Tag Archives: Love

Go to Hell—But Only if You Want To…

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Image from Tasso Art

“WHAT? It’s MY choice?”

“Correct. Your choice. 100%.”

“But you guys always made it sound like it wasn’t our choice at all.”

“That wasn’t us, it was you. Media began a long ass time before TV and radio came along.

“From stone tablets, to papyrus scrolls, you guys have a history of spinning some really unbelievable stories.”

“I’m confused. I get to choose to whether I want to be reincarnated or to go to Heaven or to go to Hell?”

“Correct.”

“So the whole ‘good people go to Heaven, bad people go to Hell’ thing isn’t real?”

“People aren’t good or bad. People are simply people.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t making any sense to me.”

“He created you, and put in you all those qualities that drive you guys to make dumb-ass decisions. So, He’s not that shocked when you guys follow through on your dumb-ass decisions.”

“Good and bad don’t exist then?”

“I didn’t say that. I said there are no good and bad people. There are, however, good and bad intentions.

“And, almost every soul ever created, has at least ONE good intention that is so awesome, it cancels out any other bad intentions they’ve acted on.”

“Huh?”

“You, like almost everybody, have one ‘greatest good’, which determines your final judgment.”

“But that would mean we all end up going to heaven.”

“Only those who choose to go to Heaven.”

“It would also mean that no one really goes to hell.”

“Not unless they want to.”

“Who WANTS to go to hell?”

“I’ll explain that later. But first, let’s focus on the ‘greatest good’ thing.”

Dying, apparently, is a pretty exhaustive process. With all that was left of me, I tried to remember what my ‘greatest good’ was, but to no avail.

“And… there it is.”

“There what is?”

“You trying to figure out your ‘greatest good’. As soon as anyone finds out the ‘greatest good’ thing, they always… ALWAYS… ALWAYS wonder what theirs is and then—”

“Oh, oh! Hold on! But of course!

“The summer I participated in Habitat for Humanity! Who would have thought that little decision would go such a long way, right?”

“Uh, yeah. But no.”

“Wait! Wait! Oh! It was that donation I made to Save the Children! I mean, it was a pretty generous donation—so that’s gotta be it.”

“Nope. The size of your donation doesn’t determine the size of its goodness.”

“Summer of ’92! Joining the Boys & Girls Club as a Big Sister! HA!”

“You still don’t get it—I said ‘greatest good’ intended.

“If you remember, the Habitat for Humanity gig was a choice you made with pretty selfish intentions. You were crushing on a guy, and decided to go once you found out he was going.

“The Save the Children donation you made was really intended as a tax deduction.

“And, you were a Big Sister so you’d have a community activity to include on your college application.”

“I give up.”

The Angel started to snicker.

“Death ends you humans being able to eat, drink and breath—but it still doesn’t totally kill your Egos, does it?

“In stead of assuming to know the answer, ever think about asking me what you ‘greatest good’ was???”

“Angels are way more sarcastic than they’re portrayed on earth.”

“Part of humanity’s story spinning, my friend, part of the spinning.”

“God Damn it! Just tell me!”

Crap. This is probably a really bad time to use the Lord’s name in vain.

“Relax. He always cuts the newbies some slack. I think He even finds it a bit amusing.”

Collecting what I can only assume are my atoms, I recomposed myself and calmly asked again. “Please, do tell, what is my ‘greatest good’?”

The Angel pulled out a glass orb. Within seconds, it was emanating a glowing light so glorious, it lit up the entire sky.

I drew closer to the orb, concentrating on its yellow-pink incandescence.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting for you to show me my ‘greatest good’.”

The Angel snorted with laughter.

“You think I’m going to replay your ‘greatest good’ in this is crystal ball?

“Hate to disappoint, but it’s just a lamp… ya know, being that it’s getting darker and almost nighttime now.”

“WOW. Angels are really not that nice at all.”

“Com’on, learn to laugh at yourself a little! Death is so much more laid back. Enjoy it!”

“Can we please get back to my ‘greatest good’?

“Right! So, one day, you were running late to an important meeting. You were stuck in one of the worst traffic jams evah. I mean it was lock down, bumper-to-bumper-to-bumper CRAY CRAY traffic!

“As soon as it started to loosen up, you had a clear left you could have taken, which would have given you access to a less congested route.

“Just before you were about to turn left, you saw a poor woman in the street, exhausted, walking with her child. The little girl, who was very thirsty, kept trying to suck out the last few drops of water from a bottle she was holding.

