paamayim nekudotayim

you know, apart from the syllable “un” that differentiates happiness and unhappiness, there is not much else.

oh come on, six days and seven nights pondering, that’s all you can say?

I am quite fond of collecting OST scores or songs from movies I like. I don’t have many, but quite a few great ones.

These past few days I’ve been listening a lot to scores from these films:

• Dances With Wolves
• Barry Lyndon
• The Mission
• The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
• Once Upon A Time In The West, and
• Band of Brothers

Somehow they just suit the way I feel about my recent days. Music describes your feeling best, no?

so I have that dream again.

While it seems to serve a purpose to remind me of what’s realistic and what’s not; it certainly only makes it harder to swallow the already bitter pills; prescription I voluntarily accept.

of course most dreams picture only things that have always been in the back of our mind, consciously or not. Dreams spawn from our thoughts; a cruel notion to a suffering soul. True as it might be, I’d rather disagree.

Once (or twice) upon a time, Phaedrus would set his course on a thousand miles long journey; from his dwelling up high in the highest mountain on earth to the Dead Sea in the Middle East, carrying tiny little stock of salt of his.

His mission was to pour the salt a little at a time into the Dead Sea.

Needless to mention that he was bound for grievance right from the start. He didn’t seem to mind. He’s not aware of the concept of “salt concentration”.

You see, many people agree on million of things. On facts, on fictions, on mathematical theories, on physics, on medical and medication.

on letters, words, sentences, poems, stories.

people agree on million of proverbs alone. But they don’t tell each other how they interpret the proverbs. It’s the interpretation that could be different. Could be amazingly different.

you know, I often say, “they’re blind. they can’t see how beautiful the scene is.” Devil knocks on my door protesting that blind people can’t even see the scene.

you see, my twenty-something years old definition of blindness is distorted in some way.

next time I hear that “love is blind”, remind me to get my definition of blindness right before anything.

I don’t think I belong to the group of superstitious people. Not that I don’t believe in ghosts, quite the contrary. I believe in ghosts. In living spirits that live side by side with us.

I haven’t seen one with my own eyes, though. Nor have I ever expected to see one. Never. In fact, I am quite grateful I am not able to see one. So help me God.

Couple of days ago, it’s high noon, I was in front of my computer doing our daily affair, the air suddenly smelled something similar to a few days old human corpse; which made me frightened. I don’t remember any other time I was that frightened over something superstitious.

For sometime afterwards, I could only sit quitely starring into each section of our house in turns, wishing nothing would ever happen or show up. I finally tired myself to sleep.

Later that night I realized that this was the week my father spent his last days in life, nine years ago. I took a bath, sit myself to pray, and went back to my affair with computer.

The corpse’s smell that day, I then took to be the presence of my father’s spirit; who might have thought to give me a little visit. Perhaps I am superstitious, afterall.

I love you, Dad. How did I manage not to miss you that much these past years. I’m growing up, eh? I used to dream that you’re still alive, do you know that? In fact, I don’t recall any of my dreams in which you’re not alive.

I suppose I’d be forgiven if I rather spend this whole night to look back into my recent past.

I had been reading Memoirs of a Geisha over the weekend; such a great book that I can’t help myself feeling this one sort of peculiar feeling. I can never describe it. I have always referred to it as “what we feel on our first day home after a week-long outdoor camp”. I’m quite sure I would be all tears had I read this book last year.

Sentimental. I think I am.

I remember reading perhaps only the first half of the book some time three or four years ago; I recall I had very little emotion towards what I read that time. What happened to me this past year, has somewhat contributed to my appreciation of such story as described in the book. You might be quick to think that it’s the romantic story that I identify myself to. No, not at all; if I ever identify myself at all to the book. What then?

I should very like to read the book again.

“Eine Reise ans Ende des Verstandes.”
whatever that means. I don’t know any German words beyond ja and nein.

The last three movies I’ve seen were all Germans. Three German movies decades and generations apart: M (1931), Das Boot (1981) and Der Untergang (2004).

I’m not handy at review, so just a couple of words about Das Boot.
Clarence Worley said that “After Apocalypse Now, Coming Home in a Body Bag is the best Vietnam movie ever made”, well I say “After Apocalypse Now, Das Boot is the best war movie ever released.”

ugh, my dog had just pointed out that I have not seen any other war movie released between 1979 and 1981. Damn dog.

pardon me for I’m going to quote Humphrey Bogart.

When you spend most of your life in one profession, you develop what could be called an occupational point of view.

now what happens here, I have spent quite lot of time playing Space Cadet Pinball, especially in recent weeks. Sort of become obsessed with it.

and Bogie was damn right. I have developed what can be called “pinball point of view”, a way of saying that I sometimes compare the life on the pinball board to our real life.

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