The spell of the mirrors...

Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors…

I am standing in a room, full of mirrors. The room has the classic-cube shape, with the walls covered in mirrors. I can neither find the door, nor remember how I entered this room in the first place. It’s as if I was brought here when I was asleep, or even maybe born here, but never noticed the mirrors. Whatever the reason, I am now surrounded by mirrors.

They are somehow different from my memory of a regular mirror, which should naturally reflect my own image. In each, I can see my own image, but somehow changed, tiltled, alternated. Thank god they are not scary, or too fat, or too thin, or bald! They are just…how to say it…different.
In every mirror, there is a me. Cooking in a kitchen, typing behind a computer, marking some papers in a classroom, feeding a baby, waiting in a long queue for a bus, in the middle of a conversation, shouting and waving hands (this one seems angry!), trapped in traffic, sitting in a cottage looking at the flowers, in the middle of a party…
As soon as I look at each one of them in their mirrors, they pause whatever it was they were doing, look up, and stare back at me through their mirrors, seemingly deep in thought, and then back to whatever it was they were doing…

OK, now it’s getting a bit scary. I have missed the sense of which one is the real me, and if I don’t focus on myself, I can mistake myself with any of the other reflections in the mirrors. They can all be me, and yet I am myself. I am the one who is looking at all of these mirrors, freaking out. I should leave this room. I cannot recognize myself in any of them, and yet, they all look familiar. The thing is they are not necessarily “me” who chose any other path on the way. Some of the reflections, I have no idea where they are coming from…I’m freaking out. I should leave this room.

I walk around, touching each mirror. They are solid. They don’t move. There is no button or key around any of them. I try to break them, they don't break. I’m frightened, lost, frustrated, desperate. I sit, close my eyes, and lie down. Maybe this is a dream, a nightmare, and I can end it by opening my eyes. Let’s count to ten; one, two, three,…

Opening my eyes, I am still in the same room, with all the mirrors and all my reflections. But there is some hope. Looking up, I see the ceiling. There is no reflection in the ceiling. Just the sky, bright and blue; and the clouds, puffy and white. Maybe there is an escape after all. I take whatever I can find in the room, piling them on top of each other, making a tower to go up toward the ceiling. My hands are scrached and my back hurts, but I am going up, up, up… and then to the ceiling. It’s made of glass, but I take one of my heaviest books and hit it hard…so hard that it breaks with a loud crack, and the glass sparkles around everywhere. A nice breeze blows in. Finally! I grab myself up the side, and look outside…

Everywhere is filled with cubes, covered in glass and mirrors. Every mirror is a wall between each two rooms. The life is going on in each room, reflecting in some mirrors, and observing other reflection of it’s own. Each image is slightly similar, and slightly different from the other reflections. Every now and then, in each cube, people pause, look up, stare for a couple of moment into the mirrors, and go back to their lives. Apparently this was not a nightmare afterall, it was the life itself...

And I’m on the top of the roof, looking at the infinite number of the cubes, and amazed by so many different reflections, so similar; yet so different…I’m not scared anymore.

Me, Myself, and I

"Self" has been described and discussed vastly in different fields. Philosophers, psychologists and sociologists have defined the word, explained the concept in details, and analyzed it with different approaches. Many people in a broad field of sciences, from Avicenna to Heidegger, have worked on it.

I am no philosopher, but I have my own theory.

In my opinion, "Self", as well as many other physical materials, can be described as having the dual wave-like and particle-like property. Now I’m not only talking about the small components of body, as in the organic ingredients, which can in detail be a composition of atoms, so electrons and nucleus and hence smaller particles, which can have that dual property. I am as well talking about the good old "Self", the one who sits behind our eyes in our brain, and senses stuff. The king of the kingdom. The one in whose eyes we look while looking inside the mirror. The one we are alone with at night right before going to sleep and review the day’s events once more. The one we make promises to, while making the New Year’s resolutions. One’s own Self.

