The man asks me what I thought about his neighbor, and the man asks me what words we could use to talk poorly about his neighbor. I tell the man that if I were different today, and if I were inviting people over to entertain and wanted to impress them with my house and my lawn, I would want my neighbor’s house and lawn to look impressive also. But since I am not, I tell the man that I have no words for him.

A woman comes up to me and wants to talk about her neighbor’s group of friends, how they have such complicated lives, with all their drama and backstabbing and deceits and conceits. The woman tells me about what she has seen and heard in detail, and has heard in detail from other people. The woman asks me what thoughts I may have about her neighbor’s group of friends, about their life choices and strengths of character.

I say to the woman that if I were different today, and if my own life was constantly being judged and harassed, and if I felt trapped and angry and resentful to those around me, that I may have plenty of thoughts for her about her neighbor’s group of friends. But since I have, for the most part, an uneventful life, and am having an uneventful day, and my only thoughts are for the daily chores that I must tend to, I tell the woman that I have no words for her.

A child comes up to me and wants to talk about a ladybug that she found crawling on her windowsill. She wants to find an open field where she can release the ladybug, where there aren’t any people or large animals, and where the ladybug can hop-fly from one grass stem to another, taking its time until it finds what it’s looking for.

I tell the child that if I were different today, if I had so many chores that I had no time for anything else, or if I had the lives of other people on my mind, or if I had to rush home to make my house impressive for others, that I would not have time to help her. But since I have none of those things, at least for today, I said yes.

the point is to realize it’s a game and just let it happen without it bothering you so much

the game is formatted so you’ll get all these distractions, like having to deal with irritating people, and waking up to an alarm clock, and deciding whether you’re gay or not, and pretending that you weren’t really interested in buying that status symbol watch, and cancer, and thinking you’ve just wasted two hours of your life watching a bad movie, and wondering if there’s something wrong with you since everybody else seemed to like that movie

there’s these points you’re supposed to score, like when someone’s bothering you and you’re able to tolerate them, you get good points for that, or when you read instruction manuals instead of porno, more good points there

and people talk about Heaven, and going to Heaven, and being good here on Earth so when time’s up, you go to the good place

problem with that is, there’s this imaginary line that separates good and not good, and depending on who you talk to, that line’s real fuzzy

so what happens is you spend a chunk of your life keeping a close track of these points, where you are in terms of the point system, did you do enough good things to wipe out the bad things, should you do more good things especially if you think you’re gonna die soon, or should you start doing bad things now since you basically just did good things most of your life up until now and screw God and the system ‘cause you deserve to sin once in a while

what I’m telling you is there’s no points system, and there’s no big ledger in the sky that keeps track of every single thing that you do or think

everything here, including all of us around you, are just obstacles.

that big house was created to make you forget that big houses aren’t all that important, that hot wife was created to make you forget that hot wives aren’t all that important, that shiny car was created to make you forget that shiny cars aren’t all that important

when you were born, and sometimes when you wake up in the morning, and especially when you’re sick as a dog with flu and nothing else matters except having enough soup and tissues, you remember that original feeling, that most, if not all things, aren’t that important

that original feeling doesn’t have a point system, it’s basically a pass/fail deal, you either get it or you don’t, and if you do get it you have to make sure you keep reminding yourself of it because it’s easy to forget

so you’re wondering what you should do next

the trick is to just do what you were gonna do at the very very beginning of today and not worry about anything else, because what you were gonna do when all of this started was probably something worth doing

and when you’re done with that, do the next thing on your original list that’s worth doing, and keep going

hey, I bet watching bullshit TV and gossip wasn’t part of your original list, was it?

the world around you was created by your own mind, and there’s no winning it or losing it

there’s only recognizing it, accepting it for what it is, and not worrying too much about trying to solve the equation.

