Distance does matter

Distance does matter both in space and time for cherishing the trope of personal events, sadly in snippets, etched on to the mental screen of ours as evoked by our memory, not so much the doings of our habitual cognitive inertia as of something phenomenal quirk or odd we are endowed with as of our mental capability in reflecting and sorting and calculating and toning with vividness and sharpness where it's left blurred and burred, with much more expressions and gestures chiseled out as of the adrenalines running through our veins by the doings of the paroxysm of emotions now. It does matter even more for noting them down in the form of an artistic creativity through shedding more tears or chuckling deep within. And for the capitalistic fray of a race of now, the modern world, it does for estranging two lovers within the span of a short period of time--more needs of now than the bygone mountain of promises and tender words, more forms of casuistry out there to absolve ourselves of our misdeeds. And it does for romanticizing the pale reality of our present life with something to hold on to, something out there but not there, something telegenic or photogenic like Kpop stellar gloss and resplendence on the iridescent TV screen at anyone's home among us--like the one who has not caught up yet in the whirlwind of the same chasing fray of a yonder world's tenseness and reality but looking at it with the safe but taken for granted buffer of distance, like reading a novel or watching a movie, with the coveted, self-created images flickering on the other part of one's mental screen. 

Don't ignore a moment of mindfulness that can let you be able to try to have a glimpse through someone's else eyes

"One thing at a time, and that done well." It counts, really so much, but we know what we are. It doesn't matter after all, for it's really interesting to learn about a character, a real person, being there before my own eyes whose pupils react how I have no idea during the real time moment, a character, someone more or less close to me, whose some certain mannerisms, like his idiosyncrasy of the sort much well attempted to keep hidden from me but there as scattered, fleeting sparks from a brand of smoldering wood, relate that much about what I have been reading. What I've been reading? What else but Marcel Proust's Cities of the Plain (Sodom and Gomorrah) and The Captive whereof the latter is just at its close. I am very much sure his sixth one, Fugitive, will broach over it as well. Time Regained, his seventh or the last one, I wish can be of some use for me as well, to be able to let myself hit the way, namely wrap up the circus-stages of words into something readable ones.

Something that one tends to stumble on as reactive, speaking but on a seldom basis

And so I've been saying it as well. Who's this guy, sorry, who I've just come across by the advent of this social networking site? Though not that identical that can be cast aback objectively, a re-entrant reality as we imagine that there's, or not so that can be cast forth subjectively, a salient reality, though not so, we tend to be so confident to be so--that you should believe, see, understand as I do, as this damning 'I' do.

But the frustration of his and mine differs inordinately, given the case of his and my optics: being there so in its own way, namely that inherently or concretely, and the contrary, just as a contrived phenomenon, like the confidence of what one has dreamed about so vividly, like there being a heatwave, for there being the sundry conditions acting upon creating it to an observer.  

"I will leave this world without hearing it. Life has nothing left to offer, I've seen everything, I've experienced everything. But most of all I hate the current era, it hurts! Everything is fake, everything has been replaced, there is no respect for the word given, now all that matters is money and wealth! I know I'm going to leave this world without being sorry!"

Alain Delon

 

A repost of one of my facebook posts

'It seemed to me that men were born only to grow old, to live out their span, to acquire experience. Men lived to acquire experience; the quality of the experience was immaterial; pleasure and pain--and, above all, pain--had no meaning; to possess pain was as meaningless as to chase pleasure. And even when the illumination vanished, became as thin and half nonsensical as dream, I remembered that I had had it, that knowledge about the illusion of pain.' ~ VS Naipaul, A Bend in the River

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My comment on this post on facebook back on  06 April, 2015. (Edited)

'The unity of experience', 'the illusion of pain' are, for me, like the interplay between sadism and masochism, the former begetting the later desperation standing on two different rawness defined by endless self-interest. The illusion, however backed by some sentimental or spiritual ground at last, is as variably risky as the interpretation of a presented idea of any. It's up to if the aggregated experience is workable, though desperate, through one last crash course for some sounder illumination or not, and for which, I think, the need of paramount importance is a workable ground of philosophical enlightenment which is itself heuristic, ever learning, adjustable and thereby robust ever. 

