Kahve Chronicles: Part -10

“Death by attrition is not the same as attrition by death.” I think I read this somewhere deservedly obscure.
All things start out by being alive, because they are formed by an unspoiled, pristine principle
The snow, before people and cars muck it up, is alive.
It covers everything based on the principle of gravitational projection – this is indeed a very grave topic.
Those surfaces that counter the direction of gravity are white, the rest are not.

Then little by little, motion, heat and chemicals transform it into a dead thing.
Tires smash it, Plows pile it. Sewer-line access covers melt circles in it. .Salt particles pepper it with holes.
Before you know it, it is an unrecognizable mess.
There is no rhyme, reason or overriding principle that can explain its unified form and existence, any longer.
Snow, invariably dies a thousand deaths before it vanishes and is reborn into another existence as water

My friend the Oak goes through the same process, only over a longer period of time, say a few centuries
Cardinals, roses, snails, ladybugs, and carnations all do the same thing within their own pace and pattern
Neither all animates are alive nor all inanimates dead.
Uranium 238 is not only alive but also fertile. Kim Jung Il, on the other hand, is as dead as a doorknob
– at the time of this writing, according to all indications, he was still running North Korea; a real feat for a corpse.

Even though with every passing quantum of time it tick-tocks closer and closer to its ultimate demise
The original constitution of 238 is in tact and readily recognizable, centuries later.
The original constitution of Kim Jung Il on the other hand is far gone
Not even his mom could figure it out anymore
He is dead and mummified for all intents

The sun is the most extraordinary of all living things
It lives a million lives and dies a million deaths every day
Every split second, it begins its cycle of birth on a new spot on our lonely planet
Just as it concludes its cycle of death at a different spot far far away
Its is a metaphor for all living things that continuously light up and fadeout on the timeline of existence

When I first began teaching at my department, I thought I belonged to a living thing
I perceived an order of knowledge acquisition and dissemination
The world was my repository from which I harvested
The students were my depository into which I planted
Little by little I lost it all

Kuhn convinced me that harvesting was a reenactment of an ancient Teutonic ritual
This is “embedded in our DNA and is a necessary part of a balanced life.
Through ritual we are able to keep our Physical, Spiritual, Emotional and Mental aspects in dynamic balance.”
We go through predetermined motions of presumed discovery and end up with fragments of ideas
Which are not alive even for a split second and; at best they are perfect candidates for a male menopausal purge

My protégé convinced me that he can imitate me and everyone else we knew
Better than I could
He succeeded at failure splendidly
He could think his way into deeper labyrinths of reasoning than anyone else I knew
He mastered attriting his original constitution better than any academician. This he died even before graduating

Little by little the constellation of lights that surrounded me got snuffed out by attrition
Each dying corpuscle of my being contributed in kind to this overall process
Until there was nothing left.
This is the tirade I engage in every time I start a new semester with a new bunch of students
I wait with bated breadth to see if someone – anyone – will stand up and yell ”bull hit!” But alas…

“Bullshit! “You know, I did it, you nincompoop!” It was René
I thought you read my biography carefully, since you pontificate about my intellectual rebellion, in your lectures.”
I must have been vocalizing my thoughts and he must have overheard.
I tried to change the subject: “If you are looking for slightly used cooler bottles you are out of luck, I already looked”.
He did not buy it; no wonder he is the father of Modern Philosophy, come to think of it, he does look like a hound dog

“Oedipus, Socrates, Occam!” he summoned the rest of the musketeers – he always fancied himself as D’Artagnan
Thus the sword, the debauchery, and the unwarranted aggression.
One by one my nemeses emerged from the shadows. They were wearing solemn faces in front of their usual masks
“I am bringing charges against this creature – Réne uttered with disdain – for corrupting the minds of the young”
This has an awfully familiar ring. Cicero; yes! he was charged with similar nonsense. At least I am in good company.

