Rationality vs Relationship

Kafka once said, "We are sinful not merely because we have eaten of the tree of knowledge, but also because we have not eaten of the tree of life." I would tweak this a bit and say, "We are suffereing not merely because we have eaten of the tree of knowledge, but also because we have not eaten of the tree of life."

One of flowers that blossoms in the tree of life is a new found fondness for a person. As it nurtures and flourishes, it is supposed to bear the fruit of a loving relationship. Confronting life , especially the bud of a possible relationship - how it will hold or how it unfold seem uncertain and unsettling.

I am mortified and not at all confident about it. But how long can I think about and rationalize this way or that. Does fear help? Does action guarantee an outcome I am looking for? Well, I have to gather courage. I don't want to become a Kafka with my self-confidence, but I can't lie at the same time. Huh! I need to blurt it out. I need to get the sinful taste of fruit from the tree of life.

Feeling sort-of like a Vagabond

Traveling for work unleashes and evokes so many different emotions that makes me filled with surprises. The deeper struggle is trying to figure what it is. Sad, pain, relief, anger, depair, helplessness, freedom, detached, urge to seek validation, none of the above, all of the above, part of the above, 10% of this and 30% of that, no!. Return to the hotel room - all cookie cutter rooms - maroon checkered carpet as opposed to the grey ones back in the apartment, dimly lit walls, and the TV that always starts off with the hotel info channel - the same girl's voice with the same lousy elevator type music playing in the background. What does a life of a vagabond bring in? It reinforces that I belong to no where and no one. While the door to my mind keeps flashing the red "Danger - Do not enter" sign with the face of a skeleton above it, like a drug addict who cannot control his indulgence enter into my dungeon - those narrow dark caves of my mind's Greek monastery. My feelings and emotions are fuzzy and can't be categorized in the Aristotleon sense. Walls between feelings are blurry and I am in multiple places. They are cryptic and confused. So I tend to be silent, yet can't resist my constant urge of ordering these feelings into discrete words - in language. So in a Wittgensteinian way, I choose to be silent, which does not mean I have nothing going on inside. Language cannot cope up with my thoughts and feelings. I scanned through the English Thesaurus and did not find the right word to describe myself. Vagabond is just a cheap compromise. Again it is a category and its properties are not totally and completely where I am.

Mumblings from New England

I arrived at Connecticut with a place close to New Haven as the base. After a boring train journey I was off to a happy dinner. There was this lady in midfifties narrating her life. An adopted child who never knew who her parents were until many years later she came to know her mom was a nun. A Catholic nun. Her dad was a Catholic priest. She was telling her dad never knew he had a daughter and died without knowing that. While she was telling her story, I was ripping through Ribye and garden greens in the adjacent table. Truth, at times, is closer than it appears.

French kiss in question?

Will the recent French election change what we have so long considered the holy grail of eating, drinking, and love making? Hereś an interesting article. It is not a mystery that the French have a better health care, child care, public transport, and many other things compared to US and UK. The stats skillfully inserted at the bottom of the article says it all. What happens to France will be interesting. In these days, I am not sure whether any political party has the horse power in any democracy to make such lofty cultural changes. Regardless, the most prominent aspect of these elections were how little the French care for ¨picture perfect¨ family portraits of their leaders. Sego Royal was unmarried with 4 kids. Sarkozy has an unhappy marriage. The bottom line - it does not matter, where national policy is concerned. May be thereś something for us in America to ponder about.

Pamuk's interview in Spiegel is worth reading. Here it is. Here is an excerpt which resonates with my view of a good writer:

"

SPIEGEL: You often talk about craft and patience when you discuss writing -- not unlike the painters of miniature paintings you portray in your book "My Name is Red."

Pamuk: I certainly see myself more as a craftsman than as an artist. Of course, creativity and inspiration do play a role. True literature is more than just a story someone has told. It must provide the reader with the essence of the world on a moral, philosophical and emotional level. I have tried to develop this inner truth in all my works. But without patience and the skill of a craftsman, even the greatest talent is wasted.