“I don’t know why, or exactly what it was, but in seeing this woman and child, a sincere, deep and genuine sense of compassion overcame you.

“So you parked your car on the side of the road—and although the meeting you were going to was super important, you didn’t give it a second thought.

“You ran to a kiosk, grabbed a few sandwiches and bottles of water, crossed the street, and gave them to the woman and the child.

“You then pulled out 100 LE, handing it to the woman. As you gave her the money, you also intended in your heart for it to be a charitable donation in the memory of your deceased father.”

Myth number two: Besides the whole ‘good people go to Heaven’ bullshit, it also isn’t true that when you die, your entire life ‘flashes before of you’.

I remember certain people, certain events, a few milestone moments, but in no way could I remember the incident of which the Angel just spoke.

“I’m sorry. But I don’t even recall that.”

The Angel laughed, but this time, with great kindness.

“That’s because you guys remember what you think is important and meaningful. But you guys never give a thought to what is actually important and meaningful.

“And compassion—that emotion of selflessness, that sentiment which enables you to step outside of yourself and connect with the world, with others and by default with Him—well, its one of the two most meaningful intentions a person can act on.”

“And that’s my ‘greatest good’? Really?”

“Of course, you’re disappointed. You humans, you just love your Hollywood endings—those stoic, heroic acts of sainthood.

“Well, my friend, there’s not a person in history whose ‘greatest good’ was on that grand a scale.”

“Uh, he-llo? Ghandi?? Passive resistance movement? Dying for his cause?”

“I’m not usually allowed to share the details of other cases—it kinda goes against the whole Angel-dead person confidentiality thing.

“But, I can tell you this: throughout Ghandi’s quest, in his heart, he was a wee bit too proud of himself.”

“Ghandi? REALLY?”

“Look, I’ve already said too much. The point is, until today, no one, and I mean literally no one has ever achieved his or her ‘greatest good’ in a big way.”

“Jesus? Moses? Buddah?”

“Not gonna lie—closest ones to it. But, still… a tinge of glory-seeking there.”

“Mother Teresa? Dedicating her life to the poor?”

“Yeah, her intentions are messed up on so many levels, I can’t even begin.”

“So, because I stopped for this woman, fed her and her kid, gave them some money, everything bad I ever did in my ENTIRE LIFE, is—whoosh! Completely voided?”

“Yes.”

“What about the, like, 50 times I shoplifted as a teenager?”

“Voided.”

“The gazillion times I’ve lied to people I love?”

“Voided.”

Cheating on my husband with my boss?”

“Stupid. Really stupid. But, yes, voided.”

The five times after my boss that I cheated on my husband?!!”

“Nasty. Low. SHAMEFUL. Horrible. Incredibly dishonest.”

“Voided?”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just implement them.”

“I’ve stolen, lied and cheated. I’ve screwed up my marriage, back-stabbed friends, and just in case you don’t remember, hurt my family and friends so much, that NO ONE showed up at my funeral.”

“I didn’t say you were a wonderful person. But remember, it’s not a numbers game.”

“What about others who have done some really, really, really bad things, like KILLING INNOCENT PEOPLE? This makes NO SENSE AT ALL!”

“Relax. Chill out.

“If you remember, I said that almost everyone has a ‘greatest good’, which voids anything bad they’ve done.

“I also said that compassion was one of the two most meaningful intentions a person can act on. The other one being, forgiveness.”

“I’m sorry, but who forgives Hitler? Idi Amin? That Pharaoh who killed ALL THE BABIES?”

“Yeah, you mortals are actually pretty impressive when it comes to compassion—forgiveness, not so much. The funny thing is, when you guys die, you are SUPER forgiving.

“I don’t why, I just know that, everyone who’s died, up until today, has, independently, decided to forgive anyone who’s wronged him or her.”

“You’re telling me that allllllllll those killers, rapists, terrorists, tyrants, dictators, child molesters, MONSTERS, are…”

“Forgiven. Yes. Everyone.

“When you guys forgive these people, He does too. But only if you have—and like I said, every single victim wants to forgive these criminals when they get here.”

This is utterly ridiculous! Where the fuck am I? Is this a joke?

“I’ve lived my life, if not feeling guilty for the bad things I’ve done, at least knowing I SHOULD feel guilt for them!

“Now you’re telling me, ‘hey, doesn’t matter what you do—forget the Ten Commandments! Forget the whole ‘right to life, liberty and happiness’!

“Anyone and everyone GETS AWAY WITH ANYTHING!”

The Angel started laughing again. For what seemed like eons, the Angel continued to cackle. If I knew where to storm off to, I would have run out on the Angel.

