Love Links

My favorite audio love stories. Start with “The Clicking of Cuthbert”, will cheer you up all day. That said, (almost) everything else in there hit a wire on me. Seriously.

My favorite love story all month: “This Evening” ~ by Qunfuz. There’s something really beautiful and strange in the way the character puts love and raging fits and fucking prophets in a single context.

My favorite love poem from Wisława Szymborska: VIETNAM

"Woman, what`s your name?" "I don`t know."
"How old are you? Where are you from?" "I don`t know."
"Why did you dig hat burrow?" "I don`t know."
"How long have you been hiding?" "I don`t know."
"Why did you bite my finger?" "I don`t know."
"Don`t you know that we won`t hurt you?" "I don`t know."
"Whose side are you on?" "I don`t know."
"This is war, you`ve got to choose?" "I don`t know."
"Does your village still exists?" "I don`t know."
"Are those your children?" "Yes."

You should check her out. I don’t get poetry. But I get Szymborska.

Given Dreams

Nadia left a powerful note below the Flyer.

What's a dream anyway? Is it a true calling that everybody had been designed for before they were born.. or is it a mere representation of their own ego?

Are you a hero or a coward when you're not following it?

I took her thoughts personally. For one, my dreams and lifestyle and even this blog have been against the mainstream which I’ve been raised to adopt.

Mainstream as in, you know, being a woman and Asian and middle-class. There is a set of expectations from the society that you’re supposed to comply with. From your partner and parents and in-laws (if you had any). From your country and accountant and immigration pimp. Things that, by complying with them, helps Tuesday afternoons flow smoothly.

Then how do, and where do, the high-reaching dreams and slow lifestyles meet?

In small chunks, I presented these questions to the Timekeeper; someone who is totally off the chase to be earthly awesome, yet is deeply devoted to the faith he believes in.

He said, “The only thing that dreamers on the slow lane really have is the acceptance to what’s given to them. They might go back and forth between bread and bed. They might be sick and hungry and explosively horny. Still, those who are able to keep on the slow side are the ones who accept things, within and around them, as they are.

While learning to work around it. Not push it around. Not defying gravity, but by climbing mountains. A step at a time.

The moment you have that acceptance, is the time when your dreams reach down to you.

Make sense?

---

UPDATE: On a personal level, there was this conversation with the Timekeeper that followed.

Been in Bali

On my mother’s birthday.

 

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Afterthought: Why do orchids look like…like that? Like a wanting to be eaten…

The Flyer

Arya wanted to fly. He wanted to be a pilot.

But his English exam results weren’t flying colors. So that summer, he took classes with an enthusiastic private teacher to redo the entrance exam in Autumn.

English was the only obstacle in Arya's dream. After taking the classes in autumn, he passed his entrance exams, enrolled in the flying school and soon enough, he got a job flying for a prestigious gold mining company. On a gorgeous route.

He lived his dream. He married a girl he loved, he got himself a home. He flew. And then his son was born.

Every year, though, the grateful student visited his English tutor; the one who played the important key in his airborne dreams.

Arya’s visits were always rich with warmth.  Arya was every teacher’s dream student. From his tutor’s point of view, it’s nice to hangout and catch up with a student who’ve managed to make good use of the effort his teacher has spent on him.

The last time Arya visited, the Christian former student offered his respects and farewells in a typical Islamic fashion. They started with a hand shake, then the former student suddenly bent his head low, and kissed the back of his teacher’s hand.

In daze, the former tutor heard Arya say, “Pray for me. Wish my luck.”

Few weeks later, Arya’s plane crashed. That was his final farewell.

Every year, on the day of his death, the memory of that final farewell from the successful student, reasserts its presence on his tutor’s conscience.

How important were Arya’s dreams compared to his orphaned son, young widow and grieved parents?

We mourn not the life we have lost, but the life that could have been. If Arya would have the chance to do it over, you think he’d do it differently? What if he knew that actualizing his dreams could kill? I don't know.

What do you think?

Hugs

Remember the last time you hugged?

Not a fleeting, passing salutary “Ahleeeen!!” hug, but a real hug. The kind of hug that happens when you wish you could take parts of that person with you, in you. The kind of hug you give when you want to take away her pain, and give her your strength.

The kind of hug that lasts for the length of a deep breath, where you inhale each other’s warmth and aromas. (Smell is identity. Smell is the strongest of memories.) And you don’t gag; because you are compassionate with that person (enough to hug him), and you understand why he stinks like that.

And you’d easily forgive him for it too.

Physically speaking, even without the affection, touch intensifies whatever emotion is held between the touchers. Ever seen what physical contact does to angry cats growling? Or an intense domestic argument?

