Nightfall after the madhouse (with apologies to Issac Asimov)

It has now been three days in bedlam. Ia teeters on the brink of insanity.

M, meanwhile, seems to have lost it a long time ago. He does not even try to raise a thought against the insanity.

The high beings come to take Ia. She is suddenly enclosed by an unseen barrier; a dark envelope in which the world outside is just a dim memory. She feels rumbling from without; it become stronger; a sensation of movement. For Ia, it is a nightmare, and the screams she hears chill her heart. She imagines she can hear M's screams, gut wrenching cries of one staring into the infinite darkness of eternal sleep.

She feels her blood drain away, and an insane panic creeps into her. As she desperately tries to search for a way out of the madness, the heavens open.

All is well. Ia is home, so is M.

One of these days

"As the days shorten, the air clears, the trees are stripped, and the land is cleansed by the arctic air, minds are muted by nonsense."
-- M (Also known as Dr. T), December 2003.

M curls up on the cold white leather; his eyes are half closed, his mind completely so.

Ia, meanwhile, ponders on the purpose of existence. With the holidays drawing closer, the morning sun sets her thoughts off on a journey into years past. She remembers the cold season out near the eastern shore, and M's words come to mind.

Ding

Insignificant aide (a.k.a. Ia, curses be to her and her ignorant lot) has a sex change. She is now a female. A rabid speciescist, she ruthlessly slashes the innocent leaves that sprout forth from the black soil.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him, the leader of the free world): "What the f*** do you think you are doing, you moron? The gentle one loves those leaves."

Ia: "Forgive me sire, but it is not under my control. I tear these leaves because I am forced to. I am not responsible for my actions, O great liberator."

M: "Suit yourself, you pig-headed dolt. Don't come whining to me when you get your ass whipped."

Declawed in the name of preservation

M (Also known as Dr.T, a thousand praises be unto him) dreams of lumped crabmeat and breaded pork tenderloins with a mushroom reduction. His whiskers twitch, and his paws shudder.

His insignificant aide (Ia, a hundred thousand curses unto him and his wretched lot), however, is lost. Ia sits at the window, mesmerized by the bright and colorful world outside. Although the courtyard seems to be a sight straight from heaven, Ia knows he will not survive a day in its confines.

As M concludes his dream with a piece of burnt almond cake and some chilled muscat, sweet as honey, Ia wakes him up.

Ia:" Shall we go out and play, O defender of the faith?"

M: "mmmmm... huh? What the f***!!? What in the name of the lord our dear God have you been smoking now, you moron?!!"

Ia: "Shall we go outside, great leader of the free world?"

M: "Lets wait for the tall biped. He usually opens the door in the evenings. Get his ankles, I'll go for his throat. Once we have him wedged between the door, we are free!!"

Ia: "Genius, my lord!"

Ia bows deep.

M:" Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a piece of burnt almond cake to finish."

M goes back to sleep. Ia waits for the tall biped.

my shoes

Ia (Insignificant aide, a thousand curses unto him and his wretched lot) struggles and grunts under the weight of his miserable life. He views M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) with envious eyes. Oh, how wonderful it would have been...

Vermillion

Ia (Insignificant aide, curses be unto him and his infidel offspring) grunts as he drops the two hundredth bag of potatoes at the edge of the large pile in the pantry. The evening sun lights the air with the dust from the potatoes. Their earthy odor is thick, and Ia's back feels like its going to come undone.

M (Also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) is standing at the pther doorway, surveying Ia's work with increasing disdain.

M: What kind of shit have you been smoking, you ass! Youre slow as a cow today.

Wither Withers?

Ia (Insignificant aide, woe unto him and his ignorant lot) tries hard to mask his boredom. Cooped up all day in a room that is more dreary than the grey skies outside, with one tiny window to see the snow pile up on the fenders of the cars across the streets, three floors below, Ia keeps himself entertained whistling tunes he has never heard in his life. The whistling does not go on for long though, and he stops as his sinuses begin to complain.

Ia wonders if his situation could possibly get any worse. Before that thought can travel far, M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) bursts in through the narrow white door.

M: Well ,well, well. Gooood afternoon, my man. I have great news for you!! you have just been chosen to have the privilege of helping me. Mind if I borrow your window?

As a suicidal Ia looks on, M proceeds to draw a hacksaw from his bag, carves out the window, and leaves.

