Under the Sea

I come from a large family of educators. Hard working people with strong values who believe that learning is a lifelong endeavor, that we must be open-minded, compassionate, and tolerant. That we must teach, mentor, and guide others as we not only bestow knowledge, but also evolve, redefine, and transform our own way of thinking…constantly challenging paradigms, looking at things from different perspectives, and in courteous and gentlemanly fashion, debate opinions, beliefs, and schools of thought as opposed to just accepting the status quo, or blindly accepting information as fact or doctrine.

The photograph in the picture you see before you is one of my favorites. It is of me and my father during a family beach trip when I was just a boy. As I was looking for Captain Morgan’s treasure snorkeling, my mask kept fogging up, causing me to surface and momentarily halt my meticulous scanning of coral and rock along the clear, ocean floor. Seeing my frustration, my dad patiently came over to help. He showed me how to ensure a proper seal and fitting, but he also taught me that you could spit onto the glass inside the mask and spread the saliva (preferably not with your fingers), to prevent the moisture build-up. I watched intently as he dipped the mask in the water after coating it and then had me put it back on.   

I never questioned this unconventional problem-solving method because it hadn’t been the first time that he’d shown me how to troubleshoot on the fly. Miraculously, my mask didn’t fog up anymore, and I was able to get right back into the game, gazing at tropical fish, looking for seashells, and of course, the hidden treasures awaiting my discovery.

As is the case with most of these teaching moments, in hindsight, I realize how much more my father was really imparting than just that singular lesson. It wasn’t so much that one could simply prevent a mask from fogging up with spit, it was also, beyond the surface, a series of life lessons that I would eventually carry with me for the rest of my life. In the moment my dad took to show me a life hack, he embedded in my mind a way of thinking and looking at the world. He showed me that oftentimes there are unusual or unthought of ways of problem solving…essentially, how to think outside the box as it were. He demonstrated, that even out in the ocean devoid of tools, you can solve a problem using your immediate environment, or even your own body, but that you have to look, be open-minded, and willing to accept that your answer might lie where you least expect it.

This picture is on my dresser for the specific reason to remind me at the dawn of each day to remain open-minded to new ways of thinking, to challenge conventional paradigms, to seek and impart knowledge, and to be compassionate and patient with others who may be struggling. This photograph serves as an aide-mémoire to always look in unexpected places for a solution, to help others whenever possible, and that even out at sea, without tools or technology, you can defog a snorkeling mask, and that oftentimes, the greatest treasures in life are not buried in the sand or even found under the sea at all, but waiting to be discovered within us. 

#metoo

I generally stay away from posting my opinion on my facebook wall, but I do try to engage in ongoing discussions that appear on my feed, especially when I feel the need to explicitly call out injustice, misguidedness, or flat out assholery (as you can imagine, I've been busy). As most of you may already know, there is a current movement via social media that began to bring awareness to the prevalence of misogyny, sexual harassment, sexual assault, and inequality towards women. The outpouring of responses from female friends and family members has begun to underscore the severity and breadth of the issue, and hopefully enlighten men to not only be more mindful of their actions, but to be more active in the plight to change the status quo.

In reality, you'd probably be hard pressed to find a woman who hasn't been sexually harassed or assaulted ...and if you do, it's only a matter of time before they are. In fact, I've been wanting to respond to the call with my personal experience after many had encouraged men to do so, but I didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention, nor potentially belittle anyone's experience(s). I worried that it would be like holding up a white lives matter sign at a black lives matter event, which by the way, falls under the assholery category and entirely misses the point (cue Lewis Black’s aggressive pointing and heated rhetorical diatribe). However, the benefit of owning a few gigabytes in the internet's infinite landscape...is the ability to be as poignant, rebellious, humble, crass, or as civilized as I please. 

A small, albeit clandestine, part of my response to the #metoo movement, was to include the raising of my own hand in order to bring awareness to the fact that sexual harassment and assault, while rampant and primarily towards women, can also be, and often is towards boys and men. Again, including my voice in the larger discussion was not to highlight my own personal experience (as traumatic as it may have been), nor for any personal admiration or applause, so let me be clear, I am not innocent. 

While I may not have intentionally hurt or sexually assaulted a woman, I am guilty of not policing other men and of going along with objectifying and demeaning behavior, which in some contexts can be just as bad. Even in the context of being playful, these actions are not funny, and I now realize how they could have made someone feel uncomfortable, or even unsafe. Allowing someone to be bullied, raped, or murdered whilst having the power to prevent it, in the eyes of the law can get you convicted of aiding and abetting, or in other words, sharing the criminal's intent. 