Now, color that touch with a little bit of affection, and it becomes a powerful medicine. I know this from experience; and healers (across the cultures) swear by it. Commercial touch (whether from doctors, chiropractors or prostitutes) can never compete with a the inherent powers of a single, loving caress from a mother, or a teacher, or a little brother.

Touch is also one of the ways that people develop their mindreading and empathetic abilities. It’s not occult; we do have biologic explanations for it. Anyone, who cares enough to hug you, could see through you. Could see your heart. You know those illogical and ungrounded thoughts that come up from the instant you release a hug? If you learn to critically trust them, they can be frighteningly accurate.

Otherwise, how do wives ALWAYS know when their husbands are keeping secrets, no matter how trivial or innocent? And why do we never succeed lying to our parents?

Caliph Umar bin Al.Khattab once consulted his married daughter, on the reasonable length of time his soldiers can be apart from their wives. The daughter, Safiyya (was it?) said: 40 Days.

I think, beside the obvious husband-and-wife thing, “40 days” is also how long we can stay sane without hugs.

If you think that's cool, do yourself a favor and give someone a big, hearty, bear hug today. And smell them.

[Curious gender note: You see how easier it is or women to exchange hugs with each other, and how hard it is for men? You see why adult men don’t function right without wives? Unmarried men have lesser chances to exchange hugs. And their souls dry up.]

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UPDATE: Here's someone who took hugging to the extremes. 7777 Hugs in 24 Hours.

Why I’ve Been Posting Every Day

Why did I do the NaBloPoMo again after failing miserably at it last year?

1. I failed miserably at it last year. You hear that? It’s been A WHOLE YEAR. Enough time to recuperate and lick wounds and wallow in failuredom. 

2. I’m better than last year. I have a better chance at succeeding this year because I won NaNoWriMo last November. I wrote and didn’t die. Life is a breeze.

3. Abundance of stock. I love stories. And I think everyone has one. Imagine having only 150 friends to interact with in a lifetime. If each friend tells you a story, it should be enough for a lifetime of blogging, right? That’s why we tell each other stories, right? For meaning.

4. The theme of the month, Valentine and mush and relationships and loyalty and marriage and all things love, is endless…epecially because I’m allergic (unrealistic) romantic shit.

5. Brevity. February is a brief month. Romantic love is brief. Life is brief. See the connection?

6. Change of pace. I’ve been lazy. Been talking and thinking so much without writing much. This was a good exercise.

7. Habitual change. Diana once mentioned that habit change takes 21 days. I don’t know how her exercise regime’s been going, but I’m beginning to feel writing withdrawal symptoms on my days off. Wait a minute, I DON’T HAVE DAYS OFF!

8. This was a traffic experiment. I want to test the hypothesis that I’m actually that good a bullshitter writer without self-promotion.
   
   [PS: To isolate the effect, I dropped feeding my blog onto Twitter and Facebook. But if you insist on Twitter, @HningWrites indexes my recent postings. Including those on other blogs.]

9. The NaBloPoMo badges were so cute. Damn. Cute badges seal deals, man.

    

10. This February, I'm in love WITH THE CRAFT and want to prove it. I'm also killing writing myself silly. Still, some suicidal tendencies turn out okay eventually no matter how nuts they seem at the beginning. (Like marriage. *snorts*)

What could possibly go wrong if you have a healthy, passionate relationship with the work you love? Nothing. (Except that creative folks tend to be suicidal.)

How has been for you? Think I should stick to it? Did it change your blog reading experience/frequency? And by the way, thanks for listening.

SHIT

After dinner. Writers' conversation.

I told Ben, "I'm surprised that you read through my shit."

Ben shrugged uncomfortably at that. "Is that what you call your life's work, shit? Because if you call it shit, then that’s all that it becomes."

I leaned away and thought for a minute. "You know what's so special about shit? On one side, you never regret freeing yourself from it. You never feel bad if somebody picked up your shit and called it his. 'Sure, man, knock yourself out.' " -- I paused to watch Ben stifle a laugh, and roll his eyes -- "On the other side, I don't think that what I'm doing is a big deal."

"Oh come on!"

"I mean, what, having thirteen readers can make me ecstatic. Eighteen, sent me over the moon. And so what? Dooce™ has enough readers to support her two daughters, two dogs, a husband and a bathroom renovation."

"What does she write about?"

"Minute details of her life as a mommy."

"Mother and child is a multi-billion dollar industry."

"Yup."

"Just like sex and fashion."

"Yup."

"You write niche. Your niche is boring. You have a niche problem."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, maybe I'm a tad too market-oriented, but what's wrong with writing for fame and glory?"

"Nothing, except that you have to want it. And I -- being a sociophobic recluse -- don't."

"Shit."

"Indeed."