asmita, pretendía sujetar su rostro como si fuese el mayor de sus tesoros, mientras se saciaba lentamente de esos labios que tanto había probado a través de pases astrales, que aunque le dejaban una satisfacción honda, no era comparable a lo que ahora era sentir sus labios directamente. Se retiro un momento para poder respirar profundamente, ya que aquel beso tan esperado durante años pareció absorberle el oxigeno de los pulmones. Abrió sus ojos azules para observar el rostro ruborizado de su compañero, quien ahogado, intentaba tomar aire en sus pulmones.

Defteros se sintió embargado de muchas emociones a las cuales no sabía cómo dejarlas correr sin atropellar con ello a su compañero, quien luego de haber recuperado el aire, le devolvió una sonrisa que le daba vía abierta a sus instintos. Él no espero, no tenía mucho tiempo tampoco para detenerse a pensar, así que simplemente tomo el cuerpo de Asmita sobre él rodeándolo con sus brazos, tiernamente, dejando que su brazo derecho soportara desde la cintura hasta sostener con su mano su delgado cuello, y con la izquierda, rodaba sus caderas hacía el. El santo le respondió simplemente dejando que una de sus manos seductoramente sujetara sus cabellos desparramados y ahora un poco humedecidos por el mismo, y la que tenía libre, presionar con fuerza la esbelta espalda del gemelo, fuerte, voraz, ardiente como las paredes de un volcán.

Solo eran besos… solo besos tras besos que parecían con ello pasar una larga factura de encuentros fortuitos y deseos negados que había ido acumulando a lo largo de su relación. Desde que se conocieron, hubo algo que innegablemente los ato. ¿El destino quizás? Asmita intentaba pensar en eso mientras sentía que su amante se volvía cada vez más apasionado. La fuerza de su agarre se hacía más potente y conforme seguían aumentando las caricias, ambos cuerpos parecían prepararse para una terrible erupción, que corroería los principios, la moral, la razón. Poco le importo eso al santo de Virgo, quien se detuvo solo a sentir la liberación de aquella bestia dormida, obligada a deambular por las sombras, pensando inútilmente que así doblegarían su fuerza. Nada podía estar tan equivocado.

Era fuerte, muy fuerte, y cuando pensaba en ello no se refería al beso desgarrador que le clavo en su cuello y que lo obligo a morder sus labios, para no emitir un ruido indecoroso que los delatase. Se refería a aquella personalidad que se había forjado tras el dolor, tras la subordinación, tras los años de sombra sucumbiendo a su propio yo. Asmita sabía que detrás de ello había una torrencial de fuerza que pronto se desbocaría y lo haría levantar, fuertemente, como un guerrero inclemente a quien muchos le implorarían misericordia. Deseaba ver ese día, el día en el que el mismo tiempo impartiría su justicia divina.

Entre tanto, el jazmín de su cabello lo tenía embelesado, ensimismado en un torbellino de sensaciones que no hacían más que acelerarlo. Por primera vez, libre. Por primera vez, vivo. Defteros sentía que conforme rodeaba el pecho de Asmita con sus besos, por fin, podía reclamar que algo le pertenecía. Sería lo único, tal vez, pero era enteramente suyo.

Conforme se unían, ambos entendían que al final ya nada podría separar la unión astral de las que estaban siendo testigos, cómplices y victimas. Mientras que Defteros era guiado dulcemente por Asmita y este simplemente seguía complacientemente cada uno de sus deseos, se ejecutaba un rito de lo cual solo ellos tendrían conocimiento. De alguna manera, en alma, en cuerpo, incluso con la esencia del cosmos, uno se buscaría al otro unidos por ese vínculo perfecto en el que se estaba convirtiendo sus cuerpos. Quien sabe cuánto duraría la guerra, ni de qué forma se verían devorados por ella, pero independientemente de eso, se buscarían, incluso en las mismas bases del infierno.

Finalmente, luego de que ambos cuerpos realizaran esa danza afrodisiaca de la cual solo el mismo universo conocía el ritmo, se dejaron caer, en medio de aquel pasillo que solo dejaba entrever un pequeño halo de luz de luna. El cabello alborotado de Asmita se desplazaba por el piso de mármol de forma graciosa, entre tanto Defteros simplemente sucumbió al placer, cansado sobre él, dejando que su torrencial cabello rebelde cayera a un lado y sosteniendo con su mano izquierda, aún posesionado por algún elixir, la dulce mano derecha que Asmita tenía extendida. No podía creerlo, no podía dar crédito en lo que había terminado su carrera, no… más bien su sueño de libertad. Porque definitivamente, este era la conclusión de su casi eterna búsqueda. Todo se limitaba a eso, un momento, en donde pudiera dejarse ir sin riendas, tomar lo que amase, recorrer los caminos que desease, experimentar, sentir. Un nudo en su garganta se formo, embargado de alegría, de sosiego, de paz.

En ese momento, sintió la dulce caricia de Asmita, quien tiernamente volvió a tratar de peinar ese cabello sin ley. Esa acción, hizo que Defteros se reincorporara un poco, para ver el rostro de quien lo había acompañado y volver a dibujar con sus manos las líneas que enmarcaban esos parpados que nunca han visto luz. Él le respondió con sutileza, una sonrisa sincera, que le hizo caer de nuevo en la más pura y valedera paz, aunque ya lejos de la pasión momentánea, Defteros recordó una de las razones por la cual se había atrevido a ir a su templo.

−Pude sentir a tu cosmos golpear este templo dos veces…−Menciono Defteros, con mirada preocupada y un tono asustado…− Mi hermano menciono que si seguías haciéndolo de esa forma podrías…

−shhh…

Asmita detuvo las palabras del gemelo tocando delicadamente su rostro y dibujándole una sonrisa de tranquilidad, para sosegarlo.

−No tienes de que preocuparte, estaré bien. Estoy consciente de que esa no era la forma de hacerlo y se reconocer cuales son mis límites. No pondré mi vida en juego tan fácilmente.

−¿Es una misión del patriarca? ¿Es tan peligrosa?

Ante esas palabras, el santo de Virgo se reincorpora, aún sentado, tomando aquella tela que lo cubría antes de haberse dejado llevar y echo su cabeza hacia atrás, pensativo.

−Es una misión que yo mismo me impuse Defteros. Solo el patriarca me dio la autorización de ausentarme más a menudo, aunque seguiré aquí… ¿lo entiendes cierto?

Defteros asintió, comprendiendo todo. Sus viajes fuera de su cuerpo al parecer serían más comunes y duraderos que antes.

−¿A dónde vas? –Pregunto el gemelo, dejando que una de sus manos recibiera la caricia de aquel cabello dorado y húmedo que se escapaban por la espalda de Asmita.

−Te diré en su momento. Confía en mí.

Acto seguido, el santo voltea y pícaramente besa los labios del gemelo, llevado por el olor que aún estaba impregnado su aliento. Defteros recibió ese dulce gesto como un bálsamo a la angustia que por un momento lo asalto y con delicadeza, tiro del brazo de su compañero hasta volverlo a acoplar a su cuerpo, al cual abrazo, cubriéndolo, como si quisiera protegerlo de todo.

−Pensé que ya no habría remedio… −Susurro Defteros, totalmente fuera de sí, dejando que el aire de sus pulmones se refrescara con el olor a jazmín.

−Sé que fui duro contigo. Aún así, creo que tú eres más duro contigo mismo de lo que yo podría llegar a ser para ti.

−Entiéndeme…

−Trato de hacerlo, créeme que trato de hacerlo… Pero hay muchas cosas de ti que no termino de comprender.

El sonido lejano de una campana llamo la atención de ambos. Debía tratarse de una catedral cercana en el pueblo de Rodorio, que cada 3 horas anunciaba el paso del tiempo a todos los cercanos, incluyendo al santuario.

−Asmita… debo irme… −Musito Defteros, cayendo en cuenta de que la noche avanzaba

−Lo sé. Te ayudaré a ponerte la máscara.