All I can do, is apologize, recognize that I am not perfect, have the humility to realize my contributions to the issue, and change my own actions. I am not proud of it, and while my unique upbringing in a culture that perpetuates this behavior is not an excuse, I recognize how this exposure helped to influence me as a younger man. In any event, my goal is to stand alongside women, to bring to light an issue that merits more scrutiny, support, and awareness, to highlight the magnitude of the problem, and more importantly, to be a part of the solution.   

For those who have not seen the facebook post, I’ve posted it below.

I'm sorry that we can be pigs, that we objectify you, ogle you, lust after you and degrade you. I'm sorry that you have to put on armor every day, and carry a shield...I imagine the weight becomes exhausting. I'm sorry that you've had to learn how to give certain looks, how to decipher intentions, to constantly be aware of everyone around you, and that men can possibly misunderstand the meaning of the word no, or that more importantly, there should ever be circumstances we put you in where you feel the need to say it. I'm sorry that comfort is fleeting and so few places exist where absolute safety is a certainty. I'm sorry we live in a world where self expression can be misconstrued, where little girls have to learn the hard way, and where you have to always consider traveling in numbers to avoid being a victim. I'm sorry that I make more than you, that I'm considered less of a risk from employers and insurers because I cannot bear children, and that I've never once had to worry about workplace sexual harassment or unwanted advances. I'm sorry that we live in a society with an unhealthy attitude towards sexuality, where boys think porn is the norm, and that women have to incessantly worry about how they, their behavior or words are perceived in the presence of every man. I'm sorry that you often determine what you'll wear on any given day by the amount of energy you have to defend your choices. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable, if my flirtations teetered on harassment, or if my compliments triggered a previous trauma. I'm sorry for him, for them, and even me. I'm grateful for you, I'm embarrassed for my kind, and I'm so deeply saddened that you've had to endure what you have, and that we have to launch social media campaigns in order to open the eyes of men who still may never see. 

Wonder Woman

I saw Wonder Woman on opening night and while I thought it was pretty good, it has definitely taken me a while to ascertain my true feelings. I often have this problem in life, just not usually with movies. Rotten tomatoes gave it high praise, and while poignant and entertaining, I'm leaning towards the fact that perhaps it was given a little more praise than it deserved. However, I am in it for the long haul (development of the DC universe), so I'm primarily happy that DC didn't squander their first chance to delve into the origins of one of the Justice League's core characters. After all, Marvel's introduction of Iron Man, and subsequent Avenger movies was pretty brilliant.

Firstly, let me start off by saying that I am a D.C. fan. In fact, I'm still upset at the cosmos for not having been born as Bruce Wayne. And while Superman Vs Batman (BVS) received undue criticism from fan boys and critics alike, in contrast, I think Wonder Woman may have received a slight boost in its rating assessment. However, when juxtaposed with the rushed, poor plot-driven, character soup that was Suicide Squad, this movie may have well been Lord of the Rings.

By the time Wonder Woman's release date was eminent, I had gotten over the fact that they casted a slightly skinner Amazonian demi-god warrior princess than I would have liked, ultimately because her cameo in BVS was spot on. Gadot, a former Israeli soldier, is buff enough for a slender 5'10" frame I suppose, but more importantly, she is stoic, elegant, and believably concerned with defending mankind...a staple sentiment that is shared by all heroes...although in a way, unique to the Princess of Themyscira. I think Gadot accurately portrayed the perfect combination of innocent and warrior.

Unlike the destruction of Krypton, or the murder of the Waynes, Princess Diana's upbringing is a

lesser known story, and for the most part, the establishment of her warrior roots was apropos, although I think a little more could have been done to illustrate that Wonder Woman is arguably the best comic book combatant in existence.

As a family hero movie, Wonder Woman was mostly perfect. Chris Pine stated in an interview that it's a different comic hero movie than its Marvel counterparts, as some of it is both a love story, as well as a coming of age story. Some of the scenes deviated from the overall feel of the film teetering on the verge of being campy (e.g. picking up a tank during a fight as her hair flows in the wind and fire consumes the background), but otherwise the action sequences were well choreographed, there was strong chemistry among the characters, and as much light-hearted humor as one can expect during World War I.