Ia is frozen stiff in about two hours.

Earplugs

Its a kinder, gentler afternoon; a welcome change after day upon scorching day of summer's torrid punishment. M (also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him) steps out into the warm sunlight and closes his eyes. The soft wind ruffles the grass and makes the tiny flowers dance among the golden blades.

His mind wanders away, to distant lands beyond the seas. To rivers that ebb at dusk, leaving silver sands in the moonlight. To rolling grassland speckled with gnarled trees. To foreign places, to familiar faces, to highland malts sweet as honey.

M: This is good shit, man! mmmm

Insignificant aide (Ia, curses unto him and his ignorant lot): Yes, sire. This batch of weed has been simply divine. These are good times we live in, O esteemed leader, when one can find such exquisite leaves right outside one's own apartment.

The Fortress of Solitude

M (Also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him) reaches the summit of the small hill of ice and looks stoically at the dim distance. His Insignificant aide (Ia), meanwhile, struggles his way up the last few steps, his bones frozen by the arctic chill. The frozen wind howls past them as they stand on the summit, surveying the dim outline of the mountain that towers above the icy plain, obscured by the snow whipped up by the winds from the north.

Ia: What is it sire, what do you see with your minds eye?

M: --

A large chunk of ice breaks off underneath their feet and tumbles into the abyss below.

Solitude. M is lost to the universe. He breaks ties with all he knew to fly away into nothingness. A bitter sadness grips his heart, thick as honey. He feels himself fall, but there is no wind on his face. A blinding flash, and he finds himself walking the earth again. A new lease; one more chance to ruin everything.

party all night

A penny might masquerade as a dime for a while, but every coin has to meet its vending machine someday.

--M (also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him).

Under the bridge

Ia (Insignificant aide) is mesmerized by the exploding night sky reflected off the battered shells of sleeping giants. The behemoths lie motionless, oblivious to the ocean of colors that spews forth from the sky. It takes imagination to believe that these gentle giants will rise with the sun to fly to the ends of the earth, seeking treasure.

The moon seems to be engulfed by fire, as thunderous flashes of nationalistic colors melt into the gleaming underbellies of the large birds as they head home for the night. The fearless birds become a part of the fiery sky, and for a few short moments, they seem alive.

Ia turns to M (also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him).

Y: "What do you think it costs the city host this thing? Must be an expensive proposition, what with the expert pyrotechnics, the security, crowd control, and all."

M: "What the f**k have you been smoking, you hippie liberal faggot!? Where's your patriotism?"
M screams into the crowd "liberal hippie!!". The crowd roils into a frenzied mob, and Ia is lynched in a flood of blind fury. A happy independence day to you too!

Here today, here tomorrow.

M (Also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him) has trouble sleeping. Every time he rolls into another position, he feels for a moment that it is cool enough to help him drift into sleep, only to find himself thinking about a hundred vagaries after a few minutes. The vicious cycle of more thought thrown in to sedate all thoughts leads him down the slippery slope of restless frustration.

Outside, the cold fog rolls in from the ocean, a wispy mist that soon turns into a thick soup.

Ms thoughts flit between his wealth, his toe, and the impermanence of crispy fried chicken.

M's Insignificant aide (Ia, woe unto him and his ignorant lot) opens the door a crack, and after a brief pause, whispers

Ia: Lunch is served sire.

M: What the f**k have you been smoking, you two-pence whore?!! Lunch? Do you know what time it is? Its three f**king twenty in the AM!! Now begone before I slam that door on your stupid head.

Ia: Does that mean you will not be eating, O esteemed leader?

Dragonslayer

Dark clouds creep up out of the forsaken lands in the west and begin to sap out the life from a spotless blue sky. The thunder is strangled by the distance and the flickering lightning flashes quietly, deep in the bellows of the storm. The wise know, however, that it is only a matter of hours before all hail will break loose as the heavens spew out their anger.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) surveys the sky with an all-knowing gaze, as his insignificant aide (Ia, curses be unto him and his ignorant lot) watches M intently.

Ia: Pray tell, what does your mind see, O esteemed one?

M:--

Ia: My Lord, what do those clouds in the distance portend?

M: Silence, worm!!

M closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He senses her. He can smell her presence. He feels her heartbeat.

