I am a worker; one of countless many employed by a great king to build a monument - a monument so grand it will stand for a thousand years as testimony to the greatness of one man. A monument that will take so long to complete, I will not live to see it finished, to marvel at its beauty – beauty that I helped create.

Why then do I keep on working? Am I mad ...or is there something I don’t know?

"This is the strangest life I've ever known" - Jim Morrison (born December 8, 1943)

"Living is easy with your eyes closed" - John Lennon (died December 8, 1980)

The new place is good; but frankly, I never imagined shifting home would be such a pain in the ass. There are still lots of little things that need to be done – and I have to do it all by myself, because I can’t depend on my flat mate for a damn thing. But anyway, it’s a good learning experience.

We don’t have a TV or music system at the new flat. After sundown, I feel like I’m at my grandmothers village in Goa - it is that quiet. I could get us a new TV/music system, but I’m not going to; and that’s because I want NBZ to do it. He’s been getting things on a platter – never had to work for anything; now he’ll learn. And it’ll be fun to see what happens when his laundry piles up for weeks and he has no undies left to wear to work :) …nope, no washing machine either. Yeah, it’s the hard life from now on.

***

All of us, at some time, reach that stage where the questions surge into our heads like a great flood and all the answers we’ve built over time up simply get swept away, and you're left looking on helplessly. And when the flood subsides, there is no other option but to construct those answers all over again, from scratch – only this time they will need to be on a better foundation than before.

And when the next flood comes, those answers will be tested again. And so it will go on.

Peace, love, and something to hold on to.

After living with NBZ for the last 2 months, I’ve noticed one very fundamental difference between him and me – he doesn’t think/worry about things the way I do. He takes things as they come, living one day at a time. And you know, I actually think he lives a happier, more content life.

And the reason why he doesn’t think about things the way I do is simply because he doesn’t really know how; he’s not as smart as I am.

People who are intelligent often wonder how less intelligent people make it through life and all its challenges. But the funny thing is, in most cases the dumb-asses make it just fine. Throw in a bit of luck and they’ll even make it big.

And I think the reason why these people we call morons or dumb-asses manage to succeed is because they learn to work with what they have. We, the more intelligent one’s, do not.

It’s like asking a person to chop down a tree with a kitchen knife. If he’s a moron, he’ll take that knife and get to work; it’ll take him forever, but ultimately that tree will come down. The intelligent guy, however, knowing that the knife will not do the job, will go out in search of a chainsaw. If he’s lucky, he’ll find a chainsaw quickly and finish the job in no time. But if he’s not, he’ll probably take more time to find that chainsaw than the moron needs to get the job done with the kitchen knife.

So if you take away the luck factor, you might just find that on the whole, the morons do better than the rest of us wiseguys.

Peace, love, and fewer grey cells.

Said one oyster to a neighbouring oyster, "I have a very great pain within me. It is heavy and round and I am in distress."

And the other oyster replied with haughty complacence, "Praise be to the heavens and to the sea, I have no pain within me. I am well and whole both within and without."

At that moment a crab was passing by and heard the two oysters, and he said to the one who was well and whole both within and without, "Yes, you are well and whole; but the pain that your neighbour bears is a pearl of exceeding beauty."

from: The Wanderer by Kahlil Gibran

You know, the best part of my trip to Goa this time was that feeling I got when I found myself sitting alone on the beach at sunset, watching the waves breaking gently against the shore, with the cool sea breeze hitting my face. There was no one around - it was just me and the sand and the sea, and I think for the the first time in my life I found myself being totally at peace. My mind had somehow switched itself off.

Questions like ‘what am I doing’, ‘where am I going’ – all those questions that Richard said were so important to ask yourself every now and then - they didn’t seem to matter any more. Nothing seemed to matter; even I didn’t matter. I felt one with nature and it was a truly beautiful feeling.

I’m guessing that meditation does much the same thing for a person. I’ve never meditated, because I don’t know how, and I haven’t bothered to learn.

I was just lying down listening to Mark Knopfler and Van Morisson singing 'The Last Laugh' from the 'Sailing to Philadelphia' album, when for a brief moment I felt like I did there on the beach. The music is truly a healer. But you know, I’d much rather not have anything that needs healing.

This is for all you guys. Thank you for coming here, and thank you for being there.