I think my biggest issue with this movie, and I'm beginning to realize that this could be a systemic issue with all of DC's movies thus far, is either the selection and/or characterization of the villain. One of the many problems with Suicide Squad, was that there were two antagonists, only one of which had a plausible purpose, and neither had a particularly compelling final battle. Similarly, Wonder Woman's foe was both a little far-fetched, and equally anti-climactic. Without divulging too much, I feel as though Diana was never in any real danger and the director, while admittedly having a lot to balance and live up to, didn't quite create the necessary suspense and sense of urgency analogous to a super villain intending to unleash a dangerous gas on humankind, or one in tune with the capabilities of the God of War.
 
All that being said, the cinematography was striking and the fight/battle sequences were well-timed, credible, and engaging. The creativity in demonstrating Diana's powers was sufficient, although I felt some was left on the table with truly displaying her full battle potential (e.g., boomerang tiara). However, her naiveté aligns with the idea that the Amazon princess is still discovering who she is, and is not yet fully battle tested.

In the end, Patty Jenkins and Zack Snyder delivered a solid origin story that successfully lays the ground work for subsequent DC movies and a firestorm of consumer paraphernalia unrivaled since Batman Begins. Wonder Woman is definitely worth the cost of the ticket and its battle cry sets the tone for the season of summer blockbusters. I give this movie a rating of three and half out of five brownie points, and I think I may be lassoed into seeing it again...enjoy!

Humpty Dumpty

As I sat on my patio this morning sipping coffee and reading my new book, Trevor Noah's "Born a Crime", I heard a cacophony of little birds chirping just above. One doesn't need to be from the jungles of Panama to discern that these frantic signals were not jubilation, but an alarm of danger. Seconds later, the ominous bully descended upon the tree's canopy, his black wings flapping aggressively like loose window shutters in a hurricane.

Determined to put up a fight, the little birds desperately chirped louder, flying frantically from branch to branch attempting to confuse and startle the dark invader. The crow remained stoic and unexcitable, calmly surveying the maze of branches and leaves while the tree's inhabitants flurried about in desperation. Looking up from my book, I sat paralyzed as I pondered the possibility of intervening. Should I let nature take its course, or attempt to help the birds defend their home?

While initially letting the universe unfold as it may, in the end, I decided I didn't like the menacing crow causing a raucous and disturbing the birds, even if their chirping often wakes me up well before my alarm is set to go off. Feeling a sense of kinship with my neighbors, I stood up and shouted at the crow and waved my book as intimidatingly as one can from 15 feet below in pajama pants and a cardigan. I'm certain the woman pushing a stroller as she walked by thought I was crazy...certainly wouldn't be the last time I'm sure.

Despite our synchronous teamwork, the ruse proved futile. As though a hand reaching in to a shallow, brook to retrieve a shiny gem, the crow's beak plucked a nest I hadn't noticed from a branch and absconded to a nearby rooftop with its prize. I had acted too late. Disappointed, I sat back down, but kept my eye on the bird as I watched it shake apart the expertly crafted nest to sift through its contents. Luckily, nothing fell out. I smiled sipping the last of my coffee, and after I was certain the bird noticed that I was giving him the stink eye, I returned to the memoir of a baby born to interracial parents during apartheid....a much calmer affair indeed.

I have since left my perch on the patio, but can still hear the birds. Their chatter seems to have calmed a bit, and now sounds like spouses arguing in a flooded basement over not having purchased the "other house". Surely the female bird was right...as is usually the case in these domestic disputes. I assume her partner will have a long day of reassembling what remains of their tousled abode. On the bright side, they didn't lose anything far more difficult to replace...although the male bird's ego did look a little worse for wear.

The Promise and the Vow

Slowly down the rabbit's hole a promise went to hide,
behind it pushed a solemn vow burying them deep inside.

Therein the tunnel's eye, the world began to spin,
and so began a falling rain, deep and dark as sin.

Sanguineous the pelting drops, that fell upon the earth.
until a raging crimson flood, drowned hope....and love...and mirth.

Now but barren lands of ash, with chambers dry as bone,
the promise crept up towards the sky, from its solitary home.

Upon a glance of dust and desert, anguish crossed his face,
for eternal love had been the vow, who had disappeared without a trace.

Evanescence

She stands in the kitchen when I arrive, her back to the world.
Her frame is elegant and she toils quietly…
as though a grooming leopard in a large tree.