Defteros se sentó a su lado, negándose a sí mismo el tener que volver a ponerse esa carga que de seguro, lo devolvería irremediablemente a la cruda realidad que por un momento creyó haber abandonado. Asmita sintió eso a través de su cosmos, por lo cual tomo con dolor esa mascara, preparándose para ponerla y consolarlo.

−Defteros, un hombre libre elige sus cadenas, también el cuándo y cómo sostenerlas. Cada vez que desees, te ayudaré a quitarte esta mascara hasta que tú mismo puedas hacerlo.

−¿Te burlas de mí porque hace un momento no podía quitármela? –Pregunto Defteros dibujando una sonrisa picara, con una ceja arqueada de forma sinuosa, sin entender el verdadero significado de sus palabras.

−Para nada…

Ayudado por Asmita, Defteros volvió a colocarse aquella mascara, que por primera vez no le pareció tan pesada. Todo parecía más llevadero ahora.

De inmediato pensó, en como haría para despejar ese aroma a jazmín que había quedado impregnado en su cuerpo y así evitar, que su hermano sospechara lo que esa noche había ocurrido. En ese momento recordó aquella pregunta que le hizo a Asmita el día anterior y que él, magistralmente, se había encargado de evadir.

−Asmita, ¿realmente no sientes celos por mi hermano?

La pregunta al ser oída provoco un extraño desconcierto en él. No eran celos… era un presagio tal vez, una señal, algo que él no terminaba de descifrar. Pero definitivamente no eran meramente celos.

−Sé que tu hermano tiene una gran parte importante de tu corazón, pero también debes admitir que hay otra buena parte que me pertenece.

Defteros lo miro tiernamente, observando cómo sentado, ya con su pantalón puesto, dejaba que su cabello se precipitara por su espalda. Por supuesto, ese semblante confiado de sus palabras, le parecía sumamente jugoso. No le iba a refutar. Ciertamente aquella parte que su hermano no tenía, le pertenecía a él y por más creído que sonara, Asmita estaba totalmente convencido de ello y con toda razón.

−Quería comentarte, que si mi hermano, que es el hombre a quien más venero, me pidiera lastimarte, lo impediría, con todas mis fuerzas.

Asmita le dibujo una expresión de asombro ante esas palabras. Parece que aquello que lo alertaba se hacía cada vez más tangible y aún así, menos explicable.

−¿Crees a tu hermano capaz de algo así? –Pregunto el santo intrigado−

−No… quiero decir, en una situación hipotética…

−No vale la pena enfermar nuestra mente en base a hipótesis, pero entiendo lo que intentas decirme− Asmita se pone de piel, con una sonrisa encantadora −. Si, “hipotéticamente”, me tocara enfrentarte, antes de lastimarte intentaría, de mil y una forma hacerte entrar en razón. ¿Conforme con eso?

Con esas últimas palabras, Defteros abandona la sexta casa, escurriéndose entre los campos de entrenamiento. Sin saberlo, sin comprender en ese momento lo que les esperaba en el futuro. Esas frases al final se convirtieron en una promesa.

Asmita suspiro, satisfecho. El cansancio del día no fue nada comparado con la satisfacción que actualmente lo rebosaba. Aún así, algo en su pecho, tras esas palabras, quedó grabado con sangre y fuego.

El amanecer llego al santuario, forrando con los rayos del sol cada una de las edificaciones que se alzaban a lo alto. Desde temprano, Asmita se encontró realizando su misión, a la cual, extrañamente, sintió menos pesada que el día anterior. Entre tanto, Aspros se levanto confundido luego de ver a Defteros, durmiendo en un rincón, sucio, con algunas heridas en sus manos, como si hubiera estado entrenando toda la noche. El olor de jazmín no era detectable, precisamente para eso, luego de salir de la casa de Virgo, Defteros entreno fuertemente, sintiendo que tenía energías para cualquier cosa que le impusiera y para de alguna manera ocultar ese embriagante aroma que lo llenaba.

El ruido de la armadura dorada hizo que Defteros despertara de su letargo y observara, dormitado, a su hermano quien se colocaba su casco dorado, aquel de la doble expresión. Para su vista, iluminado por los rayos del sol que se escurría tras la abertura de su habitación, era como ver a un dios encarnado con su mismo rostro.

−Veo que entrenaste duramente en la noche.

−Así es, te prometí que sería alguien digno de ser el hermano de géminis−Murmuro Defteros

−Por supuesto, después de todo, yo te liberaré de la máscara –Aspros acaricio la cabellera enmarañada de su hermano, casi como si fuese un arrullo de cuna−. Ya falta poco, muy poco para nuestro día…

Defteros se dejo caer en los brazos del cansancio, solo escuchando desde lejos esa última frase sin ver el semblante de su hermano cuando la pronuncio. Aspros lo dejo atrás en su habitación y camino hacia la cima del santuario, recorriendo cada casa mientras recibía la acostumbrada señal de respeto que el tanto amaba, casi sintiendo entre sus dedos aquel trono que le permitiría alcanzar la cúspide y al final, ser reconocido junto a su hermano, su gemelo, la perfecta replica que él había creado para mostrar al mundo cuan fuerte eran y cuan equivocados estaban.

El destino escrito en las estrellas ya había dado su veredicto.

I’ve been married for over ten years now. My wife and I have been together even longer. Once I found that special someone to spend holidays with, someone I could fart in front of while sitting on the couch in my underwear, rife with the knowledge that she’ll be there tomorrow and the next day—well, I thought I was in the clear. I thought I was retired from the dating scene.

Foolish mortal.

I’m unemployed. I used to be just another corporate soldier, entrenched in the front line of the cola wars, sitting in my fabric-lined cubicle wearing my corporate casual uniform.

Now, I’m just another casualty. I wear a bathrobe all day, and haven’t shaved in over a month. A day once filled with meetings and busy work now consist of job hunting and old episodes of the Rockford Files.

It’s amazing how much unemployment is like my bachelorhood—only with less internet porn.

The similarities between dating and job hunting are rather uncanny. Finding a job is just like trying to pick up a strange woman at a bar.

It’s true.

Instead of a pickup line, you have a cover letter—dates are replaced with interviews.

Being fired is akin to being dumped for someone better looking, and getting laid off is the professional equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me…we can still be friends.”

And of course, there’s the hiring process.

That first interview is like a blind date—you met on the internet and seem to have a lot in common…You clean yourself up and watch what you say; you find yourself acting a little more polite than normal. You conceal your bad habits and pop breath mints like candy.

You pray they ask you out on a second date.

And when you get home, stomach full of butterflies, body a buzz, you wonder just how long you should wait before calling. You don’t want to seem desperate or psycho.

Sometimes they lead you on—you think you’re about to get lucky but it turns out they’re just not that into you; it’s the corporate equivalent of a tease.

Sometimes they say they’ll call, but never do, as you sit and stare at the phone for weeks—waiting, wondering what you might have done wrong.

It has been said that everyone has a soul mate out there, just waiting to be found. In the arena of love, I know this to be true; my wife reaffirms this belief almost every single day.

Let’s just hope the same can be said of careers—I’m not cut out for the bachelor life.

In the meantime, I just keep pushing that boulder up the mountainside, trying to make it to the top.

So I’m going to be self-indulgent for a moment.

Below is a poem that I wrote after a lovely day with my new beau. I have a point – so if you react to poetry the way my friend Brian does, please just skip the poem (Brian this means you) and move down to where the words are in paragraph form again. You will be happier and so will I.

So my point – I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness lately. Nine months ago I’m not sure I could have had a day like the one described above. As my doctor pointed out, corporate life was killing me. My friends put up with me and the broken record of my observations of all the things that were wrong and that I wanted to fix – but only because often they were in a similar space. Trapped on the treadmill of too much work, too little time, poor direction, and blurred lines of responsibility. All the things that makes Dilbert so comical and corporate life so unbearable.