“THEY REALLY SPUN THAT STORY GOOD! You guys fell for it hook, line and sinker! Let go… let GO of everything you were brainwashed to believe.

“The real question you need to ask is this:

What is the point of it all?”

I had spent my entire life asking myself that question—frustrated, angry and resentful, I kept asking it, knowing I could never get the real answer.

Yet, in a place and at a time where someone who knew the answer could give it to me, I didn’t once think about asking it.

“Well, what is the point?”

“The first point—as corny and cheesy as it may seem—is love.

“You guys never got that as mortals, because you really hadn’t experienced love in its purest form.

“When you’re alive, your ability to love is tainted. Even the kindest, most generous and selfless of you cannot experience love in its purest form.

“Because even when you are kind, generous and selfless, you inevitably feel good about… well… yourself. In essence, every selfless act in life is a selfish endeavor.

“Your kindness, generosity and selflessness, ultimately, are always tainted by a selfish pride and the pleasure of ‘being a good person’.

“Like splatters of ink on a white dress, these stains of vanity might be small, but still… the dress ends up being ruined.

“Once in a lifetime though, for a split Nano of a Nano of a Nano second, you guys experience a glimpse of unabated compassion or forgiveness. And that moment always becomes your ‘greatest good’.

“When you die, you are disencumbered by the stories you’ve spun, and begin to feel love in its purest form. So you willing exercise complete compassion and unconditional forgiveness.

“Bringing us to the second point of it all—freewill.

“From the beginning, you guys had the will to create and be what you aspired to. Even when it came to Him—He is who you wanted Him to be.

“Some of you turned Him into a human and put Him on a cross. Others didn’t believe He was human, but might as well have, since they ended up personifying Him as angry, jealous, vengeful and punishing.

“Truth is, He never punished anyone—He only defended the rights of people who willed to believe He would defend their rights.

“I promise you—if ONE victim of the BILLIONS that were wronged at the hands of ANY criminal, didn’t will to forgive those criminals, then He wouldn’t forgive them either.

“But, out of love in its purist form and your own free will, you guys end up forgiving. All of you—every single one of you people.”

“What about those who lost children, got illnesses like cancer, people who SUFFERED?”

“Let me ask you this: what did I tell you your ‘greatest good’ was?

“Stopping for the poor woman and her child.”

“No—I said it was the compassion you had for them, which then triggered you to stop for them.”

“I don’t get it.”

“There’s no doubt He could have created a world sans suffering.

“If life was all peaches and plums, you guys would experience non-stop happiness—but, not much else. In such a perfect world, compassion and forgiveness wouldn’t need to be experienced.

“Suffering and the witnessing of suffering are the only reason you guys feel compassion and forgiveness. And compassion and forgiveness are the only means for you to connect to one another and to Him.

“Happiness is a selfish pleasure—sure, it can foster gratitude, but inevitably, you guys take that happiness for granted and stop being grateful.”

It was such an inane explanation, that it made total sense.

“But if it’s this simple, why the hell was it made to be so complicated on earth?”

“Ah—that brings us back to your earlier question. Remember when you asked me, ‘who wants to go to hell’?”

“Oh, yes! Forgot about that question!”

“The simplest and most meaningful intentions known to man—compassion and forgiveness—are ALWAYS complicated by guilt and shame.

“So rather than overcome these two, you guys spin stories around them—and they are some fucked up stories with some serious complications. The deeper the guilt and shame get, the crazier your stories become.

“What’s interesting is that—even after death, you guys find it hard to let go of the guilt and shame that you feel. Mostly because, you don’t want to.

“That’s why you opt to be reincarnated or you opt to go to Hell. And He sends you where you want to go—no questions asked, it’s all up to you, honey bunny.”

“Listen, I get that you’re an Angel and everything, and that you have all the answers—but I think you need to Google the facts of your story again. It’s not gellin’ together.”

“Okay—on earth, don’t some people decide to see the ‘up side’ of life, while others seem to always assume the worst?”

“Sure.”

“Following that logic, wouldn’t that mean that some decide to create their own Heaven, and some decide to create their own Hell?”

“Uh… I suppose.

“And why do you think some will a Heaven for themselves, while others will a Hell?”

“Uh… because… because…”

“Guilt and shame.

“Those who have freed themselves of guilt and shame are able to will a Heaven. Those who haven’t freed themselves, will a Hell.

“Or, if they don’t will a Hell, they will a new identity for themselves—seeking to be someone other than who they are.”

“Holy shit! HOLY SHIT! This is EPIC!”