Afternoon rays flow through the squinting blinds and set her aglow.
I’m drawn to her…she senses my presence and I notice her shoulders relax.
I hold her close, an embrace that never seems long enough.
She purrs softly as our bodies melt into one another.

I smile, slowly imbibing her scent: natural, sensual, with a hint of uncertainty.
Her skin feels warm like a smooth pebble basking in the sun.

Her hair is soft upon my cheek. The fine, curly hairs
that freed themselves from behind her ear tickle my nose,
and sway under my exhale like dandelions in the wind.

My heart beats steadily beneath a cage of sinew and bone,
but she does not know it wishes to erupt.
I tighten my squeeze as if to unite our forms,
hoping that she is comforted in this moment.

I wonder if my arms can shield and protect her like the jungle's canopy.

Before I can decide, I notice her perch is empty...

I catch but a glimpse of her tail, as she retreats into the shadows.

Life

We’ve been in one of the worst droughts in history. On my way out of work today I noticed it was raining outside. Not the usual, lazy and short-lived drizzle that teases the parched earth, but a hearty, heavy rain that causes rushing currents that sweep the streets, wiping things anew. It was beautiful, like the sultry walk of a woman from whom you’ve been away for a long time. As she saunters towards the bed, the morning beams slanting through the window set her legs aglow, while the breeze gently plays with the bottom of the dress shirt she borrowed. The coalescence of familiarity and magnetism in this moment makes you smile, wanting both for the feeling to never end, but also to be replayed over and over again in slow motion like the melodic nostalgia of your favorite song on repeat.

I admired the vigor with which it fell. A coworker stood beside me for what seemed like a half an hour. At first we shared short vignettes of the last time either of us had seen such a downpour, and the places we had lived where similar displays were commonplace. Afterwards, we stood in perfect silence…only the sound of raindrops throwing themselves upon the window could be heard. The world before our eyes glistening wet like the fading watercolors on a painting being sprinkled with tears.

The ride home was not as evocative, but equally dazzling. The rain had been accompanied by lightening and strong winds that bullied the weak and sun battered trees who lacked the strength to entrench themselves against the onslaught. Sirens flared and police cars blocked streets, while highway ramps were littered with debris, fallen branches, and toppled trees. Parking lots were peppered with growing puddles and once hurtled shopping carts that lay on their sides as though dying cattle. Thunder rumbled its warning in the distance like an angry god.

I was reminded that life is never without this quintessential display of duality, in one moment a nostalgic flirtation, a venerated remembrance, an appreciation of nature’s ineffable talents. On the other, a reminder of our vulnerability through a breathtaking exhibition of nature’s might as though we were mere game board pieces helplessly being scattered about…falling where we may.

Butterfly Effect

I love movies. The visual art of story telling. The depiction of raw emotion, life, and circumstance. The quintessential portrayal of detailed, human expression. I immerse myself entirely...feeling the weight of despair, the weightlessness of space, a tree's leaves being gently carried across the screen, a pencil's scratching upon the surface of paper, a freckled smile, the sound of lips. Details, which in and of themselves, can hurl atoms through space, causing worlds to collide.

I saw two great movies this weekend. Gravity and Blue is the Warmest Color. While I normally would write an entire blog post dedicated to a single film, both of these movies, which are polar opposites, evoke similar feelings. Thus, I am compelled to address them together. One was a film about an engineer's experience in space, as well as her personal struggle, the inability to let go of a past trauma. I found it poignant and simultaneously fascinating that her experience was so traumatic and indelible, that she was unable to let go of it even in the most remote, quiet and vast locales imaginable. To carry a weight so heavy that even in the vacuum of space's weightlessness you cannot wiggle from underneath it, is a powerful thought.

Conversely, Blue carried with it a weight we've all had to bear, and with which we are intimately familiar....that of breaking up, or losing our first love. The parallel of helplessness in both movies was palpable and salient, even though the path of each female protagonist was, for lack of a better description, on entirely different tangents. One, a young woman gripping with the harsh realities and intricacies of maturation, sexuality, and the dynamic of relationships while navigating the emotional oceans of life. The other, of a woman who's life has lost all meaning and is devoid of feeling, except for one that blinds her to even the magnificence of a bird's eye view of our amazing planet. Both characters faced the eminent danger of losing air or being eternally lost in the cosmos at any moment.