This so called "Self", although is not definitely mere matter (and I’m not quite sure if it is some sort of energy, or just a result of different interactions and synapses inside the amazing brain), can in my idea have both properties of a wave, and a particle, with different quanta of energy.

I describe it in this way. I am the same person in this body since I was born. Sure I have grown and changed, but this person who is typing these words, is the same person who once was 4, 12, 20 or 30. The same person who almost was drowned when she was four, hated her new school when she was 14, read like crazy in odd hours of day when she was 19, and fell off the bike when she was 30. The same person who chose a wrong path on an important turning point in 17 and still regrets it, took the right path in another turning point in 25 and is still happy about it. I am the same person. I am a whole.

Still, I cannot believe I am the same person I once was in my early 20s. I cannot believe some of my choices back then. It’s as if someone else made those choices. Someone else has lived that life; someone else experienced those events. It’s as if at some points in my life, quanta of energy have knocked me off my state at the time, sending me to another level. Whether it’s a higher level or not, I cannot judge necessarily (although one can argue that "being happy" can be a good scale to measure the level of the state) but still, I can say for sure that it’s another level.

One specific experience that sometimes can mark these different states, is meeting an old friend. When there is a friendship that has reached to the expiration date, and you meet that friend after awhile, there are moments that you cannot believe you were once so close to this friend and actually had a pretty good time together. What has happened is simply that you both have changed, and the change is not only in your new high-lights, or her nose job. It’s something in different levels of each one’s state. Something that makes you disappointed, when you both look deep into each other’s eyes, while chatting from here and there, unable to find the other one’s familiar Self…It’s not only the disappointment from not finding the old friendship, but a horrible feeling of being torn into parts in time. The more the change and the farther the friend seems, the more painful the feeling. "Who the heck was I back then?" won’t leave you for quite some time…

But it will pass. The continuity of the life routine will ease the pain. One, gets quanta of energy again, changes levels, and continues to be the same self over and over again, experiencing all those ups and downs, in one whole life…

Dark or white chocolate, or ... maybe none?

Early in the afternoon, nice breeze through a window, two big mugs of freshly steeped tea. After a pause in front of the fridge, I pick one "Kit Kat-dark" to accompany with my tea. Offering it to Mr Alchemist, he tries one stick, and he hates it! I love it, and we break into a discussion about why we feel so differently about the same thing. He thinks that this dark version of Kit Kat, or any dark chocolate for that matter, is not sweet enough as a chocolate is supposed to be, in fact it leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth after one eats it. He says that’s the main reason why he dislikes dark chocolate. I love dark Kit Kat, or any dark chocolate for that matter, exactly for the same reason.

I’m talking over the phone with my father. It’s more of a discussion rather than a chat. We are discussing over a family-relations subject. Somebody has told a lie and expects everyone not only to accept it, but not to investigate it anymore. He believes it’s just some type of a game, which shouldn’t distract him from his more important issues in his life. I believe although there are important issues in his life, but so many of his obstacles originate from this childish game, which he should notice and care about.

I have two friends, both with kids. They have both been treated the same when they were kids themselves, meaning they were both being punished physically for their bad behaviors. Now after becoming adults and having kids of their own, for the same concept, they have concluded two different conclusions. One of them punishes her kids physically ("It was the same for me, and I turned out to be fine. I know it was for my own good back then, and now this is for the kids' own good."). The other one doesn’t even touch them when she is angry, worried that her touch may not have the same "gentleness" as her regular hug and care.

You can find thousand and thousands of these examples in your everyday life. From the smallest issues like selecting the pistachio over vanilla ice cream, to the bigger concepts of politics, ideology, or society. This could be seen as different perceptions (Hello my friend MH!). But my point is, who can decide what is good and what is bad for a whole bunch of people? If the results for me is totally different from my father's, my brother's, or my friend's, who can say that having 12000 calories per day will have the same effect on our bodies as it has for Michael Phelps? Who can guaranty that walking up and down the stairs for 30 minutes straight which is good for my chubby friend, does the same for me, and won’t hurt my knees? Who can say that this ideology or that social concept works for all the people? And more practically, aren’t we observing the result? Which nation is totally/totally happy and successful? I’m not talking about the surveys based on one person or a group of people’s perception on happiness and the conclusions, I’m talking reality. What makes the Danishes the happiest nation in the world, may not work for the people of Zimbabwe.