He can hear her scream from leagues away as all her primordial senses boil into a determined arrow. Her mind is now pointed solely at her destination; she becomes a lethal bird of prey.

M falls to the ground on his knees, fumbling through his bag, and pulls out his weapon as his heart pounds in his chest.

She screams, closer to her target now, and seems to take on a different form as her gaze intensifies. Ia, who has soiled his pants, lies face down on the grass with his hands to his ears, mumbling the prayer of the ancients. M tries to allay his fears.

M: What the f**k have you been smoking, man!! Why you scared so?

Ia looks up feebly and looks around. In the distance, he sees a state trooper approaching fast.

Ia: Sire, we have company.

M: Fiyck!! Time to run, my man.

M packs his SLR back into his bag fast as he can as they run to their beat up old Corolla to hide the camera. The state trooper stops behind them and walks over.

M: Hello, officer. What seems to be the problem.

State Trooper: Good afternoon sir. Is there any specific reason you are parked here?

M: umm...My friend here has a.. umm.. uhh.. an incontinence issue, officer.

State Trooper looks at Ia and his pants.

State Trooper: Hmm. Is he alright now?

Ia: Im fine, officer.

State Trooper: OK. You cant stop here though. Its not nice for two young men to park their car right next to the fence by the end of the runway.

Mars Lumograph

The bitter cold winds from the dark north sweep across the barren plains, dry as a bone. M's fighters stand fast, their spirits raised by spirits, their hopes by weed, and their desire by the promise of victory. Their silver helmets reflect a grey sky, and their eyes reflect the emptyness that stretches to the horizon and endlessly beyond.

High in the castle, M zips up, as his aides step back. They stare in quiet awe at one so brave. Ia is the first to break the sombre silence.

Ia: You do look rather fetching in crocodile skin sire, if I may say so.

M cocks his head sideways to give Ia a look of condescension.

M: You think I wear this for looks Ia? How can you be so vain at a time such as this?

The other aides start to giggle suddenly, and without a warning, the chamber resounds with laughter, with all of Ms aides rolling on the floor, laughing themselves silly.

M: What the f**k have you been smoking, you morons!!?

M drags the skinniest aide to the window.

M: Look at them. Can you see the fire in their eyes? Can you see their families in distant lands, waiting for them to come home sane of body and mind? Can you see ...

aide's aide: Hey! lets' go already! Im starving.

a few minutes later, M flicks the light off as he heads out the door after all his aides. They join their friends waiting downstairs. Nobody says a word. They all walk with a quiet determination, their noses dripping numb in the cold till they get to the diner to gorge on cream filled chocolate donuts.

Masturbation

Insignificant aide (Ia) bites into a cold apple-nutmeg muffin. There's less sugar than he would have liked, but it surprises him with its calming sweet aroma as he closes his eyes to enjoy this little escape from the daily grind. In his mind he sees visions of his youth; of his grandmother, and how she caused grief to his grandfather by eloping in her eighties. His poor grandfather spent much time, effort, and emotions trying to woo his wife back, but she had crossed the chasm for good.

M walks in with the lunatic smile so typical for him at this time of the afternoon.

Whack!. A swift knock on the back of Ia's bald head sends his hat sliding straight across to the corner of the room on the smooth granite floor and his half-eaten muffin down his throat. Ia falls to the floor, startled by the bolt from the blue and choking from the apple cinnamon devil that is starving him of oxygen. The little imp stays lodged firmly in his throat as Ia gasps for air.

M: You know, I have this wonderful idea for a tech startup. You wanna hear?

Ia: khhghasp! kkhhghkkrrgsp!! hhhhhhkkhhrkhk!

Ia's vision starts to get blurry.

M: OK!. Picture this: There are a lot of people out there, who want to manage their time efficiently, right?

Ia: kkksghghssss..!!

M: No, I think the figure is orders of magnitude higher. Its, like, basically, like, sixteen and a half billion people that want to manage their time efficiently. Just imagine if we could provide them all with an auto-generated timetable for the day, the week, the month, or even their whole life.!! huh? What do you think? Doesn't that blow your mind??

Ia: kkhsssss...!!