“I overhead him lament the fact that his students were not clever enough to recognize his lies and distortions”
“Here before you stands a confessed criminal of the worst kind, one who screws with innocent minds”
“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” René was filling time now, he had ran out of original syllogisms a while ago
He was resorting to clichés and jingles.
And without any fallout since the triumvirate he summoned appeared indifferent to the informal proceedings.

Occam was preoccupied with occupying the least amount of space,
Socrates was counting invisible quantities.
Oedipus was staring into silence,
“Gentlemen!” Réne bellowed and drew his rusty sword as if to conceal his threat-full intent behind accentuation
“You are here to judge this individual, Son of Hounddog and cohort of persons with dubious origin and destination!”

“Let the proceedings begin!”
As if waiting for this cue Socrates joined the fray: “Once he questioned my questionings.”
“He disproved my … I mean tried to disprove my method of questioning, whilst he was questioning himself.,”
“See the contradiction in his ways, devious, questionably devious, I say.”
“Of course, in principle all of this is questionable…” He started to mumble to himself and continue with counting

Clearing his throat as loudly as he can, as if to try to override the last waves of speech that left Socrates throat
Réne exhorted: “There you have it! Deviousness at work! Confusing young minds beyond a chance for redemption”
Occam was raising his right finger but the gesture was so faint that Réne called on Oedipus instead
“Well, I always thought the fellow was troubled. Let me tell you. I should know!
“He was disguising himself as a superhero to slay his own father. Fratricide! I say, by way of villainous murder!”

“Ok, there you have it! If this is not an open and shut case I do not know what is.”
“Does anyone have anything more to add?”
“Yes” said Occam, from behind the shadows.
“Speak ma’man, don’t be bashful, what is taking you so long?
Oh Occam! I forget; come forward; say what’s on your mind”

“Was he read his rights? He has a right to representation.”
“C’mon man! Do you have to bring this up now?”
Bemused by the antiques of my dumpster chums, I was quietly observing the shenanigans
“I agree, I have not been read my Miranda rights that I have a right to remain silent, and a right to representation.”
“I want Cicero; summon Cicero!” I exclaimed.

Réne was visibly annoyed by the prolongation of these proceedings.
“First of all, you betrayed your own demand, thanks to your menopausal-mouth shooting off when it should shut up.”
“You seem to know your rights by heart. That is why we did not recite them to you.”
“It was Occam. He said ‘Why repeat the obvious? ‘Isn’t that right Occam? Isn’t that right?”
Struggling to make his nod visible from his dark corner, Occam uttered a faint breadth of air that sounded like “hum.”

“Secondly, your demand for representation is an exercise in futility.”
“Cicero. Let me think, if my history classes bear any witness, a lawyer who failed in his own defense.”
“One who had to forfeit all to save his life by fleeing Rome with only the shirt on his back in the dark of the night.”
“You want him to defend you? I would gladly let you suffer the consequences of your own demand,”
“Only If it weren’t for our preference for brevity and expediency – Occam what do you say? “

By this time Occam had decided that he had done all he could and left the proceedings
Oedipus spoke on everyone’s behalf “Cicero, I’m summoning Cicero!”
Out of the garbage dumpster emerged a disheveled old, diminutive man, wearing rags that used to be a toga.
“Thank god, someone called me out of hiding. I hope that villainous Caesar did not hear my name being called.”
“If he finds out, he is likely to chase me around with his sword.”

“Do you want to represent this man in these proceedings? He demanded your representation.”
Cicero turned around to see who was speaking.
Seeing Rene in his getups with drawn sword in hand he jumped back a few feet before collecting himself.
“Sure, I will. I am a little rusty but I’ll do it. Who is the defendant, what is the charge?”
Cicero and I bonded in no time. I think he empathized with me owing to the sorry state of my fur and sad eyes.