“And, because you guys don’t want to let go of your guilt and shame, you spin stories about how He’ll relieve you of that guilt and shame once you die.

“Your idiotic stories even boast about Him rewarding you for your guilt and shame!

“Yet, even when you get here and find out what the point of it all is, rather than bask in the beauty of it, rather than feel joy and happiness, rather than sing and dance, you guys feel even more guilt and shame.

“Some, so much so, that they choose to go to Hell.

“Some, a little less so—and those ones ask for a ‘redo’. Hence, they are reincarnated.”

“And the ones who let go of the guilt and shame, they choose to go to Heaven?”

“Sadly, my friend, to date, no one who’s come here has let go of their guilt and shame.”

“Wait—that would mean no one’s ever gone to Heaven.”

“Correction—no one has ever chosen to go to Heaven.”

“Jesus? Buddah? Moses?”

“Moses was a bit hard on himself— it took a while to persuade him to at least choose reincarnation.”

This left me in quite a pickle. If people like Moses didn’t even think they were worthy of Heaven, who was I to choose to go there?

I don’t want to go to Hell, but then again, I sort of feel it’s where I belong.

Damn, the Angel is right, shaking off the guilt and shame ain’t easy.

“And… there it is.”

“There what is?”

“You trying to decide where you want to go—stop comparing yourself to other ‘good people’. I told you, there are no good or bad people—which means that no one can really be better than anyone else.”

“But—”

“But nothing! Listen, my job isn’t to decide for you where you should go. My job is to tell you all the facts, so you can make an informed decision. For ONCE, one of you guys, PLEASE, just accept the facts as they are!”

“Can I at least think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?! You don’t need to think! You need to let go of the guilt and shame!”

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“You CAN! You just don’t WANT TO!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

The Angel brought his tone down to a frustrated whisper. “I’m not yelling, I am pleading with you—there’s no need for your guilt and shame. So, please just decide to let go of them.”

“If you tell me how, I will.”

“Okay. Step one: let them go. Step Two: let them go. Step three—”

“I know, let them go!”

“No—step three is: make a decision!”

Pausing, I concentrated as I had never concentrated before. In the stillness of all that what was—an existence, a consciousness, HIM—I tried to let go.

I attempted to release my guilt and shame… to relinquish myself of their weight…

I really, really tried.

“And… there it is.”

The Angel let out a melodious sigh, “Well then, Ready?”

“Yes. Really ready.”

“Then, my friend, let’s go.”

 

 

Karma Chameleon

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Cello

Untitled

A cello

That weeps.

My heart,

The base.

That beats.

The tears form into

Notes

on the staff

Of my life.

They hear music

In the pain.

Crying has a rhythm.

It is a melody

Of happiness

Overcome by pain and sadness,

The gods clap for me.

I have not asked

To lead the orchestra,

I have not asked to compose

Any movements.

I am too still.

I don’t know how notes become a tune,

Perhaps it is the vicious cycle of my doom.

The bow, Fate,

Grating against the strings of my will

Wearing them away

Until

they break.

But a cello cannot play itself.

The masterpiece,

What is it?

I value not the legacy of it.

I seek nothing from fame.

Who are the hands

That play it?

Where is the audience

Who will feel it?

The cello awaits.

The bow grates.

It’s so sad,

It weeps so badly,

My heart is the base.

Hear me,

Hear me,

I am not loud,

It is the echo of my sob.

Do I exist?

Do I exist?

If I do,

I am so frightfully scared.

Love.

Bravo’s Latest: The Real Housewives of Saudi Arabia

Slide1

As the banks in Cyprus enforce the Eurozone’s insistence that Cypriots contribute to the recapitalization of the country, as the US reaches a point of critical mass in its quest to secure global hegemony, Bravo brings true reality to the world with its newest Housewives franchise, the Real Housewives of Saudi Arabia.

The ensemble this time around, though, a much easier one to bring together. Having been casted out of one household, Yasmine, Dalia, Fatima, Amira, and Bahiga are the wives of Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Abdul Mohamed, more affectionately known as ‘Mojo’.

Though the initial assumption would be an atmosphere of competitive female cattiness, these women get along just fine, viewing the sharing of a husband as an advantage.

‘As long as his wallet is open 24/7, I love the fact that my legs are only once a week,’ Amira, Mojo’s first wife, jokes. ‘Western women are so hypocritical. They spend 99% of their time trying to avoid having sex with their husband, but they think monogamy is the best thing since slice falafel. Puh-leez.’