M: Yeah, I know!! When this idea first hit me in the shower, I almost choked too. Its genius, my man! We're going to be rich. And the best part is yet to come. You know how we will generate the timetables? Hold on to your hat now, this is truly mindblowing. We will ask people to enter their schedules and timetable when they register. OK? We then ask people to rate their close friends who they think have very good time management skills, see? Once we have about sixteen hundred million people sign up, we will have enough data to provide customized timetables based on your preferences and priorities in life, see?? F**k!! I cant believe how f***ing smart I am, man! Im trippin' man!! wow! This is gonna be HUGE!! I can see the billions. What do you think? Hey, I'm talking from my heart here, and you haven't said one thing!! Have you been smoking again, you dolt?

Ia is now too weak to make sounds. As he teeters on the brink of a coma and his brain cells begin to die due to a lack of oxygen, M loses his temper.

M: Answer me, swine!!

Whack! M kicks Ia on his butt. The apple muffin, now all gooey, pops out, flies all the way across the room and spatters on his pristine red and yellow hat. Splatt!

Ia: An excellent idea, sire, if I may say so myself.

Lock-out

M smiles.

Or so he thinks, at least.

He smiles in his sleep, for he is dreaming. He dreams of the future, of the past, of things that might have been but never were. Of things that may be, but never will. Images of impossible things. Of cigarettes, of tobacco, of electronic key fobs that are rendered ineffective by airport X-ray machines.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) dreams of curly hair that never was; of presidents who light a cigarette, but never smoke.

aide: "Wake up, O esteemed leader. The sun is nigh, and we must make haste."

M: "What have you been smoking for breakfast, you idiot? Whats up with the high-elven-queen speech? Overdose of Tolkien, I guess. And why must we make haste? "

aide: "Forgive me, senor M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him), but, as the elders say,
there is unrest in the forest,
there is trouble in the trees;
for the maples want more sunlight,
and the oaks ignore their pleas.
"

M: "Wow!! you mustve snorted all night. I wonder why I havnet fired you already, you moron. Is my bath ready?"

aide: "Yes, sire, your bath awaits."

M: "Jeez, man. You so need to be in rehab. You're cooking your brain with that shit, I tell you."

M shakes his head and walks to the shower.
...
...

M: "THE WATER'S F***ING FREEZING!! . @#!$@!#, you ass&*!@(#!@*!@#"

Lentil Soup for the monotonous soul

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) views the distant hills with suspicion as the slant rays of a golden evening cast sinister shadows in the deep folds on the hillside. The summer has parched the grass to a dull dusty color (this is one way of avoiding having to state any color, in case you are color blind) and the hills look like they could do with some water. In these parts, the days are deceptively warm. The heat of afternoon might seem like the precursor to a warm night, but with the melting of the sun comes the chill of a desert night.

M is now bored. The caffeine he had at 7 pm is keeping him wide awake.

M: "Dimwits! Where's the f***ing wine?"

aide: "Terribly sorry sire, but you asked not to buy any."

M: "Oh, did I?."

aide: "Yes, senor M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him). I would have personally bought some now, since you seem to want some, but all the stores are closed for business, sire, being a Sunday night."

M switches off his sixty-inch plasma TV, mountains, slanting light, melting sun, desert and all, and tries to go to sleep with a caffeine buzz so he can wake up bright and early to start the week.

Who ate the ping-pong ball?

M (also known as Dr. T, Praise be unto him) decides to camp for the night, against the suggestions of his whimpering aides. Their horses, however, are happy to rest after a seemingly endless day of trudging with fat losers on their backs.

The aides are scared that the local savages will silently creep in from the darkness and carry them away into the black of the pine forest, to be sacrificed to the pagan Gods. They hurriedly find a few twigs, start a whimpering fire, and start pitching their tent as fast as anyone has tried to pitch a tent before.

M is amused.

Later in the night, as the horses are making love, pale-faced people with dark body paint and little clothing appear from the woods. Their teeth are a dirty shade of brown, their eyes seem to glow yellow, and their body paint is grotesquely mesmerizing. Slithering as quietly as they can, with strings of little bird bones and feline teeth across their necks, they take away M's aides.

Enough of this!

==[The scene: A dark, cavernous hall atop an old stone castle. Little lamps high on the towering walls try feebly to light the dark that seems to be waiting to creep down upon M and his two aides. M sits on his cold throne, low to the ground, and looks out upon the endless hills, wet with the rain from the grey sky that has been weeping for as long as the elders can remember.]==

M: Who's responsible for this mess?! (tm)

Insignificant aide: The mob has lost it, sire. Its a f***ing massacre out there. They are baying for your blood, senor M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) .