“Senators, citizens and slaves!” Since the passage of civil rights act he seems to have revised his address.
“I submit to you that these are trumped up charges. I know; been there; done that.
“In the first place, let us examine the credentials of the accusers.”
“A murderous, incestuous, mythological character brought before our lime lights through Shakespearean fiction”
“No doubt, he has been motivated by guilt, envy, and a deep desire for parity with others. Need I say more?”

“A so called Greek Philosopher who is unsure of everything lest he may be slightly mistaken about their truth.”
“What business does this man have accusing anyone of any thing?”
“Why should we believe anything he says when he can say nothing that he believes?”
“Sigmund Freud, personally, would have a field day with the source of his insecurities.”
“And about the other protagonist called Occam, there can be, by definition, little to nothing to say.”

“Réne is a bit more complex. Unlike the others, chronologically speaking, he succeeds me,.”
“So I have not had a chance to learn about him or his singular god.”
“His god was invented before my time; and I must reserve judgment on these matters as well as his true motivation.”
“However, it seems to me that he is a scavenger of information morsels and a manipulator of their composition.”
“Anyone who can go from ‘I think.’ to ‘There is god.’ needs to be credited with slight of hand and derision of thought.”

Cicero, had resorted to his old ways in the Senate and the Consulship he held.
His accusations were not only weak but also so subtle that even I, a professor, found them to be esoteric
“What about his debaucherous ways? What about seducing married women, consorting with prostitutes?” I yelled.
“How about drinking, gambling, fornicating and his mercenary ways?”
“How about denouncing the teachings of his mentors?

Now I had found the foundation of my litigation: “Isn’t that motive enough?
“He is denouncing those who are able to convince their students of the truth of their teaching?”
I could see, with a gleam in my eye that Réne was getting flustered by the second.
I decided to put the nail in his coffin: “He thinks he is D’Artagnan; he is a delusional impostor; he is a fake”
“Dumas! You created a monster, who is not even a part of your fiction.”

René did not take my sarcasm sitting down.
In fact, he leaped up; yelled ‘En garde!;” and stabbed me with his rusty sword right through my ribs.
I was stunned.
Now I know what it is like to watch something dramatic happen to you as you watch it as a third-party spectator
René withdrew his sword. Wiped it with some rotten banana peels and placed it back in its shield.

One by one, all of the protagonists dissolved into the dark corners of the Starbucks loading dock.
As he scurried out, Cicero said: “Too bad, just when all was going so well; I better get lost before Caesar shows up.”
Oedipus articulated “’To be or not to be, that is…” He paused before continuing ”…not supposed to be overused.”
Occam walked in, nodded and walked out without saying a word.
Socrates mumbled “We need to reexamine the facts here; where as we think he is stabbed in the heart…”
His voice trailed off and disappeared as he walked away and disappeared, himself.

Kahve, propelled by some power outside of thoughts emanating from any specific part of his physical being
Crawled to the back of the dumpster where he kept his unpublished notes about his menopausal brain
He clutched them against his bloodied body
His final thoughts were; “the world is never the way it’s supposed to be”
They found him days later.

The Coroner declared: “death by attrition, causing an offensively pungent decomposition of the body.”
They buried his body in a mass grave near the municipal dump.
His brat, Cappuccino inherited the bloodied manuscript of menopausal notes Kahve left behind
His mom was not interested in notes of a bloodied sort. She is a clean freak.
His dad could not be reached on account of an Elvis sighting that was reported on National Public Radio.