Maybe if we observe more, an unbiased observation without any prejudice, then coming to a pattern and then deciding upon that pattern helps us much more than deciding upon one person’s belief, or a group’s ideology, or a nation’s way of living. Maybe then we can come to some general rules to be happy and live happily, or maybe not. But at least we may come to the conclusion that we accept our differences and live by each other, without the urge to convince the other one to accept our beliefs.

Maybe the world turns out to be a better place after all…

The salesmen in the swamp...

The frogs were selling all sorts of stuff in the swamp.

"We have power, fame, and ultimate happiness. We also entertain you, tell you what’s going on outside. Let us show you how the outside world really is. Ask us. It’s easy; just know that everything comes at a price. Pay the price, and we’ll be happy to serve you."

"How much is the price?" asked someone.

"Just a tiny little bit of your soul, and we don’t actually take it forever, it’s like a rent. It won’t hurt, we borrow it for some time, as long as you listen to our stories and buy power or fame or simply a comfortable life, and then you can take it back. Think about it, with such big souls that we all creatures have, there wouldn’t be a problem if we get some of it only for some time..."

...

"….and they are really buying things from you?" asked a lady frog in their huge luxury house in the middle of the swamp.

"Of course, what did you think of me? I am not only selling them stuff, but also even images. They are all under the water and cannot get out, or they’ll die you know. So I am telling them whatever I see from the outside world…and you know your husband. What would I tell them?"

"Your own version, you smart frog. I know you, and that’s why I like you, even though I know about your flaws. But I believe in you. But what about the other insects who know what’s going on out there? Mosquitoes and flies are not our problem. They give anything in return of the favor that you don’t eat them. The butterflies are our main problem."

"I know, I know. I have thought about it too. At first I tried to get friends with them, which you know didn’t work. They stubbornly don’t give me any bit of their souls. But then I tried to get mosquitoes and flies to lead them to the good old spider on the far end of the swamp, and for the rest of them who don’t get trapped, I use my "soul-changing" trick, not on them, but on the swamp’s residents. Everything works better when we work from deep within them. That’s why I take a tiny little bit of their souls. I shape them as I want, and return them. They won’t notice it that after awhile, my lies look like the reality, and nothing bothers them any more. They just won’t care about what is "really" going on out there."

They started laughing, such an ugly laugh that one single small lotus behind their backyard, shrank in a heartbeat, and sank in the water…

...

But it was not completely hopeless yet, as the salesman frog wasn’t noticing or considering the small little caterpillars who were everywhere on the leaves, listening to their conversations, watching the trapped butterflies, getting friends with the nicer flies and talking to crickets, waiting for the day that they could fly away from the swamp, and experience the real reality, with their souls intact. The smart frog was smart, but couldn’t see them. They were there, waiting for the day of metamorphosis...

Feature presentation, feature audience...

There are always two major parties in a presentation; the speaker, and the audience.

I have personally read and heard a lot about the speaker; various styles, different manners, regular routines, interesting or boring presentations. How s/he is supposed to look the audience in the eyes, have a loud and clear voice, use the body language properly, be entertaining, etc. But I’ve not seen much about the audience. Supposedly they are there to listen, and apparently there are no “specific” styles of listening, right? But believe me, there are!

I was recently at a presentation, and for some reason, I started looking at the audience. We were sitting all around in not such a big room, so it was easy looking at people and observing their styles of “listening”, without being noticed.