M: Who starched their underwear?

Insignificant aide (Ia): I cannot say, sire. Some of them might not have the luxury of wearing any undergarments.

M: Screw them, I say! Gas them all! Bring out the agent orange, my man. And jump to it!

Ia: We are running rather low on agent orange, O esteemed leader. We might be able to gas a few, but most of the scoundrels will run free; or worse still, they might terminate the gasser in their irrational rage.

Whiny aide to Insignificant aide (waIa) : Walmart has a sale on agent orange this week. You can save three dollars on a couple of gallons. More if you return the container.

Ia: We do not have an atomizer.

Spineless aide (Sa): Can we do this another time? I need to pick up the kids after school. My wife's working late this evening.

M: Enough of this nonsense! I will quell the mob myself. Bring me my Blackberry! and...

==[Ia and waIa scramble out into the darkness and return with a Blackberry. M types furiously as the raindrops come heavier and distant thunder seems to blow a cold draft into the room. M blogs on as the clouds darken. He hits the "post" button, and, the skies begin to clear. The patter of the rain on the window panes gives way to the chirping of little birds. The blue burns the gray, and the sun blazes across the grassy hills. The mob finds softer underwear.]==

Fly away to a brighter day

The future looks golden, but only if we can keep our wits about us on the murky path upward. Gold or not, we keep moving on, taking time now and then to remind ourselves how far we have come from depths that were darker than dark.

A walk down Alki

Life is busier suddenly. Its good to finally have real deadlines and expectations that border on being unrealistic.

There is no way I can do justice to all. Some owe my allegiance over all others, till the end of days.

As the mince boils on the stove, and the water is not "separating from the fat" like it should, I see a chaotic pattern: the eternal struggle between now and forever.

Running away is easy. Its all a mindgame. Staying put is just as easy, if you think about it. Happy Cinco De Mayo to you too.

Each betrayal begins with trust
Every man returns to dust

-- Ray Anastasio, Farmhouse

The roads not taken

Do the roads not taken really exist outside of poetry?
Can we reach out into parallel universes?
Can we taste and smell alternative worlds?

Is it worth thinking about them? Do we have enough time to?

Measuring a summer's day
I only finds it slips away to grey
The hours they bring me pain.

-- Jimmy Page, "Tangerine", circa 1970.

Between waiting for the long days to end and living before its too late, a balance needs to obtain. Sooner rather than later.

Work

"Your work does not define your life." I have heard this one many times; it also comes with minor variations. However, work does become a significant part of our lives because it pays the bills and because you take up a job you enjoy doing. Consider this: If you were a rock star or a tennis superstar, your work would be your life. You would want it no other way, and neither would the millions who adore you. If you were a business tycoon or a politician, the same would hold.

So, it seems to me that if you are either rich, or famous, or both, then it you are not only allowed but also encouraged, or should I say, expected, to make your work your life. If not, you have to somehow have a "life" that is completely different from and more important than your "work."

While I do not promote people working 12 hour days or living in their office, I think a good balance is required. If work is not take seriously, maybe its time for a career change. If you think you are overworked, look for another job, or ask yourself if you can live happily with a lower paycheck.

Back when I was in elementary school, it seemed like school was my entire life. There were many Sunday nights (and panic Monday mornings) when I wondered if life can get any worse, since I hadn't done my homework that was assigned. However, I was told school was very important. I did try to stay at home to "spend quality time" with my parents, but I was forced to go to school, even if I were sobbing. Cut to 20 years into the future, and the prevalent attitude is that it is normal to "spend quality time" by taking time off from work.

Why was going to school more important than going to work?

I think people should decide for themselves. If you really love your work, you will spend time there as needed. If you really love your life outside of work, you will spend time there as well.

Chocolate Covered Grahams

Talent . Ive come across the word quite a few times in the recent past. Interestingly, the word is applied only to abilities related to the fine arts such as pencil sketching, painting, dancing, music, singing, and sometimes to sports.

Patience doesn't count as talent, neither does the ability to keep a cool head, to keep things in perspective, to be strong when everyone around you is losing their head.


Everyone is talented. Every single one of us. People work hard for things that are important in their lives. People are very talented.