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Kahve Chronicles Part-9

Thinking is risky business.
I was good at many things, before my encounter with René -the-I-think-therefore-I-am syllogism freak
Since then, my life has been an unmitigated series of failures that landed me in my present evocation
A Full Professor with tenure at a prestigious university.
I will protect the innocent by not naming any names

Once I was really good at ping pong, at least for my age
Soon I figured, my three older brothers did not think so
I always ended up being the last to pickup the rackets and the first to set them down
One day, I got so mad that I threw the rackets at them and their fem companions.
I needed to move on

This was just one of my well-meaning demonstrations of skill, many of which bore similar fruit
Therefore, I decided to become good at making things rather than breaking them.
I cut branches off of trees in our yard and made bows, arrows, and sling shots
I did not know what else to do with a pocket knife, twine, and an old inner tube of my dysfunctional bicycle tire
I could have played S&M games with my pet dog, Kopek, but unexpectedly she was poisoned by animal “rescue”

My indulgence in bows-arrows and slingshots also came to an unceremonious end
Despite my mother’s heroic efforts, my father discovered the use I got out of my craftsmanship
With an arrow, I had almost poked the eye off of my best friend
Further, I had distressed countless innocent birds with rocks slung from my sling.
So, I moved on.

When I became a father, I wanted to prove to my father that not all craftsmanship was harmful.
On my basement workbench, I built two sleds from recycled wood planks using only hand held tools
I was proud of my achievement.
However, my children, not jaded by deep thought as I was, saw clearly what I had done.
They were too embarrassed even to come anywhere close to my crafty creations

So we drove to Home Depot
Purchased sleds made out of polymers engineered in some chemical plant in China
All for a fraction of the cost of the paint I would have had to use on my wooden sleds
My father never got to observe that craftsmanship can be rewarding at least for China and Home Depot
Since, at the time, he was too preoccupied with the latest Elvis gig.

I moved on and became an architect, believing like everyone else that it is a most fulfilling profession
Becoming a doctor was far too time consuming and costly
And as one of my acquaintances said about his father’s legal profession
“The difference between Lawyer and liar is a mere nuance in the art of pronunciation”
I earned two masters and a PhD that, as I learned afterwards, were unnecessary for practicing architecture

As a practitioner I felt that architects were underpaid, overworked, and poorly treated
Respectively, developers and contractors had the first and the last say
Architects, stuck somewhere in the middle, were squeezed into the realm of the insignificant
With compromised designs, mounting insurance costs, and increasing risks of litigation.
Once again, I had to move on

So what’s a guy – or a canine – to do?
At each turn, I had to abandon my evocations because I thought too much about them
I figured out what I was doing wrong; better yet, what was wrong with the world
I had failed utterly in the “real” world, what ever that means
And, consequently, I was perfectly primed for a career in academia.

I talked eloquently about failure, fiction, and fiasco as the very best lessons from which to learn
Students followed my impassioned admonition like the bear-children following those of Papa Bear
My colleagues’ tales of failure outdid mine with spectacular success, which is a topic for another chronicle.
I earned my tenure and promotion gratefully
Thus, choosing thought, failure, and academia over action, success, and reality

Now, I have a lot of time to teach, fail, and think
I rarely play ping pong or make sling shots any more
I talk a lot about the pleasures and perils of doing so
I have the full attention of innocent minds attached to ears that suck up my words
Like so many automaton rolling through reels of cellulose acetate

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles – 8

Thinking is dangerous business.
I was good at many things, before my encounter with Réne-the-I-think-therefore-I-am-syllogism freak
Since then, my life has been an unmitigated series of failures that landed me in my present vocation
A Full Professor with tenure at a prestigious university – I will protect the innocent by naming no names

Once I was really good at ping pong, at least for my age
Soon I figured, my three older brothers did not think so
I always ended up being the last to pickup the rackets and the first to set them down
One day, I got so mad that I threw the rackets at them and their fem companions, I needed to move on

This was just one of my well-meaning demonstrations of skill, many of which bore similar fruit
Therefore, I decided to become good at making things rather than breaking them.
I cut branches off of trees in our yard and made bows, arrows, and sling shots
I did not know what else to do with a pocket knife, twine, and an old inner tube of my bicycle tire

This vocation also came to an unceremonious end
Despite my mother’s heroic efforts, my father discovered the use I got out of my craftsmanship
With an arrow, I had almost poked the eye off of my best friend
Further, I had distressed countless innocent birds with rocks slung from my sling. So, I moved on.

