That invincible summer

Those moments when words suddenly jump out from the pages of a book one is reading and awaken a long slumbering consciousness to some deep realization about what it means to keep on breathing, nourishing the body, hoping for even a nightmare each evening just to experience again what it feels like to dream while asleep, and going through all the motions of this existence - such moments seem to be getting really rare these days. Perhaps the unintended effect of doom scrolling on the phone, whenever one gets a chance to take a short break from work, somewhat numbing the mind to all the horrors, chaos, insanity, and idiocy happening all around. 

Or some kind of dulling of the spirit from these consecutive days of encumbering grayness and intermittent rain. Maybe from a creeping exhaustion in the face of all these competing demands for one's time, attention and energy, those long restless nights of back pains, or the tasks that seem to have no clear end in sight? Whatever the reason, or perhaps precisely because of such probable causes, it's really such a boon nowadays when these types of passages activate some insight-processing neurons inside the brain and generate those initial or partial awakening to and understanding of this thing called "life" (insights about one's real nature - a kensho of sorts?).

Like this one morning, having decided to spend the few remaining minutes before formal working hours start by reading a few pages of Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, chanced upon this piece titled "Return to Tipasa" where the philosopher of the absurd describes a visit back to this ancient coastal town full of Phoenician, Roman, and Christian ruins in Algeria and meditates on what this meant for him and his constant efforts to reinvigorate a sagging spirit:

"At noon on the half-sandy slopes covered with heliotropes like a foam left by the furious waves of the last few days as they withdrew, I watched the sea barely swelling at that hour with an exhausted motion, and I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot long neglect without drying up - I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself; the long fight for justice exhausts the love that nevertheless gave birth to it. In the clamor in which we live, love is impossible and justice does not suffice.  This is why Europe hates daylight and is able to set injustice up against injustice. But in order to keep justice from shriveling up like a beautiful orange fruit containing nothing but a bitter, dry pulp, I discovered once more at Tipasa that one must keep intact in oneself a freshness, a cool wellspring of joy, love the day that escapes injustice, and return to combat having won that light. ... There the world began over again every day in an ever new light. O light! This is the cry of all the characters of ancient drama brought face to face with their fate.  This last resort was ours, too, and I knew it now.  In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer."  

Must have encountered that last line before from somewhere as it sounds so familiar. Or it could also be a buried memory from that very first reading of this slim collection of essays. In any case, Camus' words resonated quite well with this moment, and all its attendant feelings and thoughts. Talk about Jung's synchronicity. Summer has definitely ended for now in this part of the globe. Typhoons are now being born in that vast ocean to the east, and lining up to wreak havoc once more to these islands. There's this oppressive cloud of uncertainty in the face of what the coming days and weeks could bring. Simply hoping for that indomitable light to shine through. 

Finished reading

 

Finally done reading four titles today.  All four books started weeks, maybe full months, before. All became part of this stack of more than fifteen books (on this round, black, side table beside the gray, now dirty couch) that were simultaneously being read (or rather, one after the other, round robin style) on certain days and times during the week. Sometimes quite early in the morning, if the dog is still asleep; or at night, if there is still some energy remaining after a day of grinding knowledge work in front of the laptop; on weekends, especially Saturdays which have been meticulously observed as a kind of sabbath - no work of any kind, just reading and black coffee; punctuated or interspersed only with preparing meals, washing clothes, watching old films, working out (with the two 15-pound black dumbbells), simply checking messages (from the girls, or Legazpi) and posts on this social media platform, or scanning articles in my phone's browser.

Frank Herbert's Chapterhouse: Dune was finished first.  The final book in Herbert's hexalogy or sextet (had to look online for these terms), this novel happened thousands of years after the setting of the first book Dune which revolved around the character of Paul Atreides and how he ascended to the position of emperor of the known universe after his noble family lost their fiefdom in the desert planet of Arrakis following the death of his father Duke Leto Atreides in the hands of the Harkonnens and the emperor's Sardaukar warriors. In Chapterhouse, the story shifts to the deadly power struggle between the Bene Gesserits, an ancient order of women with extraordinary abilities (like controlling other people's actions through the power of voice, rendering poisons useless by controlling every cell in their bodies, those quick bursts of superhuman speed during combat, and being able to transfer and access past memories of their long dead sisters called Reverend Mothers), and the Honored Matres, a more aggressive version of the Bene Gesserits.