‘Totally agree– most of them are willing to be a mistress, but think being a second or third or seventh wife is uncivil. He-ll-o, I might have to hide under a veil, but I don’t have to hide who’s under it with me!’ Yasmine, Mojo’s second wife says.

The women spend their day taking care of their children, which between the wives is a staggering 20. ‘You know,  ‘My Mommies Love Me’ t-shirts are very popular here in Saudi. Lesbians, multiple wives.. akh, tomatoe, tomato…’ thinks Dalia, who is Mojo’s third and fourth wife, having been born with conjoint bodies.

‘Believe it or not, it makes life a lot more open and honest. It let’s you mean what you say and say what you mean. Just like when my children say, ‘my brotha from another motha’… they aren’t just being facetious!’ exclaims Amira.

‘Feminists complain that this female discrimination, but let me tell you, this works for women not against them. In reality, I suffer the most,’ says Mojo. ‘You know what it is like to have to remember THREE anniversaries AND FOUR birthdays?’

Though Dalia is conjoint, Mojo married her Siamese body a week after his nuptials to Dalia due to the waxing salon’s inability to schedule it in before the wedding.

Bahiga, the one the other wives consider the ‘pretty one’ doesn’t get an preferential treatment despite her wicked bod. ‘When you are one of many wives, pretty isn’t part of the equation– at the end of the day, you’re expected to deliver the same as the others. This is why an allegiance with the other wives is crucial. If you all agree to lower the standards, then you all have to deliver less. If I won’t go down on Mojo, we all won’t go down on Mojo. Without them, I’d be powerless.’

‘Amen to that, sista!’ Amira retorts loudly.

Stay tuned for the season premier, rumored to start in April 2013. If these girls can walk it like they talk it, we can only imagine how the story will unveil…

In Me Alone, Veritas

No sarcasm. No snide remarks to mask the sting.

It’s 7:48 in Cairo. I have a few days off work. And after pulling 80 hour weeks for the past 6 months, you’d think I’d be running around like a highschool quarterback on spring break in Fort Lauderdale, both arms raised, hands in a V-shape, screaming , ‘wooooohoooooo!’

Turns out, not so much.

Listening to Florence and the Machine’s ‘Shake it Out’ (the acoustic version), the lyrics have cornered me into facing what I have worked so hard not to face.

The truth.

“And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back
And given half the chance would I take any of it back
It’s a fine romance but it’s left me so undone
It’s always darkest before the dawn”

As her voice reverberates, it echoes hard through the room. Though it hasn’t shattered the glass vases, the glasses windows or the ugly porcelain ashtray I made when I was 5, it has shattered my ability to fight facing me.

A CEO of a major company, I can face.
A guy with an ego extending from Zeus, I can face off.
Anything opposing me, people…

I can face.

Except myself.

What is it exactly that is so horrible about me that I cannot face? Unfortunately, it’s not a Freudian demon spawning from not being breast fed.

I wasn’t breast fed. I’m okay with that.

It’s not my terrible failure at a career. Been there, done that, got the titles.

Turns out career titles are like book titles.

They’re just titles.

It’s not achieving success. Been there, got that.

Turns out success is like a beautiful woman.

They’re sexy for about ten minutes.

It’s not having found ‘my other half’.

Anyone who is looking for that has a bigger problem- if you are half a person, you should be out looking for your own other half.

It’s not nasty relationships. The men in my life were not assholes. Truth be told, they could never ‘do anything to me’, because I never allowed it.

They just didn’t work out. I wasn’t ready. They weren’t ready. What bonded us together was no being ready. You can see why it only worked well for a limited time only.

What I have to face is much harder, harsher and remains the most infinitely unaccomplished quest in all of human history.

‘What do I want?’.

Being a coward of proportionately stupendous arrogant levels, I circumvented this quest by a process of elimination- yes, I flipped the quest on its head and did a Yoda, asking myself,

‘Want I what not?’.

See, the idea is by filtering out and saying no to everything you don’t want, you arrive at what you do want.

In theory.

In reality, you end up saying no to so many things that you aren’t traveling light, you are traveling weightless.

And there’s a difference.

Because some of the things you weeded out and threw in the ‘not want’ pile were threads that lead to other ‘not wants’ that lead to other ‘not wants’ that one day, lead to ‘oh, my God, I want it!’

But, I didn’t realize that until now. So, I’ve got a real conundrum on my hands. How the fuck do I figure out what I want when I don’t have any don’t wants lying around that may lead me there?

In physics, the laws of the universe and nature, something cannot come from nothing.