The Notorious Mr. Wallace and the shining serpent

As Vishwas says: "Life is short, make it long."

Two short lives.

Wealth, drugs, and poetry.

Memories

• What are memories? Do they exist without consciousness?
• What is consciousness?
• What is a blog?
  
• Who is the chief of the Peruvian ministry for tourism?
• What does one fill in line G of IRS form 0603 SS-8PR? Why not anything else? Why?
  

These are fundamental questions that science is yet to answer. As things stand, this should clearly support my stance that science has given us more questions than answers. Science may be a good thing, but I am convinced that it's not good for humanity.

There is one other question I read somewhere online once, and it has haunted me since:

• Who is General Failure and why is he reading my hard disk?
  

Bitter Wine

A 200-pound labrador retriever was unhappy at being left alone in the back of a pickup truck in 10 degree weather. He decided in his freezing condition that he would opt out, and, at the next stop light, jumped out of the truck and towards a gas station. At the gas station, he waited patiently near the door for someone to push it open and entered behind that person. That person turned out to be a thief who held a gun to the gas station cashier's head and demanded all the money from the cash register. The retriever bit that person in the ass so hard that he (the thief) ran out of the store screaming. He didnt shoot the dog because he had no ammunition in his fake gun. The gas station cashier was pleased and let the dog stay there as a guard dog, eating all the skittles he wanted.

Moral : A bird in hand is worthless unless its on the endangered list, in which case, you're screwed.

Hunger struck

An old chair once found itself in panic because the dense crowd trying to squeeze into the subway trian seemed like it would prevent the chair from getting off the train and to an interview which held the promise of a better career. The chair was frustrated with its current job and wanted to move up. After a good bit of pushing, shoving, and grunting, the chair got off the train. As it was walking out of the subway station, an official performing random checks asked the chair for its ticket. The chair reached into its pocket and found it didnt have any. Didnt have any pockets, that is. The chair was slapped with a six hundred dollar fine and eighteen hours of community service. Because of the delay caused by this incident, and the ensuing stress, discomfort, and nervousness, the chair came accross as a fidgety kook and a nervous wreck in the interview. No hire.

Moral of story: Two wrongs do not make a right. Three..., maybe; but definitely not two. No way.

Whats the hurry

Music seems to be one thing that has at least one more dimension thatn the universe we live in. A magical transport out of existence and back.

Maybe I should revist my pointless stories with inane morals. That used to be fun. So, here goes:

There was once a pangolin who lived in a penthouse atop a skyscraper in Chicago. As the morning flights would approach O'Hare, they would veer dangerously close to her apartment, lost in the sticky clouds that obscure the winter sky in the windy city. One day, the pangolin had a scarecrow installed outside her window, and no planes bothered her anymore. However, the scarecrow scared the bejeezus out of her one night as she was ambling towards the kitchen for a midnight snack and she nearly peed her pants.

Moral of the story: If it says "Budget Gourmet" on the cover, dont expect much of a meal; you might enjoy the taste of the cardboard that it was packed in more than the pasta itself.

strands of life

Appears to me that our lives (Im generalizing based on the experience of one here, which is a gross misuse of statistics, I know) are strands of various different roles we play.

While physical discomfort can cause stress, most peoples stress is a result of conflict between these strands. When our life-strands are orthogonal, they do not interfere with each other; life seems stress free, but a kind of restlessness develops: One seeks out answers to questions such as "What is th epurpose of life?" or "What Am I here for?". This restlessness is due to our inability to pull all the strands together into a coherent flow. We have numerous little things flowing smoothly by themselves, but in infinite directions. The are many facets of life at work, personal life, and the ups and downs of ones health and finances that dont seem to form a coherent, fulfilling whole. We seem to be trying to manage multiple different lives.

Sometimes the strands just plain disagree with each other. Or so it seems. These are times of extreme emotional duress.

It seems like we wait fo that one moment when the clouds lift and there is a clarity of thought we never thought possible; the moment when it all makes sense, when we finally see all the strands comeing together as a single flow. Orthogonal strands still snake the way they always did, but our viewpoint shows us all of them as a unified stream. Conflicting strands melt into each other. Life makes sense. The answer seems trivial. The impermanence of all that exists suddenly makes the world a beautiful place.

p.s.: Deepak Chopra, your days at the top of the bestseller list are numbered.