Then came Kerouac's On the Road and Abbey's Postcards from Ed.  Started reading both months ago, and was quite surprised to see yesterday (or today) that bookmarks (old calling cards) were left almost at the end of the two titles.  So honed the mind this morning to try and finish both.  Really poignant endings.  The Dean Moriarty character in Kerouac's On the Road was mysteriously incoherent (almost felt like he had a stroke or was suffering from some early signs of dementia or Alzheimer's) and seemed like a mere husk of the quintessential macho male that led this life of wild abandon and swept away all other beings in his path all throughout the novel.  One of Abbey's last few letters was to John Nichols (author of the Milagro Beanfield War trilogy - which also needs to be read one of these days), talking about being ill (under some kind of Damocles sword) though still quite hopeful to finish writing a few more books he had in mind.

Finally, there was Cal Newport's A World Without Email which outlined all these strategies in managing work flows more efficiently, minimizing distractions, and freeing up more time during the day for deep and specialized knowledge work.  As Zizek would perhaps describe it: how to optimize all the available information and communication technology to finally squeeze out more brain juice and finally achieve that spectacular boost in productivity from today's office-based workers. What would probably be the old capitalist system's latest and most groundbreaking innovation, comparable only to Ford's invention of the famous assembly line. Tried applying his idea of the project or work flow board to the team's tasks, by setting up one on this platform called Miro. But retained my old To Do lists in Excel, with all its pie charts and tables to track completion of tasks that are due for the day, that are high priority ones, and that had to do with personal well-being (shouldn't forget that work-life balance thing).  After about two weeks of using the tools, had this peculiar sense of being able to accomplish more.  Though have yet to see the time spent on checking emails, responding to urgent ones, and archiving read messages actually going down.

Washing clothes (again)

 

Recalled a time when there was only one sibling (because the third and youngest one was not yet born or was probably too young to be recruited for such a serious task), and both of us squatted, hunched around this big black plastic basin filled to the brim with detergent suds and dirty clothes that our mother asked us to help her wash.  Our small hands and skinny arms struggled to make all of those rubbing and difficult twisting motions, especially with the thick towels and jeans.  So most of the time, it was simply applying that bar of soap on fabric, and squishing and pulling clothes out of the water for me and my brother, while our nanay does most of the real work.

But those moments were good learning experiences, albeit via repetitive, dull, and exhausting processes.  Taught us system, the value of following proper steps and sequences, patience, persistence, and nurturing interest, even finding some fun in the mundane.  Several decades into the future, and with much gray hairs on my head, washing clothes has now become an integral part of the whole work from home routine, punctuating daily brain-draining knowledge work with some form of physical activity.  Perhaps more than that, washing dirty clothes has now even wormed its way into one's meditative practice, providing an excellent opportunity to try out "no thinking", and simply focusing on all those repetitive actions and the present moment.  Pretty much like noticing and counting breaths ("wall or floor watching") during zen sitting.  Or being aware of every step, heart beat, and rushed breath when walking the dog nowadays.  Or wiping the dust off from all those books and each shelf in the bookcase, and later finding the right spot for each book in each row so that everything is neatly arranged from the tallest to the shortest.  Trying to discover both emptiness and fullness in the ordinary.

Have this pile of dirty clothes and underwear that grows with periodic in-person meetings and events, or with those weekend trips to the mall and the supermarket.  Reducing this pile is the goal, or no-goal.  During a regular remote working day, whenever the need to stand up and move around arises, washing one to three pieces of clothes at a time becomes a much anticipated break option.  Developed a quite efficient system with shirts that involves initially soaking each in water, washing with detergent, rinsing it four times, leaving it for a few minutes in water with fabric conditioner, then finally hanging it on the clothes rack outside.  Water that had been used to rinse a shirt for the fourth and final time, served as initial soaking medium for the next dirty cloth to be washed.  And on and on it goes, until the pile is reduced to only a few pieces and then to nothing.  That's the time to resume work, or take that power nap to rest and recharge the body. 