You might, right now, feel betrayed by the seemingly random events that have brought you, and many of us, to this moment. You are at a hopeless edge of the cliff, where your only choice is to jump to where others have already jumped, to the river below, to partially drown in the waters of hate, partially swim while taking half breaths of resentment, to crash against the river rocks that bruise conformity into the flesh, and partially drown again before taking another half breath. And when the current slows to wash you against the first available shore, you reach out and grasp at the first handful of dry soil, and crawl, grateful, toward whatever salvation is not the river.

This is a plea to not let the drowning water drown you. This is a plea to not let the river rocks crush you. This is a plea to stand as soon as you reach the shore, and to look around, look far, look inward, to find something else.

It may be under your fingernails, wedged between tender skin and the layers of worldly crust that have accumulated while you were clawing at whatever was within reach. It may be the very first thing that you trusted when you were a child, an honest instinct that doesn’t discolor with age. It may be your first clear breath after you cough your lungs of everything that had been the drowning river. It may be as simple as seeing your bare footprints, how they mark fresh paths without the protection of shoes, the comfort of carpet, the apathy of concrete.

Whatever it is, it is your other name, what others would be calling you if names were never given, if words never existed. It is why you have breathed this long, regardless of how much air the world tries to deny you. It is your weapon, your shield, your shelter, your stronger arms, your more powerful legs, the armor that will not allow your spine to be broken.

But you have to find it, or you will be broken.

So, wait for the tide to recede, and move when it stops pulling you. Make sure you are steady, and move when it stops pulling you. Make sure that your eyes are clear, your mind true, and your heart pumping without a drop of regret. Then go.

After learning so much, I made sure to be careful what I said, how I thought, applying the instructions to the letter, so that my actions were microscopically precise, and my conduct would be flawless in terms of showing that I had, after all, finally conquered myself.

I chose the right clothes to wear so that they were not ostentatious, yet still reflective of my spiritual campaign. I spent many days and nights preparing myself so that every person in the world would, upon meeting me, know what I believed in.

At the end of the dozen years, I found myself standing next to a gigantic lake. Its water was clear and abundant with life. Dozens of varieties of fish swam near the surface, close enough to catch by simply reaching out my hands. Deer and other four-legged wildlife patrolled the shore, while bees staked out their own territory among a row of trees, their work so overplenty that honey dripped out of their nests and onto the ground, and sometimes even onto the water’s surface. There were apple orchards, lettuce fields, row after row of every fruit and vegetable imaginable.

I walked the perimeter of the lake and helped myself to the food. As I was finishing an orange, I saw an old man sitting behind a natural levee that supported one small part of the lake. The short levee was almost vertical, and had a small hole near the bottom, where some of the lake’s water dripped out.

The old man was dressed in rags that had no pockets. Nowhere around him did I see any signs that he had enjoyed the fish or fruits or vegetables that were within steps of where he sat. Every once in a while, he would cup his hand against the levee’s hole, catch some of the lake’s water, and drink it.

I asked him if he knew about the abundance of everything that was over the ridge, so close that all he had to do was stand up to take all that the lake had to offer. I asked him why, with so much within reach, with so much that he could have for himself, he chose to settle for this.

The old man looked up at me, smiled, and said, “If I am constantly taking a sip of humility, I will less likely drown in it.”

The Everglades is one of the places featured in Ken Burns’ documentary The National Parks. It’s a place where people hid, from displaced Indians to runaway slaves, to thieves, deserters, outcasts. A politician named Napoleon Broward wanted to drain the Everglades and turn it into commercial land, redirecting the water to irrigate farms and provide drinking water to urban housing. He didn’t get his way. Today the Everglades, at 1.5 million acres, is the second largest national park in the country, next to Yellowstone. Its ecosystem helps provide a balance to the planet.