But I wasn’t going to talk about my ex-job – except to say that even with the great people I worked with and the good product we had most days I felt like a failure. I was Sisyphus. Working every day without making any progress – trapped in my own personal Hell.

I don’t mind hard work, if it goes somewhere.

Recently a friend sent a link to an article about how uncertainty in your work life is an indicator of health. It made me think of all the uncertainty out there – the rounds of layoffs my friends have been through (both as survivors and those cut). I’ve been both. I was so grateful to be cut this time rather than be one of the survivors with the extra workload and the increased hours and the uncertainty. Once I survived three rounds of layoffs in eighteen months – everything got harder, everyone more unhappy and resentful.

Now just so that everyone doesn’t think I’m anti-corporate life – my best friend loves her job! She works for a global company and has found a niche. Other friends have too – so it is out there. But how do we get there?  

Dr. Daniel Gilbert – in his work on happiness – found that our “future selves” did not always agree with our assessment that being “richer/slimmer/married/divorced/employed/retired” would make us happier. His studies suggest that most of us trip over it – but we don’t make it. 

Four years ago, when I started reimagining my life, I didn’t think of happiness. I started with trying to figure out what I valued and how to stay true to those values. Since then, every decision I’ve made (with the exception of a brief stint that I someday hope to get enough distance on so I can write about it) is based on those values. It has taken me four years and some help from the economy to find this place. Amazing that you can imagine something, plan it, and achieve it.

I have to take a moment and thank the three people who inadvertently gave me the tools to start on this path four years ago. Funny enough – they were teaching project management classes Tonia McConnell, Jeff Crow, and Paul Spindel.

I’ve found a place I like – work I like – a pattern of ebb and flow to my life that I like and that I’m desperate to keep.

Gilbert also defined four rules of happiness, and after rereading them for this post I’m amazed at the ongoing truth I find in them

1. Bingeing is bad, except when it isn’t.
2. Happiness often comes from what you don’t know.
3. Keeping your options open won’t necessarily make you happier.
4. The things you fear are not as bad as you think.

Bingeing! Well nothing could be more of a binge than writing a novel in three days! It still leaves me breathless. I don’t know who that person was or where she came from but I keep hoping she will visit again soon. 

What you don’t know! Who would have thought that I would like doing a blog? I wouldn’t have… every day I get to research things I don’t know, write things I’m thinking and learning about, and explore the world of the internet as it continues to impact us.

Keeping options open. This is one of my greatest problems. I like to keep my options open. My mind is usually brimming with ideas and possibilities. But I’m finding that constraints can actually increase creativity and narrowing your focus can bring delight.

The things you fear! Well for all my planning and work on my exit strategy I was unable to make myself leave my job because of its security. The economy went bad and pushed me out – like a chick leaving the nest. It was fortuitous. And then the job market was so limited that I had to find things to fill my days with – since there just aren’t many jobs out there – so I continued my plan. Because what I had feared – leaving – happened.

I wasn’t looking for happiness – I was looking for solvency, autonomy, and creativity.

What I’ve found is bliss.

~ Tess

The revelation that God is a verb, as laid out in the 14th chapter of “The Shack,” and evidently based on a quote by Buckminster Fuller, lends new meaning to the famous opening phrase of the Gospel of John, “In the beginning was the Word” (John 1:1). Incidentally, in the Spanish version, the phrase uses the term “Verbo,” as in “verb,” instead of the more modern word, “palabra,” (and I remember frowning on that years ago, because of its implication that God was a Verb, instead of a Noun).

But it makes sense in the light of the reference to God’s old and Hebrew name (Jehova, Jahwe or Jah) meaning “I am,” (“I am that I am,” or “I will be,” etc.). which in many languages is simply the verb of “being” in the first form or person… (i.e. “soy,” Spanish for “I am,” “sono,” Italian…)

Naturally, as the book points out, we humans are more fascinated by nouns, and more specifically, things we chase after all our lives in our pursuit of (the nouns) happiness, money, fame… you name it.

Most of the 10 things the Ten Commandments forbid or tell us we shouldn’t do, are things that we do in pursuit of those nouns (things) we think will make us happy: We steal, kill, lie, covet our neighbor’s goods and wife and then make idols out of them and worship them, (by spending an infinitely greater amount of time on their pursuit than in our relationship with our Maker), instead of the One Who alone deserves to be worshiped, (taking His name in vain whenever we don’t get enough of them), and since we hardly ever stop voluntarily in our perpetual pursuit of those nouns, God slapped the commandment to keep the Sabbath in there, to make sure that we’ll give it a break at least one day per week…

It also lends all the more sense to why Jesus told His disciples, “I give you a new commandment: to love one another.” In other words, “If you keep that one, you won’t need all the other “don’ts” anymore…

If you just do the right thing, the thing that God by nature does all the time (God is love – another Verb), then you’ll be alright.

Perhaps He had to show us first how to do it by His own life, before we would ever understand it, (hence first the 10 “don’ts”), and if there’s one thing we can gather from Jesus’ earthly life, it is the fact that it was most certainly not a life lived in pursuit of things (or nouns) at all.

All He did was do and say things that would evoke processes and actions (verbs) in our lives that would cause us to revolute, turn around and live and love and even die happily ever after, because the way He did and does all those things are simply divine.

(I just hope that none of the disciples of Richard Dawkins are going to find this blog entry, or I’ll be swamped by insulting comments about the lack of sense I’m making as far as they’re concerned…
But as some insignificant little songwriter once put it: “Love doesn’t care what people say…”)

Maybe that’s the reason why so many people who claim to be Christians or believers lack all the evidence of their discipleship in their sample: they don’t do God. They lack the doing part of God. They may think they have God wrapped up in a neat little package like one of those Christmas presents under their trees, and the concept of God all figured out in the cube on top of their necks, and keep Him tightly locked up inside that big house they built for Him for 25.000.000 bucks, but the rest of the world still refuses to believe one word they’re saying when they open their mouths and talk about God, because talking seems to be the only action and verb in their religion…

They don’t do or practice the verb that God is.

They haven’t even yet begun to love.

I – as a person whose principal and arch enemy is the sin of laziness – must admit that it isn’t necessarily always easy to do God.

Likewise, our other human core weaknesses – our anger, pride, our tendencies to lie, our envy, avarice, fears, hedonistic streaks and desire for power – these all strive in us to stop us from doing the God-thing, the verb, the action that is God.

Our natural inclinations are to do the things that are good for ourselves, that give us big bellies, stuffed pockets, lots of zeroes behind the digits on our bank accounts, friends on MySpace or whatever, but the action of doing God and what God does is sort of alien to most of us, and it’s almost as if we have to lose our own selfish lives first before we can find life the way Love intended…

Besides, doing God is so dreadfully unpopular in our world…
Anything else in our world may be popular, except that one single activity.

Doing God comes across as corny, if not totally uncool or downright outrageous to most of our fellowmen who follow the examples of our Hollywood icons that we tend to shape our lives after, rather than the sad figure hanging on the cross in the building we visit on Sundays.

Well, perhaps that’s precisely one of the points the author(s) of “The Shack” wanted to bring across, and what some of their publications refer to as thinking outside the box:

God is not something you can stick in a box and say, “It’s MINE!” It’s something you either do or… forget it!

It’s what determines whether our lives are a foretaste of Heaven, or a selfish, Sisyphus-like existence of hell on earth.
God is the Action that’s making everything happen, even if He may temporarily do most of it hidden from our view and from behind the scenes, letting us live under the impression that we’re the ones doing everything – only until the curtain will be removed and it shall be revealed just how much the Great Director and His staff were actually involved in the making of this Big Picture…

Coincidentally, even the original meaning of the word “church” (ecclesia) is based on a verb. God is calling all of us out and away from our materialistic, greedy ways of thinking, to a new world, where His happy children dance around in a huge circle, calling out to anyone who will hear: “C’mon, let’s do some God together!”

