Yes, read, read

The importance of book-reading fever or passing remarks in the ongoing TPiE session, but not a single cast of light on the art of reading, especially a good book, namely a book with life, the life-blood of a master-spirit, namely a book of self-reflection laden with personality hues rather than just stacks of words and descriptions and banal narration or trite events. Yes, the book I am talking about is of literary work rather than study book. But just reading, having such habit of gong over what's written like on a matchbox cover, is itself great. And reading conventional novels, yes, known as thrillers, can be the ledge to more mature way of reading, namely knowing what to read. And, yes, I confess, even doing a thriller can be laborious so far, as a man of letters is more or less doomed. Then why not who does expose himself or herself, who paints real events injected with one's own feel, who presumes to express seeing through someone else's eyes.

Climate Change Fever of Now

Autism, mutism, selective mutism, incommunicado, as Arundhati Roy's words, 'deliberately silenced' are what I want to learn about, my sort of passion. Whatever is related with some form of defect in expressing oneself or lacking its means, other words 'lackadaisical', 'indisposed', 'discomposed', are my curiosity, for lacking a means of expression costs for a thinking being. From this piece, I think we Tibetans have much to learn, our struggle through the highly ambivalent, sensitive world of now, so much concerned about one's fleeting pleasures, not only for the political struggle of ours but for our cultural ones like preserving our mother-tongue and calmness defined by being mindful of something so transcendental. She, Greta Thunberg, could be said as ཕུལ་བྱུང་མི་སྣ་, one with a tangential way of expressing oneself. And doesn't it define ourselves?

For the struggle itself, Climate Change, it's nothing other than a complex precept, one's control over oneself, like a choice, despite being so exigent, to care it or not, this suspending life-supporting orb of ours, our home. Yes, complex, for it's related with home-planning or population control by being wise by each individual, with self-command over one's needs or greed, with individual responsibility on a daily basis, with enforcement of lasting legal force over this seemingly eternal consumerism drive. It's, in essence, nothing other than revoking each one's innate altruism or summum bonum the mindfulness of which is the question, really tough, like asking a junkie not to take to this self-destroying habit, like pinioning our core from being ambivalent. 

The 60th March 10 in Paris

Like the concept of meliorism, namely it does matter, that repetition, persistence, with a defining enlightenment on my own identity on a daily basis, with such passion in the concept of dreamy projection and the stark different reality, like 'specious', 'telegenic', 'chicanery', I am joining the historic event March 10, because I am a Tibetan. No more time to go into Nagarjuna's ideals here. Now I see my joining the mass does matter despite my being that insular, so off being diplomatic and servile, for not having a local (leave aside friend, thanks the sensitive world at large) acquaintance, a marketable one, to take with me there, to tell them the same thing over and again, like their presenting charade of asking the same question now and again. Their prejudice, our fate of always being on the receiving end, the sordid world and system, the quagmire that I have to wade through. Some form of solipsism has to be maintained despite being in stark variance with the great one's ideals, just a whit of it, to keep myself rolling on..., like holding on to a strange story.