Pacman vs Money = Faith vs Mammon

Manny Pacquiao will fight on faith.
Floyd Mayweather Jr. on money.
That is the sub-plot of this mega-clash of the dying art-form of pure, thoroughbred prize-fighting.
Given that at this level it is about thoroughbreds, their pedigree is only quotable when they are in the ring.
Mayweather outside the ring is Money.
Pacman outside the ring is a Believer.
Politician, singer, basketball player are all second to his new God-foundedness.
This is why this boxing match is more than just claim for title of best pound-for-pound fighter since Mike Tyson.
It is Faith vs Mammon.
Let the fight begin!

What now?

What now, of words that won’t come?
Guilt, shame, condemnation washed clean in the flood of grace; All ideation and creative inspiration washed away as well.
Ctrl, Alt Dlt – hard-drive cleaned out.
What of that desire to move the world to joy… or pain?
Close my eyes. Breathe deeply.
Cut wood, fill water.
Do the work. Write for discipline.
Believe. It will come.
If it doesn’t, rest in the grace.
Maybe, the words are all gone.
Maybe, it simply is a time to listen. To listen now, forever.
Maybe, the best of what I had to say is said.

Creative junk-ie

The best creative advice I received came from two creative junkies who understood the discipline involved in the process.
One said, write every day at a fixed time, whether you want to or not, whether you can or not.
Fix the time, write.
The other, a painter, shared how she did not hold an exhibition till she had done like over 1,000 paintings – good, bad, ugly.
“Your work is not worth public viewing until you have exhausted yourself attempting every creative inspiration to aspire for perfection; even then it may not be,” she said.
Here I am, writing, again.

Shawshank Redemption

I’m in jail. (So what if it’s ACed and I get biryani?!).

My son’s on the other side of a screen… a weekly visit.

Pop pops a question - searching for hope (for myself i.e., he has plenty) .

“Son, what do you miss most about me?”

He’s 8, a kinesthetic learner. He fiddles, ticks, shifts.

Suddenly, he stops looks me straight in the eye and says: “Everything.”

His hands begin moving again all over the place, as he tries to show what he means.

Then, he stops again, and says: “I miss all of you.”

And he’s gone.

Serendipity, Epiphany, Take 5, Brubeck, Jazz Junkie

Like an over-arching bow in the hands of a linguistic warrior ‘Serendipity’ and ‘Epiphany’ drop in the same sentence.

That is exactly the twaddle I often blubber, on an overly-whiskied night, to justify my existence.

Then, Dave Brubeck died and the ‘Epiphany’ about the ‘Serendipity’ hit home.

I discovered jazz bunking school going to a buddy’s house.

At 13, I heard Take 5.

Serendipity: Bunking school to watch porn, but ending up listening to Brubeck and being converted to jazz forever

Epiphany: Brubeck dies, damn, Take 5. I have forgotten who I really am. I’m a jazz junkie.

At my wedding toast I said: This is the only time im going to probably have so many people listening to me, unless I win the grammys or an Oscar or at the very least a Booker.
That was when I was 26. Or 27. Or fuck… too long ago… I didn’t win any, but if I did, this is what it would sound like… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aft4RE6psV0&feature=related
For what its worth. I still love the woman I married, as Oscar Wilde said, each man kills the thing he loves,
Unless your’e a woman… then you kill the man you love.

Have you seen me?

If you’ve ever seen Mel Gibson smile, blue-eyed and free (Brave Heart)
Then you’ve seen me.
If you’ve ever seen Daniel Day Lewis run wild and jump for what he believed (Last of the Mohicans)
Then you’ve seen me.
If you’ve ever seen Russel Crowe draw his sword and die for his wife and child, then you’ve seen me (Gladiator)

If you have ever seen me…

Watch the Wrestler

And seen the emptiness
Like a vessel waiting to be filled,

Then you should know, you’ve seen me.

Big and broken and loving you till the end

Like a one trick pony…

You’ve seen me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-6DM6iWKKo