Someone predestined to be the prey of our instinctive prejudice

In our life, there can be someone who is familiar to us in a way he or she comes within our sight on an irregular basis, but we have already had a sort of predisposed attitude toward that particular person, given his or her reserved manner, pertness, vanity, affectation, or sort of obtruding himself or herself as having something to shine over us, such attitude that we can’t get on with him or her ever. And, when chanced to stumble on with him or her face to face followed by some gestures of conversation or floundering to make such, we thereafter take the encounter as something far less than an encounter of such with a complete stranger, which can sometimes turn out into more closeness later on. It’s so true that it’s more of our yielding ourselves to the excess of our predisposition of such, so absolute to us. It can be true also that, if chanced to know him or her more, he or she can turn out someone stark different from our blind, sort of instinctive calculation on his or her being, like a character certificate generated by our own way of judging. But how such a thread of seemingly fixed mental forecast on someone particular but not on many others?   

Assuming to be getting connected to the coiner’s intention

The English word 'impression'--rather than an impression left by a thumb of its lines like on a piece of paper--renders its meaning full in the sense of subjectivity, its projected colorations. It's, then, proven there already, the medium, the transmission, the means of getting to, the means of dealing with our life. It's, in essence, enshrined in the cocoon of this word, what it's in reality. So do try to slow down sometimes, and see how you paint rather than being there in such a solidity--objectively, minutely, uniformly, stark naked to be hogged down. 

Keep learning on

The two things I find: the first in myself, the second in others

Retentiveness in the form of a reflex of being able to replicate an intonation of mouthing a prayer, its personal hymn, even after many years…

Living down or being able to live oneself down through the course of time, after the initial period of infatuation, alacrity, alertness....

A piece of verbiage

Inuring to, getting oneself inured to a situation like letting an adventitious element interpolate into one’s illusion of eternal coziness, the things dear as the prime props of one’s life to be swapped by something extrinsic. Or a love gone awry through our commoner’s caprice, narcissism, ego, self-absorption, want of self-command at the nick of time, and then on to this desperation called forming a habit, namely indifference that Marcel Proust qualified with the epithet ‘cruel’ but a means of survival after all. But can habit in general be more or less affected by the same process of causation, given its strong element of ‘cognitive inertia’? Here, the most beautiful thing called empathy should be invoked into defining if the same habit, like getting up early in the morning, is tinted with its splendor or not. If yes, then it can no longer be labelled as a state of such desperation, I think. 

As Proust’s fundamental belief or as the prop of his own life, it’s something like lacking the prime backup, the exigency, to deal with the changing, deceptive external world--to do without the means called art. That counts, really, as unconventional in the true sense of the word but just above the common run of sentient, language-oriented beings. He could be feeling sometimes how someone without such a means could be living, how his or her life could be barren--’chiaroscuro devoid of poetry’. 

And for me, despite myself being a fledgling aficionado, I wonder how one could deal with such flurries within and without--such colossal needs, with such a tiny heart--without a firm footing acquired through long, long labor that delivers oneself into a face-to-face encounter with the awareness of the reality universal rather than just palliative. 

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The proximity in space and time does matter so much, given the facts that a painter does know much more about a flower than someone like you and me, someone who peruses it superficially, that having a consistent mindfulness does make a huge difference in connecting to the reality, that a chain of scurrying ants as viewed from a distance isn't of such an order and discipline as observed from a close quarter rather errant--the one before, who misses a single step, being trampled on by the following one; no place for thinking for the one before but to keep oneself going on to the end, up to the extremity of this uncertainty, life.