(Related podcast:)

http://www.bigcontact.com/mcdozer/the-hideous-god-of-christianity

The Curious Case of Crazy Cartoons

Cartoons are the closest approximation to Tarantino’s movies. They start out as a simple ideas inspired by real-life objects/characters/situations and go on to evolve into completely new universes with their own sets of mythologies and histories. Although controlled to the last pixel by their creators, these cartoon characters take up a life of their own and, in the process, have the creators conform to their characteristics. A sub-art form by itself, the cartoon provides so much scope for exploration of both the animation medium and of cinema itself (by exclusion of reality). When Émile Cohl created Fantasmagorie (1908), now accepted as the first ever animation movie, he had given a mile of head start for the genre with the film’s no-holds-barred repudiation of real space and time. Since then, sadly, animation seems to have been moving in the opposite direction, trying to imitate “normal” cinema with its gargantuan technological expertise,  in the same way the latter tries to imitate life. These CG devils do not seem to understand that animation is both an adversary and a complement to photographic cinema – an extreme form of wish fulfillment that wears its manipulation on its sleeve – rather than a clone. Like all genres, the clichés have remained, the spirit and meaning buried. Premiering almost six decades ago, the Wile E. Coyote vs. The Roadrunner cartoon series is one that takes these clichés to the most extreme and, by doing so, digs into the most basic and pertinent of all questions about the medium – What does it mean to be a cartoon?

Honey, I Dehumanized the Kids

The Roadrunner series was conceived by Chuck Jones and Michael Maltese.  And Chuck Jones is as true an auteur that one can find in cartoon filmmaking. One can almost immediately tell a Jones cartoon from the others. His toons are characterized by hard edged drawings with jittery motion that lacks real continuity. His characters are true caricatures, deliberately far from reality, with justifiably no depth at all. These characters somehow appear to know that they are in a cartoon. Consider his stint as the director of the famed Tom and Jerry show. Till then, Hanna and Barbera had been presenting us cutesy, smooth lined and lovable characters (This still remains my favorite era in the Tom and Jerry series) who call out for empathy. With the arrival of Jones, however, things take a dark turn as we see a frenzied Tom chasing a Jerry who seems to be perennially on crack. Jones removes any trace of cuteness from these characters, providing features like vicious teeth and pointed whiskers, and disallows any sympathy for them from us, at least by the virtue of their appearances. It is as if Jones believes that we should know that these are just cartoons and their lives are not going to be altered by our sympathy. That does not mean that he doesn’t give us emotional anchors to hold on to in his cartoons, but just that he consistently avoids the threat of realism – of appearance and of emotions – that plagues the cartoon world so often.

Although it never really upped the ante for the Tom and Jerry series, his style sure does work wonders here. In the Roadrunner series, too, there are no attempts at unwarranted emotional bonding even though one does end up rooting for Wile E. within minutes into each episode. For a comparison, these cartoons of Jones are like the early short films of Chaplin that relied purely on slapstick, without ever concentrating on the Tramp’s relationship to us like the later Chaplin films do. Jones relies on Woody Allen kind of humour – throw them all and see what sticks – with his relentless series of gags. His humour does not depend on what happens (which, by the very virtue of the Roadrunner series, is known to every one), but how does it happen and how long does it take to happen. Part of the fun in watching the Roadrunner cartoons arises from this surprise element of time that comes into picture in these skirmishes. Consider this random episode called Hip Hip-Hurry! (1958) that Jones directed. The episode consists of 8 gags of lengths 58, 30, 26, 8, 28, 35, 25 and 106 seconds respectively. The numbers are enough of a witness that Jones revels in writing both gotcha gags and wait-wait-almost-there-boom set pieces (which were a characteristic of his Tom and Jerry cartoons too) equally. And that is the only kind of unpredictability that he allows in the world of Roadrunner.

[Hip Hip-Hurry! (1958)]

Once More Upon a Time in the West

The idea of the Roadrunner show resembles a western (The fact that the coyote is a symbol of the Native American makes this notion all the more interesting!). Like the western genre, it originates as a piece of history – a shred of fact that a coyote is trying to get his hands on a roadrunner – and then develops itself as a myth that is derived from that piece of history (that the coyote always goes after the bird). Two primary characters facing each other off in a vast, cruel and blazing environment is one of the biggest stereotypes of the now-extinct genre. In Roadrunner, too, the geography is sparse, torrid and lifeless and painted with mostly brown and deep yellow colours. Furthermore, the western has always been a playground for writers to tease our moral standings and to tantalize us with notions we try to take for granted. Usually, the “morally good” according to law and social institutions for justice, in the form of police and the sheriff, is pitted against the morally good according to personal conscience and intuition, in the form of the noble outlaw and the lone ranger. Scenarios are written in such a way that our empathy goes against the justice system, which seems to be blinded by its own rules, and the audience is made to unconciously question the way laws are made. In the case of Roadrunner, this sense of balance between “good” according to public opinion and right-wing morality and “good” according to personal experience and emotional connection is maintained in the form of the roadrunner and Wile E. respectively. The cerebral part of us tells us that the roadrunner is never the instigator of trouble and it is plainly wrong to try to kill the harmless being. On the other hand, by virtue of the script, we end up supporting the coyote’s efforts and even want him to get the bird for once. The result is the deletion of human morality – the notion of heroes and villains and good and bad – from the Roadrunner universe.

No Man’s Land

One observation that one immediately makes when watching the Roadrunner cartoons is the strange absence of humans in the toons. There are no human “characters” in the series as such, even though they make their presence in the world felt indirectly now and then. Even when they do, in the form of the regular afternoon trains that run over Wile E., the random trucks that get him at the tunnels and the friendly neighbourhood highway chases, they merely act as deus ex machinas that make sure that Wile E. does not catch roadrunner and that he always chases him.  Same is the case with the ACME Corporation, from where Wile E. obtains all his bizarre gadgets. He always gets what he wants from them although one is not sure how the economy allows for this. ACME is not very unlike our capitalistic companies that benefit from people’s internecine quest for climbing the social ladder as fast as possible and which try to rake money even at the  cost of deterioration of people‘s ways of life (and history has made sure that this policy of ACME holds good for Certain Intelligence Agencies too!). Both humans and institutions perpetuate the myth of the roadrunner and Wile E by their non-intrusion and occasional intrusion. Furthermore, there are no laws in the Roadrunner world.  Unlike in movies like Toy Story (1995), where the toys had to obey the rules of the human world and come into true existence only when they are far removed from observation, Wile E. need not be ever conscious of his actions. He knows that he is being observed by the humans and he would always be made to chase the roadrunner. Even science, with its selective application of its laws, seems to want to keep the myth alive.  All Wile E. can do is to conform to this “fascist conspiracy” of the external world.

The Cartoon with(out) a Difference

In the case of The Roadrunner series, one is safe in saying that if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Far from being wrong, it is the very truth of the world of Roadrunner. The stories of all the episodes of the series are so identical to one another, that it would only be a miracle if one can identify individual episodes. You have this lanky, brown coyote – about 45 years of age, one would say, if Jim Carrey were to play him – who tries, in every which way possible, to get his hands on this clever, thin roadrunner bird. Predictably (I mean predictably), he fails, only to get up again and repeat the process. Each of these vignettes starts out and ends in the same way – with Wile E. concocting some new plan to get hold of the Roadrunner and with him getting caught in his own trap respectively. The only difference between each of these encounters lies in the way Wile E. fails in his mission. In fact, the whole universe of Roadrunner relies on repetition – repetition of situations (what would Roadrunner be without the top view of Wile E. falling into the cliff?), repetition of geography (more than in any other cartoon, the scenery in these cartoons repeats very often, especially noticeable in the background during the chases) and repetition of structure (to the point that the relative ordering of the vignettes and the episodes is ultimately immaterial). Heck, even the single piece of speech in the series comes in the form of a repetition – “Beep Beep”.