Some were simply listening; looking directly at the speaker, blinking their eyes every now and then, hearing the words passively. Didn’t look that it mattered too much for them if the speaker was talking about the history of philosophy, or the latest political news in the world. He was there to talk, they were there to listen, simple as that. They usually continue their passive listening all the way throughout the talk, up to the questions. Their necks turn toward the one who asks the question, and back again to the speaker. They are the most boring audience god has ever created!
(Also in the same category, those who start listening with open eyes, and half way through presentation go to a nice comfortable sleep.)

Another group of audience includes the ones who actively listen, and even react. Laughing at the jokes, eyebrows frown in concentration, shaking their heads either in agreement or disagreement, they actively participate in listening. They become a part of the talk, enjoy it, and interact with the speaker which provides the necessary energy for the talk to go on. They often raise questions, to understand a concept or discuss on a belief, and listen to the answer, giving the speaker the chance to explain the issue. They are the best audience ever.

And somewhere in the middle of these two extremes, is the “naughty” audience. They are participating in the talk, either just to refer to it later (“…Oh, that one! Yeah, I know, I was there myself, but it wasn’t that interesting…”), or were enforced by somebody else, a spouse, a friend, a parent. They usually cannot stand not being the center of attention. They get bored very soon, maybe in the first ten minutes and then start talking or joking with their friends, giggling at something not very funny, looking at others, and making a comment every now and then about one sentence of the talk which they grab on the air. At the end of the talk, they usually ask questions, sometimes even not related to the subject, to attract the attentions from the speaker back to themselves. Then, no matter if the speaker has answered the question or not, they (often starting with “…thanks for your answer, but let me add my opinion to it…”) become a junior speaker and talk endlessly about their ideas and opinions, which could even be irrelevant to the talk. They make people annoyed, and even enjoy it. Anything that shifts the center of attention to them is worth the try!

And then, there is me. Listening to the talk, observing people’s manners, and taking notes, careful not to bother the speaker, or awaken the sleepy beauties!
How many other categories can you add to these?

Memories...

With pieces of memories, one can write history, but one certainly cannot live.
(Maral Aghoilar)
...

The quilt was made of hundreds of pieces of memories, in different colors, different shapes.. It was her comfort, her warmth, her whole life. She would hug it, put it on herself when she was cold, fold it to lean on and go through all different pieces. She could tell by heart which one was sewn there when. She had started sewing pieces since she was very young, almost a kid, although those pieces were very small. Then there were more colorful ones, in all vibrant lively colors. Those were from her younger years, when she was young and dynamic and full of energy. Then there were the more shaped ones, nicely shaped and clean, souvenirs from her middle aged years. But then recently, she had less and less pieces sewed to her quilt. Well simply not much was happening in her life. Except for that time when her favorite grandkid was getting married, or when her favorite nephew visited her after so many years with his wife and kid…and god knows how that little kid reminded her of her own belated brother…
Otherwise, not much had been added to the quilt.

But she was still happy. Going through the old pieces of quilt, made her busy for hours in the day and could protect her from this uneasy, boring life. Although there seem to be a problem recently, some of the pieces were not as colorful as before. Some she couldn’t even see clearly, some had become plain white.

"Her brain is shrinking. She has already lost her short term memory, and before you know, it will expand to her long term memory too." She could hear the doctor explaining to her kids about some ridiculously silly stuff. Why were they so stupid? There was nothing wrong with her, or her quilt. She just wanted to be left alone with her quilt to go through older pieces over and over and over again. And she was sure, the day that they all became white, she would lie underneath her quilt and would go to her most comfortable sleep of her life…
...