When I became a father, I had to prove to my father that not all craftsmanship was harmful.
On my basement workbench, I built two sleds from recycled wood planks using only hand held tools
I was proud of my achievement; my children, not jaded by deep thought, saw clearly what I had done.
They were too embarrassed even to come anywhere near my crafty creations

So we drove to Home Depot
Purchased sleds made out of a polymer engineered in some chemical plant
All for a fraction of the cost of the paint I would have had to use on my wooden sleds
My father never got to observe my demonstration that craftsmanship can be rewarding for Home Depot

I moved on and became an architect believing like everyone else that it is a most fulfilling profession
Becoming a doctor was far too time consuming and costly
And as one of my acquaintances said about his father’s legal profession
“The difference between Lawyer and liar is a mere nuance in the art of pronunciation”

I soon discovered that architects are underpaid, overworked, and poorly treated
Respectively, developers and contractors have the first and the last say
Architects, somewhere in the middle, are squeezed into the realm of the insignificant
With compromised designs, mounting insurance costs, and increasing risks of litigation.

So what’s a guy – or a canine – to do?
At each turn I abandoned my evocations because I thought too much about them
I figured out what I was doing wrong; better yet, what was wrong with the world
Thus, I had failed utterly in the real world and I was perfectly primed for a career in academia.

I talked eloquently about failure, fiction, and fiasco as the very best lessons from which to learn
Students followed my impassioned admonition like the bear-children following those of Papa Bear
My colleagues’ tales of failure outdid mine with spectacular success – a topic for another chronicle.
I earned my tenure and promotion gratefully, placing a permanent distance between thought and action

Now, I have a lot of time to think
I rarely play ping pong or make sling shots any more
I talk a lot about the pleasures and perils of doing so, and have the full attention of innocent minds
Attached to ears that suck up my words like movie projectors going through rolls of cellulose acetate

Kahve Chronicles – 7

It must be human nature to go against its own nature
Most addictive behavior and self-destructive diseases are like that
Auto immune diseases, cancer, and a myriad of debilitating systemic diseases result in death
Obesity, drugs, gambling, anorexia, alcoholism, hoarding – yes, hoarding – can cause destruction

Personally I like hoarding; what’s a dog without a stash of bones?
However, I can never recall where they are, which means that harmless versions of hoarding do exist
As opposed to when getting rid of that which is useless, redundant, and too far gone is impossible
In spite of the fact that human biology is designed to discard the old, the broken, the dysfunctional

It is called menopause or aging
A woman’s reproductive system ruthlessly sheds its eggs when they are past their prime
Men’s cognitive system ruthlessly sheds its ideas when they are past their prime
Unlike women, ideas are men’s only productive contribution to their species.

“Tell me René it ain’t so.” During his mercenary days, Descartes was a frequent visitor at the dumpster
“M”afraid, it is so; either that or you have diarrhea of the mouth.”
He spoke with a convincing tone even when his articulation was slurred by his drunken stupor.
“You mean I have too many ideas?” He had passed out before hearing my attempt at a silver lining.

The business of thinking or thoughtfulness is hard.
It took me the better part of my adult life to figure it out
I went through my childhood and adolescence like an old fashioned movie projector
Sensations went through my mind like so many reels of cellulose acetate, hardly leaving an impression

I did many thoughtless things;
I spoke when I had no cause. I kept silent when I had something to say
I rolled my eyes as if I had an opinion; I was fearful of falling out of the norm
Twiddled my thumbs knowingly; scratched my head in denial; I made no difference for a very long time

One day, the acetate got stuck in the projector mechanism and the lens burned an impression into it
The acetate caught fire in turn; and burned an impression on the lens of the proxemic accoutrement
Here I indulge in my impressionistic French because René is the culprit.
“I think therefore I am!” he declared.