But then, there are traits that are also shared by every other cartoon (Garfield often speaks to us out of context of the cartoon about these clichés) and also perhaps the easiest ones to devise. But, the real success of the Roadrunner series lies not in using these clichés, but retaining them forever, even at the cost of being unfunny and redundant. Jones takes the practice to the breaking point (and beyond) by bombarding us with the same elements over and over. And, through this monotony, he achieves something much more than instant chuckles. Harold Ramis’ brilliant Groundhog Day (1993) examines, albeit in photographic reality, what it takes to live in a completely predictable world – a world that is mathematically derivable, geographically utopian and emotionally unresponsive. Its protagonist, Phil Connors (who is worthy of Bill Murray), after some days of rejoicing over the unlimited power that he has been given, finds himself completely alienated from his people and then, gradually, comes to accept his situation. Beyond that point, he stops attempting to break the loop of time and decides to enrich his own life and that of the others. Now that it is neither possible for him to pursue any goal in life that he may have had nor take his own life, he realizes that the only difference that he can make in this world is to make the people around him happy, even if it is just for a couple of hours. Phil Connors isn’t very unlike our hero Wile E.

Deconstructing Wile E.

The world of Roadrunner is the perfect cartoon world. It is a world devoid of the notions of hunger, injury and death. Even though Wile E. believes that he chases the bird in order to eat it, that can never be his actual motive. The very fact that he keeps chasing the bird for years in vain suggests that food is never a point of concern for him. His role in life is to chase the roadrunner and nothing else at all. In this regard, he shares a very ironical relationship with the bird. For one, he cannot and will not catch roadrunner ever because, if he did, he would not have anything else to do in his life. In that case, he would lose his identity and turn from being a cartoon ‘character’ with unique characteristics to being a mere ink stain on a sheet of coloured paper. He would then be wandering the wilderness for eternity. Nor can he renounce the chase altogether for that would tantamount to him catching the bird and subsequently losing his identity. On the other hand, the roadrunner’s role is to be chased. Since Wile E. knows that his only option is to chase the bird, roadrunner needn’t ever instigate him. But if ever, Wile E. digresses from his job, it would be the roadrunner’s duty to pull him back into the loop since he has his identity to retain. The whole of fabric of Roadrunner is based on this paradoxical relationship that the two characters share.

Now, this is not the foundation that shows like Tom and Jerry are raised on, although they, too, are reduced to no more than a bunch of futile chases. The kinship between Tom and Jerry is built around the human world, unlike in Roadrunner, like a refrigerator loaded with food, a stray canary or a runaway bear. At any point, Tom and Jerry could make a pact and go on with their lives independently – which means that Tom can laze around forever and Jerry can pinch cheese whenever he wants. But, in the case of Wile E., there are no such easy alternatives. His world is defined solely by his chases and contains no other dimension. Tom or Jerry need not be in every scene in an episode, but Wile E. has to be present in every setup of every vignette and, if needed, in every frame. Like Barry Lyndon, the coyote’s life is sealed in the two dimensions he lives in (The ideal sequel, if you can call that, to the Roadrunner show will not be in 3-D, but rather in 1-D, with the two characters represented as two dots that never meet). Even though the initial motive for Wile E. is to catch roadrunner and that for the roadrunner is to evade the claws of Wile E., in the long run, they would inevitably reverse their roles. That is, the coyote. will, eventually, make sure that he doesn’t catch the bird and the roadrunner will make sure that he is chased. This is almost exactly the kind of relationship that Batman and the Joker share in The Dark Knight (2008).

One is tempted to compare the fate of Wile E. to that of Sisyphus, the Greek king who is made to roll a mammoth boulder over a steep hill slope forever, only to find it roll back down (Is it just a coincidence that Wile E. is seen shoving huge rocks time and again?). The coyote’s life, too, goes around in such pointless loops with no end in sight. In fact, Wile E. is the quintessential Absurd Hero, like Sisyphus, who realizes the pointlessness of his life and nevertheless continues. I’m a philosopher only as much as Barack Obama is a ballet dancer, but from what little I have heard about Camus, he draws three possible responses to this realization of the absurdity of the world – Faith, Suicide and Existence. He seems to reject the first two ideas, denouncing them as tricks to repudiate the truth about the meaninglessness of life. In the third option he proposes that life be lived for-the-moment and enjoyed to the fullest, without any hope or ambition and with the constant knowledge of the absurdity of it all, and thus have complete freedom over our actions. This way, the refusal of suicide becomes the very token of acceptance of absurdity and the freedom of choice that it provides. Now, this is where Roadrunner really takes its medium seriously. Unlike Sisyphus, Wile E. (and Phil Connors) does not even have the choice of suicide, so that he can refuse it. His world knows no death. Nor can he make a leap of faith, for he has nothing to hope for, except maintaining status quo. Thus, Wile E. can only take up the third option of living life for what it is. Wile E., like most Chuck Jones characters, knows that he is in a cartoon, that he has to carry on his chase act for ever and that there is no meaning to his life. So all he can do is keep chasing roadrunner – keep pushing the rock – in an attempt to keep both of them happy. Camus sums up the Sisyphus situation fittingly: “The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”. The same should be said about Wile E.

(pic courtesy: The Yerton Dreamhouse)

Being a window washer at the Time Warner Center is Sisyphean work. There are acres of glass from the sidewalk to as high as a person can reach. Just when he thinks he’s caught up, it starts all over again.

Are you familiar with the story of Sisyphus?  Here’s a hint:  mythological King of Corinth, condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill only to watch it roll down so that he could start all over.  Repeat for eternity.

As fulfilling and lovely as my life is, I often feel a warm sense of kinship with Sisyphus.  It has something to do with having several young children and trying to keep the  house clean.  Fingerprints wiped from windows and table tops reappear moments later.  Dirt dusted shoes scamper across freshly mopped floors.  Then there’s the laundry.  

Please note:  this is not my laundry.  I just liked the photo. It’s the shadows, I think, and that cute dress hanging in the middle.

We have this miraculous laundry basket.    I can upend the entire thing into the yawning mouth of my washing machine, give it a good shake to make sure I got everything, and when I set it back in its corner spot, it fills up immediately!  I think it happens as soon as I start the wash cycle.

So housework is the boulder in my life right now.  Actually,  it’s the boulder in my mother’s life right now. I lay around drinking enough water to bathe my youngest child and eating Ghirardelli Chocolate Squares. Mom keeps the house and kids in order.

But that will change before too much longer.  Thankfully, I can shove the rock with one hand and eat chocolate with the other!

~K

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS
Albert Camus

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.

It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife’s love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.

You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.

It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.

If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.

If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man’s heart: this is the rock’s victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: “Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well.” Sophocles’ Edipus, like Dostoevsky’s Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.

One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. “What!—by such narrow ways–?” There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. “I conclude that all is well,” says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.

All Sisyphus’ silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory’s eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

Pointing to proposals requiring that Americans buy health insurance, Pelosi asked “why would you throw them into the lion’s den of the insurance industry without some leverage with a public option?”

The government will save you!

“The need for a public option is very clear, and, as I have said, our House bill will have a public option,” Pelosi said.

Who cares what you think. I know better. This is what I want.

And besides in San Francisco, my home turf, many protested the President for not being far-left enough!

But the Senate Finance Committee’s version, the only one to draw Republican support — just one senator, Olympia Snowe of Maine — does not include such a plan.

Sucker!

We’re going to do it anyways, but now we can say we had support, but lost it. Oh well, that’s politics. Maybe we can bribe her with something else…

“I want to send our conferees to the table with the most muscle for America’s middle class,” said Pelosi, using the term for lawmakers delegated to the House-Senate negotiations.

“This is about going into that room and coming out with the best coverage and the lowest cost for America’s working families. I believe that that is best achieved by going to the table with a public option.”