The Jazz Bakery just closed its doors from its old location because the building’s owner wanted to turn it into a furniture store. A new site hasn’t been announced yet. Even though the best jazz musicians who visit the Los Angeles area often wind up playing at the Jazz Bakery, because it isn’t located near a mall, a chain restaurant, or a nightclub, it never made that much money. Because it isn’t a restaurant where you can chew your food and suck down your glass of wine while the music plays in the background, drowned under casual conversation, because it isn’t that kind of place, it didn’t make that much money. When you went to the Jazz Bakery, you sat down, shut the fuck up, and just listened to some amazing jazz.

In November 1995, CBS lawyers ordered its show 60 Minutes to air an edited version of Jeffrey Wigand’s interview, to protect the company from any controversy while it negotiated a merger with Westinghouse Electric Corporation. The unedited version shows Wigand, a former scientist of Brown and Williamson Tobacco Corporation, discussing the potent effects of nicotine. In February 1996, after the information in the unedited version has already been revealed in the the New York Times, the New York Daily News, and the Wall Street Journal, the unedited version of Wigand’s interview is finally shown on 60 Minutes.

Today, some of the poorest countries in the world are suffering through devastating storms and floods, killing hundreds and displacing thousands. In America, social services are being shut down, university faculty and students are picketing to fight deep budget cuts and layoffs, while powerful lobbyists are winning the war to prevent any change in the way American healthcare is managed and to keep healthcare costs and profit high.

Somewhere, a man is spending almost all of his time figuring out how to take an extra penny out of every dollar that somebody else has worked for. Somewhere else, another man sees this but is so afraid that he will do nothing about it.

Somewhere else still, another man decides otherwise.

Until the age of eight, I lived in the Philippines. In 1973, we were considered middle class but sometimes were called rich by our neighbors. My father was an engineer and my mother was a teacher. Even though the family car had a hole in the floor, we had the only car on our block, so we were considered rich. We had the only air conditioner on our block, a small window unit that could cool a 15 x 15 foot room that helped with my asthma. Again, rich.

There was martial law, and curfews at 10pm, followed by city-wide brownouts or blackouts which would last sometimes the whole night. We kept candles ready. I don’t remember us having flashlights.

Food was cooked using propane stoves, and everything else was manual. We had a refrigerator but I don’t remember using it, or getting ice from the freezer, if it had one. The only time I ate ice cream was when the ice cream vendor rode his bicycle down our street.

Our toilet did not have a seat, so you had to squat instead of sitting down. There was no toilet paper so you had to use a large cup of water, similar to a 7-11 Big Gulp, and your other hand to wipe. The bathroom was a concrete room with a hole in the floor for the drain. We took baths by filling a pail with water, dipping a Big Gulp-sized cup in the pail, and pouring the water over our heads. There was no shower stall, or bathtub. The only fixture was a single room temperature water spigot. If you wanted hot water, you had to go to the kitchen and boil a pot of water, bring it to the bathroom and mix the hot water with the tap water. There was a bar of soap, toothbrushes, and Colgate toothpaste on the top of the sink. The sink was also made of poured concrete. We didn’t know what dental floss was until we came to America.

We were rich, so I usually got one nice toy from my parents for my birthday. If I got more than one toy, I had to share with the other kids in our apartment building, even though I didn’t want to, because I am an only child.

We had a black and white TV. When my parents bought me a piano, the whole block came over to see it because most had never seen a piano inside a house before. I went to a private school.

During food shortages, rice was distributed to each household from large trucks. We were taught to finish our plates. We drank tap water with our meals. If times were good, we could drink Coca Cola. Steak was too expensive even for middle class people like us. I grew up drinking powdered milk and didn’t know what cow’s milk tasted like until we came to America.

When it rained, it flooded the driveway of our apartment complex up to our ankles. We folded newspaper and made boats that floated down to the street.

I don’t remember commercials on TV. I don’t remember asking for a toy that I saw on TV. I don’t remember window shopping. I don’t remember wanting more than one thing at a time.