The man went to fill up his watering can from the bathroom. He felt tired, very tired. In fact, he was exhausted. As he was filling up his can, he could overhear somebody talking in the stair case. It was the lady who would go to his apartment once a week to clean and cook for him, talking to one of the neighbors, "…you know, he is a gentleman, one of the expired generation of the true gentlemen. But he is kind of strange", she lowered her voice, "and creepy sometimes. All day, he slowly walks in the apartment. You know it’s difficult for him to walk, with that cane and after his stroke, and you know how he is always fully dressed in a formal suit. And then he stops, bends over a little, does something which looks like he is, I don’t know, maybe pouring something on the floor from a pitcher or something, and he talks in a low voice, and he keeps doing this forever."
"You should have seen him when he used to throw the best parties in the neighborhood, and invited everyone, so that no one would complain from all that noise, and he danced and danced and danced, with everyone, young or old, girl or boy. He always had three different shirts for each party, because he had to change them as they became soaked in sweat after each round of dance."
"Really?..."
The voices were farther and farther, maybe they were going down the stairs.
He smiled, "Creepy…an exhausted ex-dancer creepy gentleman, hmm!" and looked at himself in the mirror. His purple tie had loosened a bit. He fixed it, although it was a bit difficult with the watering can and the cane and everything, and then he went to the living room, and started watering his plants, in his garden of memories.

There were so many of them. He had collected them for as long as he could remember. Recently he didn’t like to do anything except for watering them, treating them, looking at them and talking to them. They each reminded him of a different stage of his life. Some of them were so big with long green leaves and thick brown stems, some smaller but filled with flowers. There were even some cacti, with sharp thorns. But he liked them as well. It was a long time that even the sharpest thorns couldn’t make any harm to his old hands. They were all representing parts of his life. There were times when he wanted to share them with others, but soon he found out that they were not as interesting for others as they were for him, it was as if only he could see them. and then he stopped talking about them. Now it was just him, and them. And they were so many, that he had difficulty finding a spot for himself to walk through them. He knew that no matter if anyone else can see them or not, when he gets very tired, as tired as he cannot even take another step, they will make a bed for him with their leaves, so that he can rest…and who knows, maybe then he can rest forever…
...

PS: Didicated to the memory of a beloved grandmother and a beloved granduncle, who recently passed away...

I, and my four caring friends!

My hands and my legs are my old close friends!

Sometimes I just sit there inside my head, behind my eyes and watch them. I watch them constantly in moving, working, doing something.

They are in a good harmony with each other, to do my orders. Amazingly, sometimes I don’t even need to give them orders. I get up in the mornings, yawning and half asleep, leaning on my legs which start carrying me here and there, while my hands wash my face, make the tea and set the breakfast.

I’m still day dreaming and planning up there in my brain while my legs carry me to work, my hands taking care of the tickets and my bags. My legs still carry me patiently everywhere and bear with me when I need to run like crazy. At work usually is where I intentionally give my hands orders, to do the experiments that I want. But still, they can do things without me being involved, like tapping on my bench and making some kind of rhythm while I’m still thinking, or rubbing each other when they get tired or bored. Then I go back home, no sign of disobedience! They still cook for me, wash the dishes, change the channels on the remote control, turn the pages on my book, give me my tea, clean, wash, dry, fold, iron, sort, while my legs keep carrying me, either walking, or sitting down (well I very much tend to sit in lotus even on the sofa!!).

I guess my legs are the worker type, they just do the same thing over and over and over again, trying not to complain. My hands are smarter. They know me better and have developed some sort of brain (a muscle brain?!!) for their own. They do things smartly enough for me to look at them and be constantly amazed. They take good care of me, I try to do the same, but then it’s again them I have to set to work, to wash each other, to apply creams, to put on gloves. They, themselves, don’t want me to sit and do nothing, nor do my legs. All four of them need to be constantly in work, until they pass out, and I turn off the engine and go to sleep…

They make me feel comfortable sitting in my brain, behind my eyes, and while quality controlling their jobs, think about other things. Things like life, death, and people. And how every person is like a book, which starts somewhere, gets read, and stops somewhere, and when their books are closed, what remains for us is the feeling of missing them, and watching their empty space among us. My dear hands let me think about all these and even mourn a bit; when I’ve heard three pieces of bad news in a week from back home about our beloved ones who passed away, while they continue doing all daily routine activities of my life, leaning on my patient legs…

Human is an amazing creature…