No one care what the American people think. I want this. I will get it. Screw you.

I’m better. Smarter. And, most important, I have more powerful than you. <<sticks tongue out>>

Also, I’m completely drunk on my own power. But who cares. Anyone seen my fiddle?

It’s such a rush.

“I believe in a two party system where ideas are tested and assumptions are challenged because that’s how we move this country forward, but what I reject is when some folks decide to sit on the sidelines and root for failure,” said President Obama.” in San Francisco.

It’s just that the “time for debate is over” (aka shut up already!) and they “have no ideas” but I wanna here their ideas that they don’t have.

Democratic Party Failure is not an option.

<sticking fingers in ears> Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala…I can’t hear you….

The latest fiscal trick up the sleeves of the Democratic Congress, as reported by Kaiser Health News, is to bypass usual procedures and pass a measure from Sen. Debbie Stabenow, D-Mich., to spend $245 billion boosting doctors’ payments — and do so outside the “deficit neutral” government health takeover bill.

Well, it wasn’t in the bill… <wink> <wink>

Translation: under the table Bribe

Just Like Harry Reid’s 100% Medicare funding (notice no cuts here)

And Chuck Schumer’s “Cadillac” plan exemption for New York.

Yes, that’s your “transparency” folks.

This week, the administration that during last year’s campaign vowed to “make our government open and transparent, so that anyone can ensure that our business is the people’s business” met behind closed doors with Democratic congressional leaders to craft a final bill that can quickly be rammed down Americans’ throats.

We are Transparent. We don’t give a crap about you and we’re going to do it to regardless. And we are going to do it in secret just as much as possible.

That transparent enough for you?

How about this: Politico.com

At a meeting last April with corporate lobbyists, aides to President Barack Obama and Sen. Max Baucus (D-Mont.) helped set in motion a multimillion-dollar advertising campaign, primarily financed by industry groups, that has played a key role in bolstering public support for health care reform.

The role Baucus’s chief of staff, Jon Selib, and deputy White House chief of staff Jim Messina played in launching the groups was part of a successful effort by Democrats to enlist traditional enemies of health care reform to their side. No quid pro quo was involved, they insist, as do the lobbyists themselves.

The result has been a somewhat unlikely alliance between an administration that came into power criticizing George W. Bush for his closeness to Big Business and groups such as the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America and the American Medical Association.

The groups that came together at the meeting included PhRMA, the American Medical Association, the American Cancer Society, AARP and a number of trade groups.

Translation: Yeah, we beat up Bush for Secrecy, but that was then. Then is now. And we are in charge. So that’s different.

So, if you don’t play ball with us we’ll destroy you!

Translation: we want the industry to sell you out for their own profit, then demonize anyone else as being greedy capitalists.

Ain’t this fun!

The previously undisclosed meeting April 15 at the offices of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee led to the creation of two groups — Americans for Stable Quality Care and a now-defunct predecessor group called Healthy Economy Now — that have spent tens of millions of dollars on TV advertising supporting health reform efforts.

Transparency is a wonderful thing.

The Democratic officials made no overt demands. Rather, they brought together the players and laid the groundwork for the creation of the coalition, and that was followed by more-direct solicitations from an outside Democratic consultant, Nick Baldick, retained by Healthy Economy Now, asking attendees at the meeting to join the coalition and contribute to its ad campaigns.

The U.S. Chamber of Commerce and America’s Health Insurance Plans, both of whom now vigorously oppose the health care bill, were notable attendees who opted not to participate.

Nick: (Mafia voice)  ‘Yeah, this is my brother Guido’ we are here to collect a donation from youse guys. So as we don’t to mess you up later. That would be unfortunate’.

Pure Chicago thug intimidation and bribery.

Now that’s transparent!

One of the key hurdles concerns an “individual mandate” — forcing Americans to buy health insurance, no matter how expensive it may end up being for them.

It Takes a Village.

You are your brother’s keeper and WE are yours. Enjoy.

Ignore the IRS agent knocking at your door.

And those new taxes, they aren’t taxes. I, President Obama,  said so. So it must be true.

And just think of all the money in fines we can spend!

Faced with such monstrously expensive health care premiums, medical experts confidently predict that many low- and moderate-wage families will opt to pay hundreds of dollars in federal penalties instead of thousands of dollars of insurance premiums — and cross their fingers that the family stays relatively healthy.

“This is about going into that room and coming out with the best coverage and the lowest cost for America’s working families.”–Pelosi.

Isn’t it just a Utopian wonderland!!

Rejoice! Don’t worry Be Happy!

Hope and Change!

Aren’t you just excited about how the government is going to make your life so much better than you could possibly do on your own!

While politicians are promising to get rid of one wasteful program, they are promising to enact new, equally wasteful, programs. Only the most gullible could believe the latter promises are more likely to be kept than the former one, given the political cost of eliminating an established program, even slowly, once people have developed a sense of entitlement to it.

Some of the most influential beneficiaries of wasteful government programs are the bureaucracies administering them. Government bureaucrats don’t want their programs to be eliminated, and they are well-positioned to avoid that possibility by covering up failures and justifying those too blatant to be camouflaged.

Indeed, it is usually better to be in charge of a failing program than a successful one. (IBD)

Now that’s the truth!

And The Public Option is set to be the biggest failure in the history of this country. But that won’t matter to the Democrats because the Trillion Dollar Gorilla will already be chained to your leg and that will be it. Forever!

Like Sisyphus rolling the rock up the hill forever but nerve reaching the top.

Sisyphus, a figure of Greek mythology who was condemned to repeat forever the same meaningless task of pushing a rock up a mountain, only to see it roll down again. The essay concludes, “The struggle itself…is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”(Camus)

This ball and chain is forever.

And it’s for your own good.

Rejoice Citizen. It’s your government at work for you!

Are You Happy!?

“Any revolutionary change must be preceded by a passive, affirmative, non-challenging attitude toward change among the mass of our people. They must feel so frustrated, so defeated, so lost, so futureless in the prevailing system that they are willing to let go of the past and change the future. This acceptance is the reformation essential to any revolution.” — Saul Alinsky

“An organizer must stir up dissatisfaction and discontent… He must create a mechanism that can drain off the underlying guilt for having accepted the previous situation for so long a time. Out of this mechanism, a new community organization arises….” Saul Alinksy

Guilt, intimidation, fear, and a slow boil, froggie.

So how’s your bath water now? A little cool perhaps. Maybe we need to turn up the heat…

“’I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more [redundantly].’” That’s not what Jesus said! So why do so many of us live like it is what He said? Redundancy is repetition of an act needlessly. Why do we do things redundantly? We like doing what we have always done. We like doing it the way we’ve always done it. It’s comfortable, predictable, and we’ve gotten pretty good at it. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking, listening, or in-depth learning. We can do it from rote memory. It is almost automatic. Familiarly brings with it a sense of control and that one of the reasons (along with fear and the risk of disappointment) that we rarely dare to venture outside our comfort zones. Let’s face it, we like what we know.

What if Jesus had really promised redundant life instead? Would it have been a compelling vision? Would anyone have seen this as a change from what they were already doing? Doing the same thing, day, after day, after day, again, again, and again; it sounds pretty repetitious, pretty repetitious, pretty repetitious, doesn’t it? Redundancy is the same thing over, and over, and over. It is the same thing. It is the same thing. It is the same thing. It is maddening. We don’t have time for this. After all, life is short. And do you want to know something else about redundancy? It sounds boring. Not only does it sound boring, but it is!

Is boredom such a bad thing? “Soren Kierkegaard went so far as to say that ‘boredom is the root of all evil’ because it means we’re refusing to be who God made us to be. If you’re bored, one thing is for sure; you’re not following in the footsteps of Christ.” Mark Batterson, from In A Pit With A Lion On A Snowy Day, p. 57 (Multnomah Publishers 2006). And can you be bored to death? I think so. It starts out feeling like you’re in a groove. Being in a groove is a good thing, right? But if you keep on keeping on in the same groove the next thing you know you’re in a rut. Continue in the rut long enough and it becomes a ditch. Stay in that ditch long enough, back and forth over the same ground and it will become your grave, long before its time for you to be in one. Only the dead need a grave, so stop digging your own.