I’m no physicist, but I’m pretty sure they’re right. After all, if they weren’t, I would be cornered right now.

I love many things- and each one of them gives me something I want, and each one of them ignites a passion within me- a happiness that is beyond being expressed by metaphors, similes and literary devices used to prostitute emotions.

Cooking, singing, painting, writing, exploring, traveling, philosophy, economics, discussing God, debating politics, anaylizing the complexities of simplicities- from the commonalities of human universals, to the idiosyncrasies of individual cultures…

Centuries ago, there was something called ‘the Renaissance Man’- a Francis Bacon, a DaVinci, a Jefferson- men who didn’t have a ‘specialty’, but diversified their talents into both science and the arts, into the psychological and physiological, into the abstract of the art and the preciseness of science.

I don’t know how they did that. Of all the manifestos and essays they left behind for us to study, the one thing they didn’t leave behind is ‘Becoming a Renaissance Man for Dummies’.

If I wasn’t at such the ridiculously mature age of 38 (mind you, the age is mature, I don’t claim the girl wearing it is anymore befitting of it than a 5 year old playing dress up in her mother’s stiletto heals), my quest would be well justified and tolerable. It would be rational, healthy and a step closer to self-actualizing my being.

But at 38, it’s one of the most embarrassing diseases known to society. A mid-life crisis.

At this point, I’d be more comfortable to admit I have crabs or chlamydia.

What’s even more bloody sick, is that I still have hope. I do, honestly. It’s a bit worn out, but the soles are still in tact. I can still walk in my hope without too much blistering.

Because that’s all I can do now. Walk. Even when I’m sleeping, I’m walking. When I’m eating, I’m walking.

But, as I do walk along, when I come to an intersection of choices, I am not going to choose one by process of elimination. I am going to choose one because I want to go down that path.

Not because I want what is down that path.

But because what I want is somehow connected to that path.

If that doesn’t make sense, it might have to do with the wine I’m drinking as I write this.

Don’t worry though, it makes sense to me. And that’s really the only one who has to get it.

Dear Me-at-Menopause-20-Years-From-now

Dear-Me-at-Menopause-20-Years-From-Now,

You haven’t changed a bit- you look just like you did at 38.

Be sure and thank Dr. 90210. He did a great job.

The whole hot flashes thing passed. Your ovaries dried up- but, hey… at least your cash didn’t, right?

I told you a long time ago that you had to fuck it all up and self-destroy to self-build; not just once in your life- you do it several times over. What you were had to die in order to make room for who you were going to be.

Thus, it follows, the same will happen over the next 20 years.

But you are prepared for it, as you well know it is not what happens to you that makes or breaks you, but your perception of it that does. ‘Bad’ does not exist, in as much as ‘good’ doesn’t- these are the figments of our biggest illusion, the mind. There is only reality and truth.

Reality, being that which is physically observable.
Truth, being what is spiritually observable.

You’ve kept your eyes open, having had the intelligence to observe the reality of all that is around you.
You’ve kept your soul open, so by now, you’ve been blessed to observe the truth that binds all which is around you.

And through it all, you’ve passionately lived each moment, as you never forgot to keep your heart open.

You’ve grown to appreciate the wisdom you’ve received as a result- you know that reality is transient and constantly changes… leaves will grow, turn a vivid emerald green and wither into a curled skeleton of drabness…

20 year olds will have the vitality to do the things they can’t at 70, yet 70 year olds will have the wisdom to do those things better than at 20…

Winter drifts into spring, spring extroverts into summer and summer falls, well, into fall.

Truth, though, is what is constant. And this is why you have made that your foundation. You may have moved from one reality to the next, but truth…

Is your inertia.

Regardless of time and space in which your current reality is, truth is the law of human physics that propels or impedes your ability to keeping moving through that reality.

It is because of all of the above, that you have triumphed over your weaker self… as there is no battle, nor any enemy, greater than that which challenges you from within…

It is because of all of the above that you have destroyed what you knew to relearn new ways… as by changing patterns of thought, you have found nothing strange, and everything comfortably familiar…

It is because of all of the above that you’ve decided who you are… as the importance of that does not lie in awards, promotions or career titles.

It lies in no domain but your own.

And hey-

If Madonna is still wearing a cone bra (a little lower granted),
If Mark Zuckerberg is still changing facebook to be (air quotes) more user friendly (air quotes),
If Apple can invent the iGasm for women,
If Israel and Iran are now allied against the United States,
And Matt LeBlanc finally got at least 1 more than 2 seasons before a sitcom of his tanks…

Rest assured.
It so isn’t over.
You still have a lot to do.
Keep it real.
Make it true.