A comment I posted on a recent post of a Tibetan vlogger

First of all, you have to know, as you may know, the politics behind it, such trolls against Sokpo Takthi here, namely against Sokpo, for their once reign over Tibet, during which the other sectarian groups but Gelug had suffered a lot. And so, with this notion in the form of patriotism, they troll against you, namely, as you said, 'cyber bullying', and so the recent case of Sushant's suicide or murder, for his weakness not being able to stand it and walk ahead. I think for being a vlogger, blogger, given the fact of one making oneself vulnerable on the cyber world for this sense of publicity or any others, one has to be prepared with such strength and insight to be able to deal with such trolls by not caving in to their influences. If you go that weepy from now, they will target you more, keep watch over you to upend your freedom of speech or individual rights. As you are more exposed to the outside world if compared to other Tibetan girls hemmed in within the comfort zone of protection, as you said you work outside of our sphere, then you must know more. There are a lot of dastardly, cheap Tibetans out there, especially on the cyber world. And, especially now, the time for our sikyong and chithue election 2021, there are more such, and, why not, more Chinese cyber mules zeroing in on disrupting our harmony in exile. And, to go back a few years, you may remember well, one of the Kagyu chithue named Tenpa Yarphel had made a series of such attacks on our Religious and Cultural Dept of CTA's honorarium fund for Sokpo monk-students studying in our monastic institutes across India, saying there had not been any good things done by Sokpo in Tibet. And, to sum up, it's, I think, no less of sectarian spite still harbored than a systematic plan of disrupting our harmony by CCP's nexus across the world. You have to be, I think, more assertive, more confident in what you've been doing by creating this vlog, and, especially, to care more about your contents by learning more and reading more. Once you're confidently eclectic, broad-viewed, experienced by exposures, then you will see our sort of divisive cholkha or choelug sentiments, narrow sense of protection by nepotism as still in the process of mutation from barbaric tendency to more inclusive, humane way through learning that such narrowness isn't far from a colossal cul-de-sac ahead in this rapidly changing world more for self-interests than the presented goodness through perorating. I mean we will learn how we're gonna fare if we don't stand united in such treacherous global, political realm.

Modern Day and Night

 The paradox under our noses in our waking, hectic days

A jalousied shutter through the interstices of which I thought I could have a glimpse of something, a familiar face, like of my late mother. As we all must have experienced the same phenomenon, the same buoyant lightness yet tiresomely hefty, namely being unable to go to sleep and the wallowing over on to one side to the other associated with it, when as one is on the threshold of betaking oneself to that state of submersion of one’s gross sensory consciousnesses by any wiles, one finds once again before the shattering cul-de-sac, a disturbing tumbling sound like a huge sponge sucking in all the thread of fluid relaxing sense of submersion from its thin point to the gross level, all in vain. And to start over again. 

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A novel reading one aboard of a train, and his or her sense of being taken interest in what he or she is reading by a neighbor, a stark illiterate one, a philistine, or a reader. One doesn’t care so, the neighbor’s own taste, but one’s being recognized as so or not, as a reader, a civilized one. As I have found on several occasions, such a reader, once found taken interest of, usually raises the book to the other’s notice by revealing the glossy cover with its title and the writer’s name in bold, sometimes in gold, like taken that much care about image.  

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And one another small event aboard can be of eye-contacting that picks one out of many across an aisle or files of heads yoked to smart phones screens. Not like hurling a peek at the cover of a book with the awareness that the reader may be delighted, such an eye contact has its own frequency of nervous impulses being exchanged and interpreted into a skein of romantic idealisms that can sometimes romp to such a fanciful extent, like taking there being only this passage of transmission, like this being the beginning of a new world, and so on. And for me, when in tryst with a vicarious venture to see and feel as the other, I find such fusses about my own vanity but all innocence of those immobile heads among which the other head and face that steals my interest as someone to be pitied over as well being aware, at the same time, that it can be one among innumerable faces that I can see once in my lifetime. No way to venture to that extent of how the interested one spends his life in the walled, roofed domain on a daily basis, that monotony. 

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To foot up, the limited energy matters and so the need of enough sleep. No matter how you look or you have such an attention or not, reading does matter and, why not, being self-reliant in a language both its spoken and written form, the only medium that can make you, at the desperate point of your life, be able to live alone forever by delving into yourself to the ultimate nature of everything that we tend to take as there being in its own absolute, inherent way… But such notion tainted with some findings of essentialism there is itself a great hoax, taking that it stands as it presents. No, never. And such notion of ‘certain specific objects prevail’, namely in its absolute entity, by way of sounding off, taken as the boldest of all, nominalism and its rubbish is itself a colossal sign of our instinctive insecurity, we the blind devotees of ‘being so as it presents’, not of the otherwise, the great inverse way--the tandem of not being there as it presents to us but there as our own projections like a dream.  