I believe that many men today are suffering from what I call the Sisyphus Syndrome. Sisyphus Syndrome is characterized by a seemingly pointless routine which has turned life into an unending chore, lacking in reward or fulfillment. Sisyphus was a character in Greek mythology who was punished by being cursed to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill, only to watch it roll down again, and repeat this, again, again, and again throughout eternity. His curse was an activity that was unending and/or repetitive, pointless, and unrewarding. Sisyphus is the epitome of the redundant life. However, while Sisyphus’ task was a curse, most men today take on their tasks as a choice.

But the promise of Jesus was that He came in order for us to live, and life more abundantly, not redundantly. The word for “abundantly” used in John 10:10 means “superabundance, excessive, overflowing, surplus, over and above, more than enough, profuse, extraordinary, above the ordinary, more than sufficient.” So, does that describe your life, or does redundancy better describe your life? If redundancy reigns, what do you do about that? How does that change? It has been said many times that one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Could change be the key? Did Sisyphus need a new strategy?

After Jesus’ crucifixion, Peter took some of the disciples fishing. There, they reverted to their pre-Jesus way of life as fisherman. It was their groove/rut/ditch/grave. But all their efforts at fishing went unrewarded with no fish being caught. No doubt, they fished the way they had always done it before. At the end of the night, they were worn out and unsuccessful. However, Jesus came along on the shore with a strange command. “’Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some (John 21:6).’” Last year, while on a mission trip to Israel, I learned from a career naval officer that to obey this command was rather risky. Boats during this time in history always had the rudder on the right side of the boat. Accordingly, you just did not throw your net on the right side because if you did the net could drift back into the rudder and become tangled. That just was not the way you were to do it. But the obedience of the disciples to fish on the right side resulted in an abundant catch – a can’t get the net back in the boat, so many the net should have broken, 153 large fish catch (John 21:6-11).

Do not miss the allusion Jesus had made earlier to the fact that He would make them fishers of men (Matthew 4:19; Luke 5:10). Also, recall the fact that this was not the only time Jesus had instructed Peter, a professional fisherman, how to have an abundant catch by doing things differently. But the first time He told him to go into deeper water (Luke 5:4-9). Again, they had to be willing to do things differently. Do not miss the abundant life because you are religiously living the redundant life.

Let the redundant life go down into the groove/rut/ditch/grave it is so good at digging. Say a few kind words over “the way we’ve always done it.” Bring some flowers to the funeral if you like. But we must say goodbye to this old friend and bury the redundant life before we can ever begin to live the abundant life. Are you willing to get out of the rut, go “outside the box,” and fish on the right side of the boat? Your future depends on it. Stop being such a Sisyphus!

I’m afraid of my thoughts and I know I should simply “change” them, but they’re rather insistent this evening.  I’m finally able to make myself eat more because I know I need the calories for my energy and my stomach seems to have made more room for food, but now that this issue is less pressing, my depression has to rush in to fill the void, as if I need one or the other to be stymied by.  Bravo, brain.  I obviously don’t need to look far for an enemy.  I just feel useless.  Really, what it comes down to is my not knowing why I’m alive other than to spare my parents and Frank and, not to make an unparallel clause but because I hope it won’t always be like this for me, even though I know there’s no cure for depression.  Will there ever be?  Or will the conglomerate of killers that is cancer be cured first?  I’m thinking of that diagnostic criteria that states something to the effect of “loss of interest in things previously enjoyed” and I think, yup, that’s how I feel.  The thought of reading a book, listening to a radio mystery, going out to eat, simply dressing up and feeling pretty, none of this matters.  What does matter is how much of a struggle this all feels.  But I’m in this purgatory of not wanting to face myself but not wanting to do anything as foolish as end my options.  And what’s more pathetic than yet another depressive who’s too undecided to act on it but would rather keep hoping for a rescue?  But no one can help me.  Only I can help myself.  I’m just not there for myself right now.  I’ve put myself on hold, attending to other matters.  But the “other matters” is nothing.  I’m simply not doing anything that counts, as it were.  What counts?  Making progress.  Why can’t I make progress?  It used to come so naturally.  A lot that did no longer does, now that I tally it up.  Bravo, regression.  Even maintaining the status quo seems a lofty goal.  I’m not even like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a mountain, only for it to tumble down.  It’s more like I’m trying to keep a boulder where it is but finding myself being driven down by its weight year by year.  The question is, how much further down do I have to go before it crushes me or is the slow decline endless?  Is there no limit to how much further I can be forced back?

The girls looking not so chipper themselves

Why I regenerate heart….everyday…

Like Prometheus’s liver….

To have it eaten….by a eagle….

Why do I roll up the boulder ?

Like Sisyphus does….

To have it fall again from the top…

“Myth or Reality”

Or is it Mythical Reality… ?

In my quest to better understand Persephone, I have found myself pausing at this particular point. Why is it that Hades chose Persephone—or Kore—to be his wife? It was not merely her maidenhood, her sexual innocence; and nor was it her gentle, sunlit nature. To boil it down to her as the ‘essence of spring’ does an injustice to this goddess – for she is the embodiment of change, of all of the seasons, of the natural order. But as Kore, she was not such things. She was just Demeter’s daughter, just the maiden accompanied by nymphs. And yet Hades saw something in her, this girl—or rather, this pretty puppet, a flower not yet opened—and he fell in love with her. The heart of one such as Hades was warmed by her and, inflamed by Eros’ eager smiles, he stole her away.

I believe that Hades recognised his equal in Persephone. He did not part the earth and incite Demeter into almost killing gods and humans everywhere just so that he could have a pretty little doll sit on his lap. No: he brought her into the Underworld and helped her become his equal. And she, in return, accepted the pomegranate seeds—Hera’s seeds; the seeds of marriage—and they were wed.

One might wonder how, and why, Hades and Persephone are equals. Prior to his abduction of her, they were not: in spirit they were, but in terms of influence they were all but opposites. Persephone was responsible only for spring growth, for the gentle blossoming of flowers; and Hades was the King of the Underworld. Persephone was also living her immortal life in Demeter’s shadow; she was watched constantly by her, and those that vied for her hand were turned away by her mother, not by her. If Hades had not abducted Persephone she, arguably, might never have reached her full potential: she would have likely lived forever in her mother’s shadow, responsible only for the beginning of spring.

With the help of Zeus and Gaia, according to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Hades was able to steal away Persephone, unnoticed by all but Helios and Hekate. There is significance in this: Helios, lord of the sun, sees everything that occurs throughout the day; Hekate, queen of necromancy and ghosts, would know of everything that occurs throughout the night. Thus the transition of Kore to Persephone—girl to woman—is echoed not only in Persephone’s annual return from the Underworld and the awakening of the earth, but also in the time in which she was taken: at dusk or dawn, the in-between times.

In art and myth, Persephone is often described as a “young” goddess. She is a youth; stolen from the sunlight before she can achieve her true form, and yet she is not a child. She is at the in-between stage, the ‘dawn’ of womanhood: she is the quintessential woman-child. In abrupt, modern terms, she is a teenager. She does not yet know the delights and sorrows of being a woman; she is not a matron, and she will never be a crone. She is caught at a stage of hormones, a twist of cool logic and sharp emotions – and thus can be seen in how she behaves as Queen of the Underworld.

Persephone’s relationship with Adonis (which I will discuss in more detail further on) is an echo of this transition. After his death, he spends half of the year in the Underworld with her, and half with in the world above with Aphrodite. To coincide with this, Adonis would spend the autumn winter months with Persephone, and the spring and summer months with Aphrodite: thus their relationship echoes the themes of life-death-rebirth that are so common in the Greek mythologies.