On Several Given Mondays II (Con’t of Same Entitled Post Published October 23rd)…

‘Yes.’

Cigarillo puff.

Cigarillo puff.

The cab driver got back into the car and star-…star-… star-…

Started it up.

Jerking into first gear, the car stuttered a few steps. She puffed on the last frail bits of her cigarillo, looking at him looking at her.

And that was that.

Slap a camera on the dashboard of the cab, and you instantaneously become producer of your very own Survivor show. Traffic was a death wish at any time of the day- too slow, and you risk being sideswiped by a jackass-driven cart of carrots, too fast and your obituary blurb will be clip on how you flipped on a pothole in the middle of what should be a new highway.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, she arrived.

The mall was a great way to multitask exchanging her boots and doing cardio. It was colossal and so going from one end to the other and back was a work out, since she never strolled, but malked.

She walked at the rhythm of a march, minus the posture of a march. Not stiff, nor coordinated. It was a Meg Ryan arm flail combined with a Hitler leg lunge. Extremely determined about it. But not committed to it.

She malked.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

The salesman was a human metal detector. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, x-raying the complexities of her personality.

By the dumbfounded dilation of his pupils, it seemed his scan detected a whole bunch of crazy amid a few other unrelated items that had no business being there or were just completely unidentifiable.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

She knew there was already crazy inside her. She knew there was a lot of unidentifiable goo too. She looked past his judgmental expression and carried on.

‘I said I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

‘Sorry, all I can do is exchange them, I can’t return them.’

‘Re-ally??? So I can’t exchange them? Hmmm. Do you think it’s possible then to just exchange them?.’

The human metal detector must have shorted a wire or two. His eyes now seemed broken and his scanner wasn’t picking up on her sarcasm.

He grabbed the bag while she malked around, looking for another pair of boots.

There were short boots, tall boots, loud boots, dull boots, hip boots, blingy boots, furry boots, leather boots and,

Tall-loud-furry-blingy-that-tried-to-be-hip boots.

There were red boots, blue boots, black boots, blacker boots with thin heels, thick heels, no heels, half-heels.

But there were no

Just, boots boots.

‘Hey, human metal detector?’

She really didn’t say that. She said, ‘Excuse me?’

He pivoted his axle ass and gazed at her.

‘Changed my mind. Can you just give me a new bag to put my boots in? The handle on the other one is about to rip.’

He pivoted his axle ass around again, and with an angularity you’d expect a human metal detector to motion, he mechanically extended his arm for a new bag.

I just bought a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So, why don’t we get drunk and screw

She felt the inside of her purse as she fished for her ringing mobile. Hooking onto a box of TicTacs, a lighter, a comb and a cigarillo that jumped ship of its pack, her hand finally caught hold of the phone.

Usually, she’d be willing to miss a call just to sing along with the ringtone, but the screen was anxiously flashing ‘work, work, work’. So, as Jimmy Buffet repeated his suggestion to ‘…get drunk and…’, she interrupted him to answer.

‘Yeah, I’m on my way to the café now. Yeah… yeah… sure. Yeah…yeah…sure. Great. I’ll email the evaluation by 7 today.’

She blindly grabbed the new bag with her old boots that were really new boots and malked as quickly as she could across the mall, to go hail a cab that would stop before she could hail it. Because,

Cairo’s convenient like that.

Index finger circling right.

No left.

No right.

No left.

Restlessly deciding to listen to a song and then deciding not to, she endlessly confused her iPod the entire ride to the café.

Finally.

Lunch.

It was already a fantastic lunch, because it was free.

‘Good afternoon, would you like to hear the specials?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The soup of the day is Creamy Crouton Asparagus. Our main course this afternoon is Citrus Salmon with a grapefruit marinade, next to a side of pesto fusilli pasta… and for dessert, Kalhua tiramisu.’

‘Is the Creamy Asparagus made with cream?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is it made with fresh asparagus?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Can you remove the croutons?’

‘Yes.’

‘And put parmesan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the salmon grilled?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can it be steamed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Replace the fusilli with artichokes?’

‘Yes.’

‘But with the fusilli’s pesto dressing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. I’ll have a Caesar salad, the Beef Burgundy Fillet, rare, and the Mixed Zucchini and Carrot Medley.’

‘Would you like anything else, Ma’am?’

‘Yes. If you would be so kind as to not piss in my salad for me being difficult.’

She didn’t really say that. She said, ‘No, thank you.’