Both movies were fantastic, equally moving, and powerful. Admittedly, however, they are a little stressful, but entirely worth it. Just be warned that Blue is a French film with subtitles, and has a few scenes of graphic nudity that can only be found on Cinemax or HBO. Also, it's just shy of being 3 hours long.

Although I've never been in space to watch a sunset, to witness the glow of Aurora Borealis hovering over the North Pole, or to bask in the radiance of infinite stars and the blue shimmering brilliance of Earth...I hope that if given the chance, I shall choose to stop and appreciate the view.

I hope death is as quiet
as I imagine it. 
No mourners to and fro. 
No Dante,
no 9 circles of Hell, 
or creaking
across my soul.
Polite and purposeful
like a waitress filling my cup,
or a shiny beetle trekking across my lapel 
calculating with speech,
choosing her words
as though each
were expensive fruit
or a frail and brittle antique.
Graceful and elegant
devoid of riddles
precise and thoughtful, 
cognizant of time's reach
and slow, steady heartbeat.
Come quickly madame,
but stay only a while
cradling my head
as you peer in my eyes.
Hum your lullaby
and conjure your muse
as sleep descends
from starry skies.

By Brown

Olympic Trials part two: Leaping towards finality

Many years had passed since I had given up my aspirations to be an olympic bobsledder, and amazingly I still hadn't pushed my little sister into oncoming traffic, nor had I bled out or gotten rabies due to her unparalleled penchant for biting. In fact, we had been getting along better than usual...enough even to stand each other's presence long enough to play a game; to my little sister, a game of tag. In my eyes, however, training for olympic hurdles.

I have a lean build. Long wiry legs, but endowed with enough fast-twitch muscle fibers that I've always been fast and graceful...not unlike a gazelle, sans the face paint or gaudy head dress of course. Even at the age of 12, I knew that olympic hurdlers and I had something in common, and while becoming an olympic bobsledder was a noble pursuit, the lack of ice in the tropics, or appropriate equipment, would make it a challenging journey. Consequently, I had decided that I could hurtle myself to fame and fortune without a sled.

As our little "game" of tag progressed, I realized that I had egregiously underestimated my little sister's own fast twitch muscle fibers, and found that she was consistently within reach of my shadow...a distance I was determined to lengthen. I ran into the den, leaping over a futon, initiated a shake and bake maneuver around the entertainment center and my Dad's disheveled yet sophisticated network of extension cords and cables, and then I darted towards our older sister's room at the end of the long hallway.

I had to think fast, and I figured I could leap over my sister's bed and that would be enough to solidify my superior quickness and improvisational skill. I could see the finish line and one last hurdle to navigate. My little sister was so unbelievably close behind that I could feel her breath upon my neck. As planned, and like a antelope leaping over a fallen comrade, I cleared the bed, but sensed it hadn't created enough distance and the only way to finish this for good would be to entrap her in the room. After all, who can chase you behind a closed door? As I bolted from the room, I swung the door quickly in order to stymie the little speed demon's pursuit, but instead of the familiar sound of a slamming door, I heard the unmistakable sound of wood impacting a human skull.

Although the sounds was distinct and identifiable even at my age, the reality of what had just happened really didn't sink in until I heard the screaming. And not the I stubbed my toe, or even cut my finger kind of screaming, but the "oh my god I'm bleeding profusely and may not make it to see my next birthday" kind of screaming. As I doubled back to investigate, I saw what appeared to be the bludgeoning of a baby seal. Our older sister, who had been showering, was summoned by the screams, and stood before us dumbfounded and dripping wet.

Before I could entirely process what had transpired, my sister's head had been wrapped in quickly soaking towels and was carried away to the hospital leaving a trail of blood droplets along the shiny marbled tiles, the image of white towels turning pink to be forever seared into memory. I was left behind to mop up the mess and to ruminate, once again, over the fact that I may have killed my little sister...for real.

Needless to say, my olympic dreams were thwarted for good, and now I watch them on tv knowing the true extent of the difficulties one must overcome to accomplish such a feat. I don't know if I'll ever reconsider olympic aspirations, but at least for the meantime, writing is pretty safe. At least for my little sister anyway.

Le Poeme Parle

I was recently invited to recite some poetry, which I've only done a handful of times. The most memorable being at my high school graduation. It was not my best work, but it was poignant and fun. Ultimately, the words were emblazoned in the yearbook, with one grammatical error forever immortalized. C'est la vie.