When Persephone is stolen from the world, Demeter proves that she is willing to go to any lengths to get her back. She refuses to let the living things taste fruit and feel warmth—both fruit and heat here symbolising life, as food and energy are required for most, if not all, life-forms. (It is also ironic, then, that the only fruit that can be found in the Underworld—the pomegranate—still grew without Demeter’s influence; if she had killed that, too, Persephone might never have become the Queen of the Underworld.) Thus both Demeter and Persephone are here goddesses of winter; of the hard, cruel, cold months where—and this would have been particularly true in antiquity—jagged, icy death reigns and humanity becomes the prey, rather than the predator.

And then, when Persephone returns from the Underworld, she and her mother bless the earth with life – the flowers begin to grow; the fruits shine; the snows recede. Demeter and Persephone, then, are goddesses of the seasons—for Demeter brings about the changes of summer and winter and Persephone rules spring (as Kore, the maiden, goddess of spring growth) and autumn (as Persephone Karpophoros, the bringer of fruit, goddess of the harvest).

As Queen of the Underworld, Persephone is a much more merciful, benevolent ruler than Hades – and such is shown in how she treats the (would-be) heroes that find their way into the Underworld. When Herakles entered the Underworld, he was ‘welcomed like a brother by Persephone’ (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History); and according to Apollodorus in his Bibliotheca, Herakles passed up victory in his wrestling competition with the Underworld god Menoites ‘at the request of Persephone.’ When Psykhe reached Persephone’s palace, she ‘declined the soft cushion and the rich food offered by her hostess,’ (Apuleius, The Golden Ass) and when she reported the trial that Aphrodite had tasked her with, Persephone immediately filled the box of beauty for her. Persephone took favour on Sisyphus and released him from the Underworld; and when Orpheus sang of his love for Eurydice, he ‘persuaded her to assist him in his desires and to allow him to bring up his dead wife from Haides’ (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History).

However, Persephone also proves that she is not a goddess with whom one can trifle with; when Peirithoos plans to kidnap her from the Underworld for his wife, the youth Persephone blossoms into a woman and deals swiftly with him: ‘Peirithoos now decided to seek the hand of Persephone in marriage, and when he asked Theseus to make the journey with him Theseus at first endeavoured to dissuade him and to turn him away from such a deed as being impious; but since Peirithoos firmly insisted upon it Theseus was bound by the oaths to join with him in the deed. And when they had at last made their way below to the regions of Haides, it came to pass that because of the impiety of their act they were both put in chains, and although Theseus was later let go by reason of the favour with which Herakles regarded him, Peirithoos because of the impiety remained in Haides, enduring everlasting punishment; but some writers of myths say that both of them never returned.’ (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History).

In discussing Persephone and her transition—after her abduction at Hades’ hands—from child to woman, it is inevitable that one must discuss who she has ever taken as a lover. Unlike many of the gods, Persephone did not have numerous lovers – only Hades (to whom she gave birth to the Erinyes, according to the Orphic Hymns 29 and 70), Zeus (to whom she birthed Zagreus, according to the Orphic Hymn 29, Hyginus, Diodorus Siculus, Nonnus and Suidas; and Melinoe, according to the Orphic Hymn 71) and Adonis.

Persephone’s infamous love-affair with Adonis produced no children, and, strangely, did not incite the jealousy or wrath of her husband Hades (though Ares, only the paramour of Aphrodite, was envious enough of Adonis to kill him, according to some classical writers). It could be argued that Persephone’s relationship with Adonis is symbolic of the process of rebirth. Before his death, Adonis spent a third of his year with Persephone—I suggest that this third was the very end of autumn, the whole of winter, and the very beginning of spring. As such, Aphrodite would be cold and in mourning in the months when sex and love would, especially in antiquity, have not been at the forefront of the minds of humankind; and his emergence from the Underworld would coincide with Persephone’s own. Thus the relationship of Adonis, Aphrodite and Persephone would symbolise the entire theme of life-death-rebirth: Aphrodite as the ruler of life, Persephone as the ruler of death, and Adonis as the transition between their realms. Adding to this, both Aphrodite and Persephone share the epithet Despoina—the ruling goddess, or the mistress—and this, I think, lends further credence to the idea proposed.

Persephone’s relationship with Zeus was one of the most devastating of unions: the King of Life and the Queen of Death. As such, perhaps Zagreus was doomed from the very offset – born of trickery and lies, for, according to such authors as Nonnus, Zeus took the shape of a drakon (a dragon; a serpent) and ravished Persephone. Zagreus was a colossal explosion of Fate—for Zeus and Persephone both influence it, and have been influenced by it—as well as the primal stirrings of desire. Thus Zagreus—and, in turn, Dionysos—is a god with influence over life, death and fate, for he commands his followers to take their destinies into their own hands and twist them into oblivion.

In answer to the question proposed by the very title of this essay—Why Persephone?—I give this: Hades chose Persephone because she was his perfect opposite: feminity to his masculinity, warmth to his cold and light to his darkness. Between them, Hades and Persephone are, also, the very embodiment of two principles that rule supreme in the psyche of humans – the notion of life after death, and the promise of rebirth. They are fair rulers of the Underworld and just governors of fate; and in their capable hands, I am assured that the flow of life, death and rebirth will continue as long as the Moirai—the Fates—see fit.

For those of you unfamiliar with Murphy’s law, this is a fundamental premise to the cosmos-is-absurd perspective on life: whatever can go wrong shall go wrong.

Well, I have my own version: if there is an impossibly difficult way of doing something, Christopher Schwartz will find it.

A fable.— The Don Juan of knowledge: no philosopher or poet has yet discovered him. He does not love the things he knows, but has spirit and appetite for an enjoyment of the chase and intrigues of knowledge—up to the highest and remotest stars of knowledge!—until at last there remains to him nothing of knowledge left to hunt down except the absolutely detrimental; he is like the drunkard who ends by drinking absinthe and aqua fortis. Thus in the end he lusts after Hell—it is the last knowledge that seduces him. Perhaps it too proves a disillusionment, like all knowledge! And then he would have to stand to all eternity transfixed to disillusionment and himself become a stone guest, with a longing for a supper of knowledge which he will never get!—for the whole universe has not a single morsel left to give to this hungry man. – Nietzsche

To have an ‘unquenchable’ thirst – that sounds like hell. But Sisyphus must be happy, mustn’t he?

Was Sisyphus happy because he had hope? Was Sisyphus happy because of his ignorance of the fact – that his task was unending? Did Sisyphus know that his existence was – in a sense – absurd?

I am Sisyphus. I must find my absurd task and make my peace with it.

Of all of Greek mythology; the story of Sisyphus holds the most meaning for me. There is a quality in the story that I believe the original tellers of the story did not intend, but nevertheless it has come to represent an ideal in my life that I wish to expound upon.

I do not see the story as an allegory of punishment; rather, it in itself is a metaphor for life. We all stand at the bottom of a hill, with a boulder placed at our feet. We see the impossible before us, and, knowing it is impossible, we still try. I think that is the most noble act of any person. The story of Sisyphus simply reduces our lives to their most basic elements.

But where is the redemption in this story? What reward do we receive for fighting the impossible; for pushing against an unmovable object?

The only redemption is what you learn from your efforts. We fight against the impossible because we have no other choice. We may slip and fall continually, but it is with every new beginning that we learn something new. I do not believe that Sisyphus could never get the boulder to the top. The Greek gods had a tendency to be proven wrong by humans quite often; I know in my heart that Sisyphus would succeed. He has to succeed, because success is the only option he has.
And we face that same challenge. Met with the unconquerable, we only have the option of conquering.  Because once we roll the boulder to the top of the hill; we are no longer the same person who began the journey in the first place. Every struggle teaches us something new; every slip, every mistake gives us one more way to avoid defeat.

The hardest obstacle in life is to find meaning in our struggle.