It is because I envy that I hate. I could only hope I were as courageous.
I miss painting. And my books. And my movies.
I am buried in readings, and it appears as if I will never catch up.
I wonder if I am learning critical thinking, or if that is even something that can be learned in school.
I have to try not to whine anymore, for what will that do but cause people around me discomfort?
Apparently, I am wrong in thinking that acquiring knowledge is the only worthy pursuit in life. It is something that I love doing and tremendously, but given the finite amount of time I have at my disposal, I am uncertain if it is the proper pursuit for me. Doing nothing all day but read has engulfed me in compunction, for surely that is not the way to live. I lament the deterioration of my relationships, the loss of my art, which, no matter how dilettante, are after all still mine, and my lack of sleep.
Or perhaps I am merely rationalizing my sloth. The lazy finds ways.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Without pity
"Ecce homo."
Perhaps she is what a woman should be, for, dwarfing you with her appraising stare, she makes you feel that you are not one. Her eyebrows are unplucked, thick and meeting at the middle above the bridge of her aquiline nose. (Perhaps you should have not groomed yours.) Framing her upper lip is a smattering of hair, short and thick. (A sign of strength, always good in a woman.) Her lips are in constant movement. (A skill to be envied.) She is garrulous- she admits so herself- and you cannot help but wonder why. You search for glimmers of depth and meaning in her words. There must be profundity in there somewhere for she speaks with confidence. When she's not talking- something of rarity- she is typing away on her laptop, and the click-clack of her fingers on the keyboard is din. She does not listen- and perhaps she does not know how- for she repeats your words like they are truly hers. Under the table, her legs are crossed, the right swaying so vigorously you could almost hear it chopping through the helpless, defenseless air.
Monday, November 1, 2010
On Contentment
In an event I attended with some former colleagues about a year ago, I had the pleasure of being introduced to a man who worked as a film subtitle writer. His name escapes me now, but I can still vividly remember how the thirty-something fellow, with much aplomb, described his job for our benefit.
The hubbub and crampness of the venue did not hinder him from taking his sweet time, and he demanded our full attention. With much detail he told us about how an entire day's work produces only thirty minutes worth of subtitled film. He paused after saying this, allowing the gravity of the statement to sink in. Thirty glorious minutes. Wow. When we have oohed and ahhed, he continued his story. His every day is spent watching movies and television series, he said, pausing every so often to jot the actors' dialogue down. He described the strenuous task of looking unfamiliar words up on the Internet to make sure everything is correctly spelled. He enumerated a couple of medical terms from television show Grey's Anatomy. He looked around the table. "It is important that you spell them correctly," he said gravely, and 24's Jack Bauer came to my mind. He proceeded to talk about how, because he spends so much time doing what he does, his dreams at night now come with subtitles as well. Such is the price one must pay when one chooses such a career path, he explained.
I remember that while listening to him, I was in utter disbelief at how he delivered that bit of information with much hauteur and ill-concealed arrogance. He was simply sparkling with exuberance. Here's a stenographer to an inanimate entity, a person whose days are just about completely devoid of any form of social contact, and who, at thirty-something years, has seemed to reach an impasse career-wise-- and he regarded his job as a Nobel Prize winner would his life work. Here is a man who is content, I remember thinking. And then, I remember being suddenly inundated with feelings of jealousy.
Contentment is so elusive.
The hubbub and crampness of the venue did not hinder him from taking his sweet time, and he demanded our full attention. With much detail he told us about how an entire day's work produces only thirty minutes worth of subtitled film. He paused after saying this, allowing the gravity of the statement to sink in. Thirty glorious minutes. Wow. When we have oohed and ahhed, he continued his story. His every day is spent watching movies and television series, he said, pausing every so often to jot the actors' dialogue down. He described the strenuous task of looking unfamiliar words up on the Internet to make sure everything is correctly spelled. He enumerated a couple of medical terms from television show Grey's Anatomy. He looked around the table. "It is important that you spell them correctly," he said gravely, and 24's Jack Bauer came to my mind. He proceeded to talk about how, because he spends so much time doing what he does, his dreams at night now come with subtitles as well. Such is the price one must pay when one chooses such a career path, he explained.
I remember that while listening to him, I was in utter disbelief at how he delivered that bit of information with much hauteur and ill-concealed arrogance. He was simply sparkling with exuberance. Here's a stenographer to an inanimate entity, a person whose days are just about completely devoid of any form of social contact, and who, at thirty-something years, has seemed to reach an impasse career-wise-- and he regarded his job as a Nobel Prize winner would his life work. Here is a man who is content, I remember thinking. And then, I remember being suddenly inundated with feelings of jealousy.
Contentment is so elusive.
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