I'm less inclined to share my poems these days, not because I fear judgment, I'm just hardly ever satisfied. I wonder if movie directors feel this way. I tend to toil, edit, and revise works that I've written years ago. An ungratifying pursuit really, like the covering of a tattoo who's meaning has changed...a bitter sweet and fleeting satisfaction. 

The invitation has me thinking about writing some poems intended solely for reciting. The thought of being able to infuse humor, facial expressions, and dramatic pause is tempting. These elements are lost when words are fettered to paper. When people read your poems, they don't always pause where you want them to, or pronounce a word just so. They conjure different worlds. My words merely a bridge to a place all their own. One in which only their imagination can take them. At times I wish I could go there.

Hearing my words floating through an eager coffee shop like the permeating, hypnotic aroma of a freshly made cappuccino would be magical. Casting a spell on caffeinated hipsters and baby boomers...enticing them not to construct their own worlds with the power of rhyme and metaphorical prose, but to take a ride with me instead. Trusting that while the destination is unknown, the journey would be worth the wait. Well.....at least devoid of grammatical errors.

Speed Racer

The rains here are short lived, but they still flood the streets like the ones from my childhood. It would rain in the tropics for days at a time, leaving children no recourse but to play in it, braving colds, broken glass, tetanus, and tape worms. Although warned, we never thought of such things, but were more concerned with perfecting the slide during muddy soccer games or simply splashing around.

We would dismantle wooden clothes pins and use the cement curbs to sand and shape the heads into a point. The torrential rains would create a fast current between the edges of the roads and the curb which were used as rapids upon which to race our boats. We would yell and cheer them on as we sped barefoot along side them until the end of the street. It never mattered who won. We were too eager to run back to the start line to watch our litte speedboats dunk, spin, and wind through the gray, gushing river over and over again. 

Shotgun Sunday

My last post was on September 15th. I'm making this statement for a couple of reasons. 1) a reminder that it has been over a month since my last post 2) the begininng of a writing exercise 3) as part of a concentrated effort to write something creative everday. 

I sit in an Internet cafe as I type this, watching people. I watch them come in and begin their rituals, reading their faces and deducing from their outfits and accoutrement what their intentions may be. I wonder what each person is writing, reading, or watching on their monitors as the soft digital glow from computer screens gently illuminates their faces. 

I hate my posture and I'm dedicated to improving it with the determination of someone adhering to a new year's resolution, or trying to remove a ring they tried on in a store that is one size too small. After 8 years as a massage therapist and working on hundreds of people, I have witnessed first hand the myriad ways that poor posture can manifest in the body. In fact, I'm sitting up straighter as I type this.

I didn't watch one game of the World Series this year. I wasn't interested. I'm only happy for the city of Boston in that it gave people an opporutnity to come together and deal with the travesty that happened there. Otherwise, I hate the team and am annoyed by most of their fans, particularly their attrocious accent. I realize that it's an unfounded and arbitrary hatred, yet it exists and I cannot ignore it any more than one can act like nothing happened when someone spits on them while talking. I hate them as one might despise cauliflower, or celebrities for adopting African babies. 

I just watched The Dark Knight Rises for the 8th time. I'm still unsure of exactly how I feel about the movie; all I know is that when it's on, I have to watch it. There is a handful of other movies that once they are on the tv I can't stop watching. This phenomenon tends to happen with the Bourne Identity, Shawshank Redemption, Saving Private Ryan, Unforgiven, 300, Gladiator, and just about any movie with Clint Eastwood. 

Well, would you look at that...I've written an entire post. Looks like the writing exercise was a success. Yay me.

Coastal Musings

Surreal indeed... a body part to the ethos of those inexplicable moments of pure heaven in which life overwhelms us; inspires us, cleanses, and melts away worry and angst. Those moments we commune with nature...inhaling atoms that once traversed the bloodstreams of our kin, whose feet tred before ours leaving both imprints in the earth, and in the pool of the universe whose ripples have now returned from whence they started. 

I sit above the ocean as do seagulls floating upon a wind's capricious breath; a feather at the mercy of vicissitude  and chance. Below, the waves' frothy fingers pour over the jagged rock, winding and weaving through the contours of time; cavernous wrinkles upon a swarthy, weathered face caressed and soothed by every breath the ocean exhales. 