I wanted the web site to be a blank canvas. I wanted the art, design and writing pieces to be the most prominent elements. I wanted the design to be stark and to the point and in your face and to get down to business as quickly and efficiently as possible. Stop screwing around with the “interface” and just get the visitor to see the work, I told myself.

Kristie put the final exclamation point to the layout, by guiding me to create the identifying mark, shown above. Using Photoshop, she told me to enlarge the image, overlap it, run the layer through a color filter. When all was said and done, the layout was just as I’d pictured it in the part of my mind that I myself couldn’t translate, but Kristie, for some reason, was able to extract that idea and show me how to get there. This is why she’s the creative director for our company.

I’d wanted it to look like a scroll painting, using the picture of my reflection at the Hsi Lai Temple. I wanted it to convey simplicity and cleanliness. I wanted some Tibetan red. I wanted some saffron.

I got it, I got it, I got it. Now time to create some new work to add to this baby.

www.gerardosandiego.com

“How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath to say to me that thou art out of breath?” –Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet

Whenever I hear someone arguing to the point of shouting, three things come to mind:

1. This person has enough energy to shout and fight.

2. This person has enough time in his/her day to engage in combat.

3. This person puts a priority in shouting and fighting over any other less combative activities at this moment.

If this person is shouting/fighting at me, I almost always give in. Yes, you win and I’m a coward I’ll tell them. Yes, I’m wrong with my beliefs. Yes, yes, yes, anything to end the argument.

I’ve realized that there is no winning most arguments, especially the violent ones. Just the fact that I’m in one means that I already lost, because it’s taken me away from the things that I love to do, which is napping, eating, creating something artsy or designy, watching a movie, or simply resting.

(I think, but am not sure, that there are people who actually like to shout and argue, as if shouting and arguing is an essential element of their existence.)

If just being in a fight/argument means that I’ve already lost, well, I may as well admit that I lost, end the fight/argument, and try to recoup lost time.

I heard someone say this, might have been Deepak Chopra, that a battle doesn’t exist unless both parties choose to fight. One person throws out a set of words as weapons of first volley, then wait for the counterattack. Many times there is a counterattack, in which case the battle becomes official.

But if there is no counterattack, the battle never begins. The absence of retaliatory words means disarmament on the spot.

Even if there was a fight, how is the winner determined? Since at the end of most, if not all fights, no opinions are changed, nobody is any smarter than before, and nothing gets accomplished, except maybe one or both parties “got it out of their system”. And if that’s the reason for fighting, I suggest that we instead use our energies to dig wells and look for drinkable water, because that’s much more in short supply than escalating quibbles.

Why do we read them when we have our own imaginations that can come up with our own stories? Why do we trust what we read when it’s fiction? Why do we get angry or happy or sad or crying about made-up stories, when we know that that’s the intention of the writer? Why do we care about what happens to a group of fictional people with fictional histories who experience fictional incidents? I’m not saying this is bad, I’m just asking why.

When a writer writes fiction, why does he care if one direction of a storyline makes more sense than another, when neither directions happened anyway? Why does there need to be a suspension of disbelief? Why are we more satisfied with one resolution than another?

Why do we criticize a fictional movie for not doing what we expected it to do? Why do we feel more satisfied, or less satisified, with a fictional movie’s conclusion, if we can draw our own conclusions using our imaginations?

I noticed how an opinionated writer can pretty much tell the world what he believes without being criticized for it. Instead of writing an opinion or editorial piece, he writes a “fictional” story. Instead of the writer directly saying what he thinks, he has one of the characters do it. Instead of the writer saying that something is right or wrong, he has one of the characters perform an act whose consequence justifies the rightness or wrongness of that act, therefore proving the writer true. Because everything is happening through the characters in the fictional story, any fingerpointing or judgments are aimed at the characters, not the writer. The characters did it, after all.

If you want to talk about what you believe in, you can go two ways. One is by saying what you mean, straight from your own mouth, using your own words. The other is to create a set of characters to tell your personal truths for you, through fiction.