From macro- to microcosm

 

In one affirmation-sharing activity during a yearend assessment workshop with colleagues at work, someone passed on a note expressing amazement at the Martian's ability to focus on small, practical matters then shift to really big and abstract ideas.  Such feedback was uplifting at that moment, bringing another dimension to the sense of concrete results stemming from these mindfulness efforts in the past decade or two.  First thing that came to mind while deciding on the content and title for this post.  Now wondering whether this kind of whole spectrum thinking, jumping from one end to the other, could have some side effects.  Like not paying enough attention to people, relationships, and other important things around you.  Including this subdued but palpable anger that wells up when such absent-mindedness is finally brought to one's attention.

Something that has to be brought into the Martian's practice in the coming days.  Downloaded Joko Beck's dharma talks recently, to be played and listened to during work breaks and those quick drives to the supermarket.  In one of her recordings, Beck was tackling this whole system of a person's learned automatic reactions to outside stimulus and events that are thus mostly unconscious and generating counter-reactions from and effects in other beings, often negative.  And how having such awareness now of the said system, one can the begin to make some careful tweaks in the links and the chains.  Posted this photo of massive Jupiter (that tiny dot on top) and the much closer and hellish Venus at the bottom to remind one of how this macrocosm of interdependent causes and effects builds on a microcosm of passing thoughts and unconscious actions.  Took it the other night while walking with Sam.

Rage Against the Machine's iconic compilation album Renegades playing now on this antique radio/cassette tape/CD player that only a week or two ago was most certainly headed either to a repair shop or an electronic items junkyard.  Any CD, whether heavily scratched from too much use or fresh from its case, took these irritating pauses (that lasted for a few seconds) when played.  But perhaps many thanks to this summer heat, which must have vaporized all those oily residues on the CD player's lens, been getting few to none of such pauses lately.  Even encouraged an online order for a copy of Led Zeppelin's The Song Remains The Same double album (but perhaps a topic for a possible future post).  Going back to Renegades, no other RATM album in the Martian's CD library, so this one serves as the go to collection when in need of a quick dose of some powerful hip-hop protest tunes.  Definitely nothing like a background of funky noise to get those writing juices really going. Renegades of Funk, which carries the album's title, and with its anthemic lyrics (memorializing famous resisters in American history, from Chief Sitting Bull and Tom Paine, to Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X) and driving rhythm, is easily a contender as one's personal favorite.

From renegade music, mind is then drawn to this message from your aging parents requesting for some therapeutic leaves from a tree.  Last night, it was all about the kasambahay or domestic worker being sick and not able to report for her duties.  Expecting the next one to be a request to come and visit them at the old family home.  Have to start travelling early tomorrow morning. 

New practice

 

Periodic trips to the mall these days, often on weekends but during work days as well (especially on those days with no online meetings), to procure dog food and groceries have also been marked by visits to the branch of this Filipino bookstore chain which has revived its old practice of selling these popular budget books after focusing for a while (i.e., post-pandemic) on just school items, and art and office supplies.  They've been having sales recently, with some books offered on a buy one, take one basis, and both for only Php 100.  Got a copy of David Sedaris' Happy-Go-Lucky which was initially priced at Php 399 prior to the sale.  Bought a pocket book version of Frank Herbert's Chapterhouse: Dune, the final volume of his famous hexalogy, for Php 99 (its original price was Php 315).  A personal version of shopping as stress management.

What comes next is either a hot Spanish latte (that's coffee with sweetened milk; so really sweet), or a hot bowl of spicy ramen coupled with a glass of red ice tea (not that great-tasting, but quite passable as a thirst quencher).  The Spanish latte would be from a stall on the third floor, while the hot ramen would be from the ramen house at the second floor.  A stall in the food court that also sells squid tako balls, has some ramen on its menu, but not quite the spicy ramen being sold by the ramen house.  The ramen from the ramen house comes with three to four strips of meat (probably pork) which are often simply left in the bowl afterwards, in light of the policy that customers are not allowed to take home any leftovers from what one had ordered and paid for.  Not even for feeding one's pet.  No matter - sipping the tasty broth and eating those noodles and boiled eggs, with the chopped onion leaves, prime the mind for those moments of inner stillness and empty gazes, when for a few minutes thought becomes detached from worries of daughters losing interest in finishing college, one's organization not having enough funds to continue its operations and thus finding oneself suddenly jobless, and a dog with damaged liver.