I feel lucky in these moments...blessed even. As stressful and as difficult life can be to navigate and comprehend, what is always effortless is the soul's inherent ability and desire to do what it craves most, to be. The sound of waves are soothing, calming, and comforting...pleasant reminders that life, the world, the universe and everything in it is part of something greater, whether by design or accident, that has already been set in motion on an indiscernible direction and path. All we know is that we are an inextricable part of this harmony, residents of the same pool in which all of our actions create ripples that in time, will return to those who set them in motion. Which, logically, leads me to believe that God exists...waiting for us to return.

But this isn't what should concern us...when we create art, when we make love, when we run or cry, or laugh as we splash in water, or when we are tickled...we do not care why. Our souls are expressing themselves as they were intended to; unbridled, naked, unrestrained and without boundaries. In turn, we should not worry about where or when we shall return from whence we came, but let our hearts sing when they are compelled to do so, and enjoy every wave, every gust of wind, every kiss, every caress and let the feather fall where it may. 

Star Trek: Into Darkness

I have three words for you. Benedict Cumberbatch plays the best futuristic, maniacal, kick-ass villain ever! In this next sentence, the one in which I’m about to tell you how I think Star Trek: Into Darkness may be better than Iron man 3, I would normally have a link to the review I have already written about Iron man 3. However, no such review exists yet, thus, there is no link….but the show must go on.

One would think that a man with the name Benedict Cumberbatch would be anything but a futuristic, maniacal, kick-ass villain…..and one would be right. Thankfully his name in the movie is not his real one. Those of you who are fans of the British television show "Sherlock", are familiar with his work and may have possibly been as giddy as I was in the theater waiting for him to appear. Those of you who are not, will still appreciate his commitment to crazy.

Anyway, as I was saying, Into Darkness is a wholesomely entertaining movie that in my opinion, was not as good as the first, but still didn't disappoint. There was just enough action and the story line, while plausible and multifaceted, was still easy to follow. Even the nuances in the development of the intricate relationships between humans and Vulcans was masterful, and well…logical.

I could have done without the Dr.’s plethora of over-acted metaphorical quips, and while I felt there were

some decent moments of comic relief, most of the attempts at humor were a little contrived or poorly timed, an ailment of which the first film surely didn't suffer. I did enjoy the film and was mostly entertained, but I couldn't help thinking that this movie was like the U.S.S. Enterprise with a stalled hyper-drive, floating along the fringes of the galaxy without the ability to warp into greatness.  

Some critics, like the Huffington Post had more to say about the films lack of profit generation and celebrity status, but I find that a movie review commenting solely on a film's box office numbers is sort of like judging an entree by the dessert that follows it. Others like Rotten Tomatoes, reported the movie at a 78%, while audiences rated it at almost 90%. Even though the movie fell a little short of expectations, it's still a fun, sleek, intergalactic thriller worth watching.

In short, those three words I promised earlier sum it up rather well….two thumbs up! 

I love the 80s...

I should be studying right now and working on an assignment that's due at the time after which you should never feed a mogwai, but every cell in my body is fighting it. My mind is literally remembering all the things I've been neglecting to do, and trying to get me to do them. Must. Be. Strong. I have a poem that wants to come out and my blog keeps calling..."Brown, ya no me quieres"...you don't love me anymore.

I just started grad school, and every time I begin an assignment I ask myself what the hell I was thinking when I enrolled (I just noticed there were a lot of I's in that sentence). I suppose gleaning information from charts and graphs that illustrate Health Care Expenditures in the United States since the 1960s will do that to you. I'm up to my eyeballs in health care data. These are the moments I wish I could absorb the information like Johnny 5 in Short Circuit..."Need more input!"

Sorry for those of you who didn't grow up in the 80s and know that reference..."Your battery fluid is leaking!" (sorry, couldn't help myself) Your childhood was not nearly as awesome as mine if you didn't wear a Swatch, collect Garbage Pale Kid cards, watch Wrestlemania, The Cosby Show, The A-Team, Silver Spoons, Remington Steele, Magnum PI, and have at least one of these on your bed spread or pajamas: Star Wars, Pac-Man, Knight-Rider, The Goonies, Smurfs, My Little Pony, Rainbrow Brite, The Snorks, GI Joe, Gremlins, Karate Kid, E.T., or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Yeah, you wish you knew what a Care Bear Stare was.

I'm in the mood to share a poem with you. I hope you don't mind...

Eternal Love

Walk into the tomb my sweet
and fall upon my grave.
Fear not the statued sentries there,
who guard this hallowed cave.

