a little bit of crazy could do the whole world good

I just finished, "Veronika Decides to Die," by Paulo Coelho.   Whenever I finish his books, I find myself staring at the last page thinking...wait.  His books touch on themes that are very cliche and yet when he writes, it is beautiful, and what has once been cliche becomes new and insightful.  The wisdom comes throughout the book, so that when you reach the end, you find yourself flipping back and re-reading trying to remember the emotions and insights you received at earlier points. 

    Veronika Decides to Die, is about living.  Moreover it's about how one lives.  One thing I found interesting was that the book pointed out that both sides of the wall, in group and out group, are living in fish bowls.   In other words, both society and the groups that resist society's demands are choosing to live in a bubble that is defined by their groups decisions.  They are dictated by what their group has designated normal....even if that means pretending to be crazy.  

Coelho writes, 

  " Life inside is exactly the same as life outside.  Both there and here, people gather in groups; they build their walls and allow nothing strange to trouble their mediocre existences.  They do things because their used to doing them, they study useless objects, they have fun because they're supposed to have fun, and the rest of the world can go hang---let them sort themselves out....What I'm saying is that life inside....is the same as the lives of almost everyone outside....carefully avoiding knowledge of what lies beyond the glass walls of the aquarium."  

   Coelho shows the faults of those who philosophize, but aren't willing to risk acting a little crazy to bring about change.  

  At the end of the book, one of the character's Maria writes, "Be like the fountain that overflows, not like the cistern that contains."   

 I don't agree with everything Coelho writes, but I always am led to think deeper after reading his books and more importantly I'm inspired to get up and act.  

the quiet life

I think maybe I'm a little crazy.  Just a little...it's all really hereditary though, so it's not my fault...right?  

First week of summer, I've read three books, pecked out sheaves (an exaggeration of course) of stories on my typewriter, watched too much t.v. and am ready to move on.  Oh yes, I hate to give in to the American Youth stereotype of discontent and in constant need of entertainment...but I'm just not used to this quiet life.  They said Seattle was rainy?  It's rained every day since I arrived in Portland.   Not a complaint though, just a fact: a detail to more colorfully portray the picture that is my life.   No it's not the quiet life that I'm discontent with, it's the lack of community.  I've been driven so far as to name my typewriter.  (His name is Smith if your interested)  Well Smith and I keep each other company.  Each click of the yellow letters, helps to chase away the solitude and works to make me feel useful.  Okay, so I'm really not being useful, but poor Smith has been secluded to the basement, where I found him caked in dust.  So I'm helping him, right?   

Right...like I said....crazy.

I was thinking about dreams today.  I'm not referring to "dreams for the future," or "dreams for my life."  I'm talking about the dreams that some times visit us when our conscious is asleep.  It's interesting really.   If anyone brings up this topic of dreams in a group of people, everyone person instantly springs into action, trying to put forth the most interesting dream they've had.  It's almost like a competition.  Few people actually care what's in other people's dreams, but for some reason, we all want to share what takes place in our own.  What is this?  I wonder if we hope that people will recognize our dreams as bits of truth.  I wonder if we desire people to see what happens when we are not tightly reigning in our conscious....we want people to know the fantastical elements of our subconscious.  I had dream last night.  I won't relate it to you.  I'm fairly sure it was meaningless, and recounting it would be a bore.  So i'll refrain....besides I've actually forgotten.   All i know is that I kept waking up in the middle of it.  I could feel myself pulling away from the surreal adventure I was in and then I remember squeezing my eyelids shut hard, trying to force myself back into that realm.  When I finally woke up....I was disappointed.  Hm.    I used to actually have "premonition" dreams.  I would dream things and then in some form they would happen.  It hasn't happened for awhile, but it's caused me to pay close attention to dreams.  I thinks dreams are our alter-selves speaking to us.  Showing us the life they live and prodding us perhaps into action.  I don't really know.  

   I'm circle thinking...and it's unimportant. . . the result of too much time.  Blast.  I hate wasting time.  (sorry if I've just wasted yours)

ouch

I just finished Sherman Alexie's, "Flight."    

wow.

    i'm not really sure what else to say.  (which as usual means i have a lot to say)

i've never felt so attune to all the voices out there that are so far removed from mine.  i watch people every day and wonder who they are and what they think.  i hear about tragedies on the news and wonder what was behind the tragedy.   this book sent me into the the thoughts behind these people and these tragedies.  it's awful, it's horrifying.  but it's good.  no, good isn't the right word.  it's necessary...?  it makes me see the potential we all have for bad, but the chance we're all given for good.  it reminds me how wrong it is to live shut off to those around you.  it's wrong to look at people in compartments.  it's wrong to solely judge by actions.  it reminds me how little i know about people, how little i care about people.  

     it inspires me to embrace the chance i've been given.  at the end of the book, the kid realizes that the world is ugly and won't get better any time soon; he also realizes that he himself is ugly....but he sees the chance  he's been given to partake in the beautiful and stand above the cruelty. 

   there's a lot more to it....but that's my snapshot thoughts after just finishing the book.  if you can stand it...read it.   

   a breathe of fresh air.... i need this

(pic courtesy of pablo)

blank

there's a build-up of words waiting just behind my lips, but every time i open my mouth they recede down the back of my throat, settling down in my gut where my stomach twists and turns with their weight.

my hands are tense, frozen: ready to channel my unspoken words onto paper, but they don't and they can't

i have this habit of storing up my words, my thoughts so long that i can no longer recognize them.  i keep them deep inside until i have no strength to bring them forth.  i become like a child who is learning to speak.  

i sit, i wait, i sigh, but i am immobile. 

so i stare at this leering screen and wish for what i don't seem to have.

Ivory Towers

I've been thinking about them

reality?  what is it?

are we all really stuck in our own ivory towers?   

Do we ever really leave them?

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