Don't you love the sound of the last laugh my friend
Don't you love the sound of the last laugh at the end
Down in the gutter with the mad old soldiers
Down in the scuppers with the drunken sailors
Down in the gutter with the mad old soldiers
But the last laugh, baby is yours
And don't you love the sound of the last laugh going down

Games you thought you'd learned, you neither lost nor won
Dreams have crashed and burned, but you still keep on keeping on
Out on the highway with the road gang working
Up on the mountain with the cold wind blowing
Out on the highway with the road gang working
But the last laugh, baby is yours
And don't you love the sound of the last laugh going down

They had you crying but you came up smiling
They had you crawling and you came up flying
They had you crying and you came up smiling
And the last laugh, baby is yours
And don't you love the sound of the last laugh going down
Yeah don't you love the sound of the last laugh going down

It doesn’t make sense - how the hell could the Yanks have voted to re-elect that swine Bush? ...bludy crazy, I tell you.

They say every country gets the leadership it deserves; well, America may deserve him, but the rest of the world sure as hell doesn’t.

I read somewhere that presidents elected in years ending with "0" tend to die before the end of their terms in office (Reagan being the exception to the rule, but not for the want of trying).

...so that gives Osama and the lads four more years to get the job done.

And what’s going to happen to all the gays? …I guess the poor sods will have to flee to Canada or something.

My brother was telling me yesterday how disappointed they all are that John Kerry lost. It seems it’s the conservative fundamentalist Christians who are to blame, and they're the ones calling the shots on abortion and civil liberties and gay rights and a lot of other things. So does that in a way make the Republican Party the American equivalent of the BJP?

If so, then the voters in India are a much smarter lot, don’t you think?

Anyway, at least our BPO industry will be breathing a great sigh of relief. NBZ will probably get gulab jamun for dessert today.

***

Ok - the Goan blogger community, which at last count numbered just 4 (that would be myself, Gorgeous, Josephine, and still counting michelle, hoping she’ll return someday soon) has found another member – our very own Cynic in Wonderland.

She wants to know where I’m from – well Cynic, my dad is from this place called Divar island near Old Goa, and my mum’s from Corjuem island across the river from Aldona, which is near Mapusa.

You know in school, all of us Goan boys had formed this gang called ...well it was just called Goan Boyz . The others had their own gangs - there was the elite Home Boys that included all the cool dude punks, who were nothing but a bunch of duffers who dressed well; and then there were the Mallu gangs. Now there were too many Mallu's so their gangs got sub-divided based on which sport they played, and stuff like that. But our gang was the best.

...and for a short time some of the girls - the ones who thought they were cool - again just duffers who dressed stylish, had also formed a gang. But they made the mistake of calling themselves the 'Renegades' (dont ask me why). And the reason their gang didn't last too long was because in no time at all, the Renegades came to be known as the Randi-gades!

BFN.

I walked up to the edge. To my left a little distance away, Fort Aguada. In front of me, nothing. I sat down on a rock. Below me a 300-400 feet drop into the Arabian Sea. Above me clear blue sky.

If I had one wish it would be to fly, to spread my wings and take off from that cliff over the sea. But I didn’t have no damn wish; I had a choice. I could take one step forward, or I could turn back.

The coward in me prevailed.

***

When you’re alone, the only thing you do is think. The thinking started from the time this girl sitting next to me in the bus fell asleep and her head came to rest on my shoulder. I could feel her soft warm breath on my cheek as she slept; she felt very warm, or maybe I was very cold. It’s strange how sometimes you can feel close to someone you’ve never seen before, and will probably never see again. It’s even more strange when you don’t say a word to each other all through the journey.

Spent a lot of time walking on the beach. She told me to get her a few sea shells, but there weren't any nice ones to be seen, just lots of broken bits. The locals were busy putting up their shacks; season begins from November 1, they told me. I guess I should have gone a week later.

The island village of Corjuem where my grandmother lives has not changed one bit since I last went there. The smell of the air, the earth, the sight of the water gushing in those little channels through the paddy fields, the old house, the mango, jackfruit and chickoo trees in the yard behind, the woodpeckers, the ladybirds and the snails, they’re all still there, going about their business, exactly the way they were. I found myself having that peaceful easy feeling after such a long time.

Dee would phone me every day around lunchtime to find out what I was doing and what I had eaten, and stuff like that. Actually I think she just wanted to check if I was ok, and hadn’t jumped off some cliff :) . The next time I go to Goa it will be on motorcycle with her. The places and beaches in the South remain pretty much inaccessible to Northerners like us because of the lack of convenient means of transportation. I want to try the food at Martins Corner at Betalbatim beach. They say no trip to Goa is complete without a meal at Martins. Next time surely.

***

And so I’m back, back to the grind.