The familiar reverie at that level of semi-subconsciousness known as when dreaming: a deja-vu

A dream is what it is like we could sometimes happen to internalize ourselves into thinking what we had done yesterday. And so I had, however, a complex dream. It’s still fresh on my mental screen, so tentative, so alluring prompting me to indite it thus: 

Two women came into the scene. They were strangers to me; I couldn’t cull up anything as to supply myself to give some hues to their bodily outlines and clothing. I just saw one handed over something to the other, like a piece of paper or something of some value. I just observed them like with an invisible spirit-body, without any idea about my own bodily existence and its attributes but with an expanse of view before me, while I kept myself bothering with the pestering question what the thing was and while seeing the women were turning blurrier and blurrier. I couldn’t come up with a settling idea. I wanted to rewind the scene, to observe it from the beginning. And so it happened. 

The woman turning her back to me was older in a faded saree, who was the receiver of the thing from the other who was in a kurta with a floral pattern. The latter, with a bright round face, was saying something with some ease and anxiety expressed by the movements of her facial muscles. It was like she was proving herself innocent of the sort. Then, in no time, I was behind the older woman, her buttock in my hands that were running over the curves and dents of it. She didn’t seem to have any feeling, but I had a tactile feeling of coarseness as of her age. And, so out of the blue, the other young woman was in my arms, her back to me. I was fondling all over her front. I could feel the flatness of her stomach and abdomen, when, while running my hand over her genital covered by panties, I found her sort of deaf and dumb. But a friend of mine now in the states, a former monk, happened to be her proxy in communicating to me. He was all for being my instructor. While my genital and hers, now revealed, were on the point of meeting, I could hear his muffled words cautioning me to think well before the penetration. And I woke up.   

Nothing stands as it presents

Plodding wearily through Marcel Proust’s meandering, long, complex sentences packed with figurative, tonic tropes marked by moving analogies, characters’ personalities, introspective tracing of thoughts and their processes, sense of exaltation in the form of the sixth sense sired by mindful observances of fleeting impressions and feelings that of sensuality, stumbling on mnemonic small events as a powerful aid for sparking off long forgotten personal events as flashbacks, I happened to get stuck to a faint thought, rather poking at me to come out and indite in my own way, that questioned me about the need of such engagements intellectually or stark illiterately. Yes, really, having something to do does matter, especially now at this juncture of modern age, the age of looming loneliness worked off by petty internet related means that are literally for brain drain. And, yes, having something important to do as per one’s own way of rating does matter. Then why not something out of stark selfless motive, something like letting other or others have a relief from any self-formed anguish by undoing it without obtruding oneself upon them as undoing it. 

And the great question remains of its, such sense of exaltation, ineffably beyond the grip of ‘the government of reason’, being able to tune the subject into a liberated being off the flurries of chaotic, discriminatory mental constructs, to render it really fecund, engaged but not just in one’s own reverie. But greater or more ineffable revelation can be reached through the core doings of wisdom-intellect-based mental activities rather than just pure personal taste and satisfaction and something like saying ‘It makes me happy.’ And, yes, whether lastingly liberating or not, such phenomena of exaltation, heuristically discoverable by anyone, are there as a trail of dream, our own projections, no ground for any presumptuous self-enlargement that could toss you into the same grossness of yours, the same mundane you. 

Thus to carry on ahead to our sweet home, could be analogized by the infinity of void or space, whereupon even this notion of subjectivity, there being a fabricator, is already blotted out. Then just the space and infinity, the true liberation. But, casting a look back, there being those innumerable still shackled to the notion of  rigidity and self-consequence far off the internalized realm of seeing personal projections as what they are to shutting them out to the nature of space by the fierce reductio ad absurdum of proving the groundlessness of the fabricator, for one is merged with such everlasting infinity by virtue of the grossness of one’s being, through being aware of it, the ledge to greatness through honing on ever… Then you can pave a way for others as well, why not. 