Yet deeper through the dark abyss,
where whispers go off to die.
You’ll find me quietly waiting,
upon a bed of stone I lie.

These catacombs are winding,

chambers fraught with dreams and bone.

Carve softly your name upon the walls,

So I shall never rest alone.

By Brown

30 Days and 30 Nights

I'm not sure if I'm writing to satisfy a particular agenda, or just because I couldn't continue to bear the thought of anyone stopping by my blog and judging me solely on my last post, or the idiocy of my pet peeve because quite frankly I have many, and while being constantly mugged by my shower curtain is frustrating, I would hope the world would think me a little more sophisticated.

Then again...I'm not sure how much I really care about people who are compelled to surmise a person's intelligence, sense of humor, imagination, and writing prowess all by a singular post complaining about something, which in the grand scheme of things, is rather trivial. After all, I can't really blame anyone wanting to be all over me while I'm naked.

But then again, this is who we are...biologically and otherwise. We judge, as we always have, in order to survive, weighing risks and identifying potential threats from our environment, and those in it, in a matter of seconds. We often calculate hundreds of scenarios in fractions of seconds, make a decision, and begin initiating a plan...all in the blink of an eye.

It's rather fascinating once you think about it...your entire life is mostly comprised of impulsive, instinctual decisions you've been making since you were able to grasp the concept of your actions having consequences. People like to think that they make their decisions through a more scientific process, basing them on empirical data, analytical comparisons, and deductive reasoning, but in truth, we are looking to either justify or reverse a decision that was already made. We have a brain capable of vast conscious capabilities, but it is those of which we are unaware that are truly enumerable and infinite.

I think wisdom is the acknowledgement of this process, the embracing and acceptance of our animalistic nature, the realization that while we judge, decide, discriminate, dislike, alienate, and choose by snapshots and soundbites of the world around us...we ultimately possess the power not to act upon such diminutive and limited samples.

Gandhi once said, "Anger is the enemy of non-violence, and pride is a monster that swallows it up." Let us hope that we are endowed with the strength to fight such demons, as well as the vision to see the limitations and exclusivity of our perceptions. Time is our most precious commodity, and it would be such a shame to waste a month of it.

Pet Peeve #416

I'm not sure what distorted laws of physics, or vengeful ghosts continue to haunt my bathroom, but I'm sick of the shower curtain gravitating towards me and clinging to my leg like an overzealous, pubescent pit-bull puppy.

I even have those stupid weighted magnets at the bottom of the curtain, but they don't really help; I don't have a bathtub made of medal. If my dumbbells weren't made of iron I'd tie the curtain to those.

I already wake up in a bad mood most days, and now I have to wrestle a giant piece of Saran-wrap for real estate while I'm wet and naked? I think I may need an extra shot of espresso this morning....

Saving Private Ryan

I've often contemplated Harakiri...not on myself of course. I couldn't imagine pushing a dagger into my abdomen, and then forcefully dragging it horizontally across my torso until my insides are no longer where they belong. No, that's a little drastic, and messy. But the act of Sepuku on the blog however...is an act who's reality has become increasingly plausible with each passing day that does not see a sentence written by my hands.

I often wonder at what point a person who has dedicated his or her entire life to dancing, acting, or professional sports decide when their last audition is if they still do not achieve their goals. At what juncture does someone realize that the universe has been trying to nudge them in a different direction and decide against everything that feels right, in order to pursue a path different than the one of which they have been so sure?

I wonder if torn ligaments and crushed egos are the byproducts of greater forces imposing their will, or does coincidence, chance and serendipity ultimately decide who among us is chosen for greatness? I told a friend the other day that I was done with pursuing a career in writing, that I recognized that I didn't possess the right amount of whatever ingredients were necessary for a successful career as a writer. I'm not bitter, I will not live with regret, nor will I abandon an art that has granted me solace over the darkest years. I have simply chosen another path. I do not see this as quitting, relenting, or settling.

I've often struggled with the philosophical paradox of whether we truly possess choice, or if it is merely an illusion to which we are all slaves. I'm not sure we can have it both ways...things happening the way they are supposed to, as well as the ability to create a world by the power of our thoughts alone...or a bed to lie in as it were.

It's never been about how far the rabbit hole goes, but the reasons that motivated us to jump in it in the first place that truly matters. So, for now, the blog lives to see another day. Until of course, I, or fate, decide otherwise.