I’ve just been catching up with a few blogs. I see it’s pretty much ‘life goes on’ for you guys. Though you’ll find ATM’s all over the place, there are still hardly any Internet facilities in Goa; the ATM’s are more important, I guess.

Peace, love, and a new shade of blue.

When I was in school, my favourite subjects were geography and the science subjects – physics, chemistry and biology; I never quite liked mathematics.

But physics was my all time favourite – I totally loved it. But the funny thing is when we first started physics, I hated it. It just went beyond me, all those formulas and stuff. The teachers were complaining, and so one day my dad decided to do something about it. He told me to get dressed and sit in the car. Then he drove me to his friends place at Exhibition Road, took me up to his flat, introduced me to his friend, and said “he will teach you physics.”

His name was TD – Mangalorean guy, B.Tech in Instrumentation from IIT Bombay. He sat opposite me at the dining table and the first thing he said was ”I want you to forget everything you know”.

I remember it like it was yesterday - over the next couple of hours he taught me physics like it had never been taught to me before; and I understood everything. The man was a genius. When we were done, I asked him “when can I come to you again?”. He said “never”.

And that was it. 2 hours or so with a genius took something I hated and changed it into something I love.

I was thinking about him yesterday, about that afternoon with him. He’s a lecturer at the University of Ohio now. He visited us this June, but I wasn’t home.

I’ll never forget the look on my teachers face when she was handing out the answer sheets after the next exam – “…how did you derive these formulas like this?” Mrs. Matthews was puzzled.

And the reason I got remembering him yesterday was because of something I was thinking about – as a person, its good to know how much you can stretch yourself, the limits you can go to before you snap – in physics they call it tensile strength which is measured in pounds per square inch. In our case I guess it could just be called the capacity to endure.

I had been pushing myself to the limit. I was about to snap. Then it dawned on me that I cannot make a hole in a wall with my fists - I need a drill.

I need more time. I refuse to settle for anything less than what I know I'm capable of. Yes, I am disappointed and very, very angry with myself. But am I a coward for running away? It sure felt like it at first and it drove me totally crazy. But the more I thought about it, the more I found myself saying: I am not running away. I am retreating. I will regroup and hit them harder the next time.

It’s like Spike Milligan once said:

“One man retreating is called running away, but a whole Regiment running away is called a retreat! “

How I wish I had lives like some of you guys – where I could blog about my accomplishments at work, and the things I did last weekend, and the food I ordered for lunch today. Truth is, I don’t. I have nothing exciting or interesting to tell you. But I wonder when I read some of the happy blogs - are these people as happy as their words make them out to be? Perhaps they are; or maybe they’re just very good at hiding things, I don’t know

I do not regret any of the decisions I have taken, the choices I've made, or anything else for that matter, because just like that Paul Anka song- I did it my way. It may not have been the best way, but it was still my way.

People talk about having missed the boat, but it’s a fact that sometimes the boat stops very far from shore. And not everybody can swim. Some of us have to learn, and then swim after that boat in an attempt to catch up.

But when you do catch up, aren’t you on that boat like everybody else?

…and if that boat had to capsize, you know for sure that you’re a better swimmer than the rest of them.

Hope. The way I see it, the minute you’ve given up hope, that’s when you've really lost it. I know for damn sure that I haven’t yet.

I said I wouldn’t blog any more. Why should I subject people to this pathetic sounding bullshit? I know for a fact that I wouldn’t want to read this if I were them. There are lots of happy blogs to keep me entertained.

BFN.

This is something I had saved from the Richard Bach website, which unfortunately is not around any more. I am posting this for Soul Pickle and all those of you who believe in soulmates.

Each of us discovers our own definition for "soulmate." These range anywhere from "A Meaningless Concept" to the pronouncing of our Significant Other's name.

For me, a soulmate is one with whom we've made a mutual decision before the beginning of any life experience, with whom we have an agreement to meet in spacetime and demonstrate for each other the best we know about sharing love.

In the highest sense we're all soulmates, one to another, we're all reflections of one light. But the highest sense renders the word impractical on our worlds of make-believe, and I resolved to lower the vibrations of my definition to embrace at least one and at most a very few soulmates in any focus of consciousness I call a lifetime.

Soulmates are not images of religious custom or cultural institution, of age or gender. Marriage does not define a soulmate, nor divorce dissolve one. No earthside connection affects that bond. We recognize each other when we meet by signals arranged at a time and place we half-remember from old dreams. The curve of a smile, fragments of shared memories, a phrase that two minds speak at just the same instant. And then we begin the dance we asked of each other before the music of time was written, and enter upon the lives we've customized for our education and our delight.

© 1998-1999 Richard Bach