Having something meaningful to do does matter, meaningfulness in terms of why we live for. Having something coveted for doesn’t remain the same as when one dreams for it. And it’s itself a great proof of fact and fancy, romantic idea and reality. 

And, at last, as we were born alone, we have to leave alone the aftermath of which remains stark mysterious to us, but there is such a phenomenon bereft of what we have rigged up materially in this life. Yes, saying as a ledge does matter for seeing and acting accordingly. 

ཤིང་ནགས་མེ་ཏོག དངོས་འབྱུང་གློག་བརྙན། Wild Flower - Documentary Film

"My children should be like a Wild Flower, resilient in any situation. Not like a garden flower, very delicate." ~ Rinchen Dolma Taring (Taring Amala) 

Lying down flat on my back at Parc de Noisiel and languidly observing those fluffy dandelion (but no, it's thistle) fluffs shooting across the patch of speckles azure void partly bordered with plane trees and chestnut trees leaves, while my mate beside me was recounting about his flight experiences something like controlling time or having a sense of living and doing, I couldn't stop repeating the above two-sentenced quote of Taring Amala. I had for the moment forgotten my obsession with my lagging behind in reading what I had been reading, to carry on steadily, and such a pugnacious notion like ensuring myself that those silver birches down there at one end of the lawn were real birches, not aspens. And also such impression, of my mate, that the pale blue leaves of birches amid the leaves of other trees at a distance, across the lawn with heatwaves jigging up, present as a mirage, like a burr of smokes.

The same dilemma

The same dilemma is just common in a nation state with a system of governance more or less of demagoguery, fascism, fundamentalist zealotry, and a triumphant mafia party with some  mimicking gesture toward any utopian coloration like socialism or communism or any that goes stark against what is favored now like those forms of democracy standing or deteriorating so far. The same dilemma: the need of such prodigies or geniuses who work like a machine, not like a thinking human mind; a thinking human mind can't be made that ductile or malleable at last despite any huge amounts of lure in the form of material wealth and comfort, or, in the other words, sensual or sensuous comforts. Once having had some, a human mind is destined to be in a quest, for some form of sublimity, however sad it's the case these days the majority of them haven't come to that state of having had, and even if there, not being well formed to be a thinker. 

Happy Birthday, your holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet

This piece in French speaks, while I wonder about the turmoil into which we are depicted as fallen like an unalienable aporia or solution, for life is itself a great canon, and its phantasmagorical alternation like the choppy surface of a lagoon over which the permanence is the brimming, providential smile of my guru, His Holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet on whose 85th Birthday, tomorrow, I offer this benediction of mine in advance for his longevity for awaking the same beings from the dreams of the same endless turmoil that we tend to take as that supra-self-projections (creations) and that independently absolute. Happy Birthday, your holiness Tenzin Gyatso chok!

The modern art: degradation to a mimicking flunkey

Though your intramural mindset doesn't let your market-oriented, as of your own country enjoying her own sovereignty based on her self-interest, art-realm, with its own standardized convention, to be interpolated with any signs of something 'abnormal', 'interloper', I can't let your biased system to expurgate my own narrative. 

Your subservience chastens you further

When it comes to the issue of posing existential threat to one's own national security by a giant neighbor, like Nepal and Bhutan by Chinese aggressive encroachments, even on the giant India, it's bit sort of learning, to see, though not the corollary, the reward for their silence on Tibet Issue, their forbidding anti-China activism on their lands, their more than indifference to our plight. Here, though not an act of schadenfreude, it's something like letting them see what their being subservient to Chinese posing as a redoubtable one over them costs. 

Black Lives, India-Tibet Border Scuffles, Tibet Issue

If 'black lives' don't matter, then doesn't even the horrendous, sadistic deception of 'the great game' or its deal between the two imperialist states matter, which, as the self-interest of the British imperialism, guaranteed the then budding, undisciplined socialist regime of China led by Mao to carry on her occupation of Tibet that has, by and large, resulted in the recent India-Tibet border scuffles and fisticuffs between Indian and Chinese soldiers, and the death of said as 20 Indian border security forces? I say as 'black lives' all downtrodden, crestfallen lives matter. We should be aware of real culprits in the first place. And, yes, as 'to forgive is unusual', to be aware of our own potential and doing rather than letting ourselves get distracted by a hundred of shallow, cheap 'fast food' things of the market place do matter as well. 