“Get real, René. Do you mean you are but I ain’t? I don’ even know what ‘think’ is.””
“It is what you’re doing now.” “C’mon man!” – I heard this while going tough another reel years ago
“You mean I’ve been thinking all along and I didn’t even know it?
How thoughtless of me!”

The puzzlement in René’s face started at one point, just about the tip of his nose – as if smelling a rat
Then it grew from there, in concentric circles, to cover is entire face, and being.
Then he exploded into a rage “I heard about your mangy ways from Socrates, you Fing Ahole”
“Are you trying to disprove my theory?”

I let you know that “I think therefore I am.” is the beginning of my syllogism that concludes with
“Therefore there is God.” “Now top that, you blasphemous Duck! – a clear insult for a male canine.”
With these words he drew his sword; attempting to injure me before falling face first into the dumpster
I learned that day that while I was being thoughtless, I was indeed mastering the art of thinking.

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Kahve Chronicles – 6

I have a framed view of everything from where I sit.
In the foreground, big, fat old lady ankles wearing thick, mat stockings and puffy, homey slippers
In the background, the bed decked out with the fancy taffeta and embroidered bed covers and pillows
Women scurrying back and fourth between the bed and the chamber door, in the middle

There is a subdued commotion in the room
Some sound as if they are having an emphysema attack: right address but not enough postage
While others are whispering with force, as if in a movie theatre
“Poor dear; I wish it was over; she suffered enough; it’s not her first either…”

I hold my breadth; the tension is too high for me; at times like this, I wish I were a cat.
They are cool and collected; they do not care, except for the fur they incessantly lick
Only to cause their gastronomy to reject the unintended collection as a furry mess
“It’s a girl!” I open my eyes. “Full head of hair, chubby cheeks, coal black eyes”

“Of all the years I have been a midwife never have I seen such beauty!”
I begin to stick my nose out — or should I say in – from my stealthy location
I need to get a peek at the bundle, bundled in white linen, being passed around from lap to lap
Someone slaps my face with a deformed, odorous, furry slipper, which gives me uncouth pleasures

This is when I really want to be a cat.
I could gracefully strut through the room drawing figure-eights around thick ankles
Even sniff a few here an there, attracting only mild curiosity if not affectionate admiration
They might even let me take a look at her up close

Wait, I can see her now; she is decked out in her weekend clothes
Her hair is in a ponytail down to her waist; cheeks in springtime splendor; deep dark eyes aglow
She is strutting besides her momma clicking the leather soles of brand new shoes as if she is Ginger
In the foreground, I see an indifferent boy; in the background a “different” boy

She likes to hold her cigarette just so swirling smoke around the necks of passers by
You can inhale some but not so much, lest you want to be forever longing for it
With a firm stab of her silken scarf fluttering in the air, she likes to impale herself into your memories
The different boy in the background has no chance as she passes by without a note

I see her in the middle; little ones in the foreground and a big one in the back
They make her happy, hoppy, hippy, and glad
They make her sad, bad, mad, and snappy
She is them

Arrange, caress, clean, comfort, cook, cry, cuddle, despair, dice, draw, dress, dye
Feed, fix, fold, hate, knit, knot, laugh, love, mend
Paint, print, regret, sell, sign, snap, spin, string, tap, throw, tidy, tuck, twirl, wash, and weep
Now, her hair, cheeks, and eyes are second fiddle to her hands

She is lying in the big decorated bed like Freda with her health intact
Men and women surround the bed like so many admirers
Her hands are busy bandaging, mending, and massaging a wounded albatross
Hope against hope that mirth will follow rebirth

Such is the ways of men
They are yet to discover the joys of pissing on fire hydrants,
Pretending to be a Rottweiler, chowing down on dung or
Chewing on discarded coffee grounds while having a conversation with Socrates or Occam

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