The job of Mystery Shopper was perfect; she was getting paid to basically be her picky, precise, reinvent-the-dish, change-the-menu self. Overdoing her usual self this time, though, was part of this particular evaluation as per the café owner’s request. He or she wanted to know how eloquent his or her staff was in handling very fussy customers.

So far, the waiter did well. In her mind he did so well that she decided not to mention in the evaluation him forgetting to introduce himself, a blasphemous blunder by any standards of service.

Don’t seem so surprised. She’s not a total bitch.

She’s Bitchin-hood.

Bitchy to the arrogant, but never to the kind.

She wasn’t hungry, but as is the laws of nature once food is ordered and one is awaiting the food,

Without warning,

She went from Dr. Fickle,

To Mr. Hyde.

Mr. Hungry Hyde.

Fidget. Fidget.

Put the salt and pepper next to the ashtray, put the ashtray opposite the flower vase,

Shift the flower vase next to the salt and pepper.

Align the salad fork at an exact 90 degree angle perpendicular to the soup spoon,

Juxtapose the knife parallel to the salad fork and center the plate so…

Its circumference is equidistant from all silverware.

Light a cigarillo?

Light a cigarillo.

She grabbed her purse to fish them out and knocked over the boots bag.

She bobbed her head inside the bag as she picked it back up.

The left boot was missing!

The human metal detector was a twit!

There was no phone number printed on the shopping bag to call. She didn’t have a receipt to take the number from either. She couldn’t call information for the number because…

Cairo’s so not convenient like that.

Waving her hands in oscillation across the air, she got her waiter’s attention and he came malking over as fast as he could.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I need to cancel my order.’

‘No problem ma’am.’

In theory, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make back to the cafe in time to have a late lunch and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 7.

In reality, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make it back in time to have a late dinner and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 11.

She was a very realistic girl.

So she did the realistic thing and headed for the door.

Just like a person never thinks of himself or herself in third person, Fate never thinks of itself as Fate. Like you and me, it walks around and does its thing.

To the String Theory subscribers, the human metal detector just forgot to put the left boot in the bag, and so she had get up from the café and go back to the mall to get the boot.

To those who know the Universe consciously conspires, the human metal detector was meant to forget to put the left boot in the bag so she would have to get up from the café at that exact moment and go back to the mall to get the boot.

Handbag over shoulder, boot bag in hand, she pushed the heavy glass door open, defying its hinges and the blatantly visible ‘pull’ sign hanging on it, with all her tricep-cular might.

Thank God for Ed Hardy lighters, right?

She succeeded.

It opened.

And it just missed hitting…

You guessed it.

Him’.

She didn’t believe in the String Theory.

Correction. She couldn’t believe in the String Theory. First, she’d have to be aware it existed.

He did believe in the String Theory.

He now doubted though it was what strung them together again for the second time today.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get a left boot.’

‘Need a lift?’

‘Is it a non-smoking lift?’

‘No. I still smoke.’

He opened her door. She did a Lady-Di-legs-together entrance. It was SO HARD for her to purposely coordinate, but she pulled it off.

He got in and leaned back into the black leather seat, smothering it until he adjusted himself into a position strategic enough to be able to scan the all of her.

But so not like the human metal detector.

He scanned her like you do a memory. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking for the many women she was to him for 2 years.

The temptress,

The mother, the best friend,

The worthy opponent, the daughter, the goof, the lady, the angel…

The Eve with the Apple.

…and

The little girl.

Who he had always loved the most.
The girl with whom he didn’t have to be a strong man.
The girl with whom he was,

The vulnerable boy.

The girl who rang true to the Van-Man.

She took,
like a woman.

She made love,
like a woman.

She ached,
like a woman.

But,

She

Broke.

Like.

a…

Little girl.

He remained quiet until he found every one of those women.

It took 12 seconds.

And they were all still there.

Leaning in towards her, letting the leather seat breathe again, his eyes smiled,

‘You’re looking good.’

Inside her, she squirmed a bit. No one had brought out those women, one by one, let alone all at once,

Except

him‘.

She resented that to no end.

They may have been within her.

But they were and would always be his women.

She resented that to no end.

‘I can just cab it and save you the embarrassment of admitting we haven’t driven off yet because you don’t know how to release the parking break.’

His eyes smirked.

Not at her sarcastic tone.
At her sarcasm.

Not because he found it funny.
Because that was her still in love with him.

He knew he had of explaining to do.
He knew he blindsided her.
He knew she was devastated.

But a tomato and street vendor named Yacoub would help him out.

How? Next Monday, you’ll find out…

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