Reading you does matter

Almost like 'climbing a mountain', almost like can be taken as 'to prepare for the battle', reading Marcel Proust renders me sophomoric in my take on my own senses, especially the sixth one. Such labor, grievances he had taken on himself to come out thus, so painstaking, exhaustive, euphonious even in the second language. Maybe related with his upbringing, privilege, being bookworm, seclusion, quest for the truth as well as the means of expression in words adorned with such breathtaking analogies and speaking, vivid delineations; maybe not so--I find him as sensitively sensational as pedantically fecund and sharp. Such hermeneutic trick and approach even for a little thing that mattered to him. Combray is alien to me, but I relate a sort of linkage there through him. Here again, it's sort of coming across some great familiarity when he confidently put forward about the intangible screen of mental constructs or ideas between the observer and the object, the coloration by the intervening phenomena whereby the observer assumes to behold the matter of any, and his arresting the discriminatory constructs between his prime sense of himself and the object. The same tonic trope is endless throughout him. 

Tulku Ugen Topgyal: self-caricaturing your own labeling against His Holiness the Dalai Lama

In the wake of Tulku Ugen Topgyal’s inveighing expletives—‘devil’, ‘detractor of Buddha dharma’, ‘audience seeker’—, ineffably baseless and vulgar and unthinkable for an individual conscience as a Tibetan but stark infantile a series of the same designations coined by CCP leaders, against His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama of Tibet, one of the icons of refuge of this world in huge hubbub of emotional instability, I hold my ground of defending my icon of refuge thus, despite Lord Shantideva’s insightful caveat as to be able to stand as a tree, namely firm in one’s integrity, when someone inveighs against one’s guru, for such a someone is usually biased and gripped by a horrendous partiality. As a Tibetan, I want to remind myself and interested ones with such factual account that there was time once when guru Padmasambava, as mentioned in his pastoral, autobiographical annal Pema Kadu, happened to shed in such a way dithyrambically doleful lamenting about our being insensibly ungrateful ever to his doings for us. Aren’t we, and so to His Holiness the Dalai Lama even from now? Like this collective fate posed by this viral plague of now, besides defending our icon of refuge against such puerile labeling by a libertine in ordained form but trying to present as a prig, I take the opportunity to try to self-mirror and revise my own stand as how firm I am in taking His Holiness the Dalai Lama as my icon of refuge spiritually and temporally, namely how I can stand in face of such challenges, to see if I am collected myself as not to be acting childishly like the libertine himself in the form of hurling some outweighed wordings against him. Namely, if such as a one like the libertine himself can’t be reasoned that he is seemingly of the type so far from his past personal history of being such a jackanapes, then it’s, I think, better to leave him or her to rot, deliquesce, stink to deliver himself or herself out of it at last… Such happens but takes a long, long time ahead, for our instinct is of such always being self-deceptive to the extent of placing ourselves at the disposal of such mundane self-interests and sensual pleasures typically carnal ones but presenting as something else, so puritanical, so punctilious, or someone else as a good guy, as a defender of the sort.  

A well frog

By fully agreeing with the privileges of being an ordinary one in terms of stratatized social, economic norms of now, not of the depth and soundness of one's person and dignity, I do also second the greatness of pluralism and the fillip of having international aspect to any forms of creativity. But the fact remains the same backstreets in any countries now, especially even in the West. That is about the myopia of acting like a well frog, in Tibetan ཁྲོམ་པའི་སྦལ་བ་. And as per an old Indian saying, even a cur, a loutish mongrel, can act like a lion along the strip of his run. :D 

A tonic amid the huge jumble of thoughts and constructs

Like scratching an old scab, I tend to go back unwilling to let myself live down thus... But, at the same time, like letting myself at least try to form a cicatrizing pale ring around the wound, I am in love with the reality of interconnected network of origination or dependency to its infinity, much beyond your mathematical calculation and academic grandiosity so simply futuristic and bombastic. I wonder can your putting step on every entity of the galaxy matter in transforming yourself into a stable one at least at last.