The Happy Hormone

One of most interesting developments in the Human condition occurred in the small-backwater-town of Enfield, England, just 16.3km from Charing Cross, 18.8km from the London Stone and in case you are an abradant cockney, 18.9km from St. Mary-le-Bow, you dandy city-folk.

In 1810, at age 40, philosopher but mostly part-time cat farmer Meil Sans Bishopsgate had, after living a tremendously menial life come to the realization of his sad menial life and decided to do something about it. Being far too poor to purchase bullets or rope, he decided to make the best of it.

He immersed himself in philosophical study for two years at the Clarke’s School in Enfiled, with the set intention of improving the quality of his being or at the very least be able to then afford a bullet or two – the second, in case he missed.

Sans Bishopsgate almost quit his studies mid-way due to the elements and the never ending stream of insults coming from the children who attended the school -although in all fairness, from time to time, the teachers joined in too.

His muse, per-se, was a young and brash tuberculosis ridden boy who beat Bishopsgate to a pulp outside the local pub after a fight broke over the iconic importance of the King James Bible, England’s level of abject poverty and Meil having a stupid name. In his memoirs, published for his mother in 1815, Sans Bishopsgate describes the incident in detail and joyfully recalls, ‘Damn Keats’ boy. Hope he dies soon.’

After finishing his two years of standing outside the window where the philosophy class was taught, a full year of what he called ‘staring up at the sky’ followed with him to the conclusion that he was perfectly happy in his life. Meil wrote, “Even though, I have yet to taste the pleasures of the flesh, one must wonder, what does the body of a man truly encapsule? His Spirit? His gravitas? Does a man’s worth be set upon his receding hair line? Would the tender touch of a woman, nay, the spectacle of her bosom and weaving flocks heaving through the wind from a galloping horse bring peace to an aging man? Am I able to achieve these sights with my bare hands and sheer will?’ Sadly, Meil’s body was found at his mother’s cottage the next morning. Who knew? Sliding off the stairs head first had accomplished what self-illusion and the two bullets encrusted on the wall had not.

In the end, Meil Sans Brishopsgate peeked into the human psyche seventy-three years before Freud and coining the term “Mid-life Crisis” in the last page of his journal. Now, used by men loosing their hair and in desperate attempt of transcendental gratification. For this, he will always be remembered. By the way, that Keats boy ended up becoming one of England’s best poets. Go figure.

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Night time.
With the faint and ever lingering humming of cars in the distance
And incandescents hanging outside my windows which never seem to rest.
White noise for the desperate.

How long has it been since my dreams took hold?
Leading to lush lands? Islands teaming of vibrant thought and endearing peace?
How lucky mellow-minds are.
Free to stroll through fields of wild ponderings and soft-oranged mornings

To welcome sleep’s soft hand, nurturing and pleasant, like a mother’s tender touch. Knowing your rest and time are blessed.
Rather than embrace it as cold escapism. A hamac of obscurity. An unplugging tool to hinder the surges
Pardoning a fool’s head with levity thus allowing it to hang lighter

What time is it now? Three more hours? Then, is there not a choice?
I recall traveling endless kilometers within my living room. Carving a path through my carpet
Pacing my worries. Passing and pacing. Endless.
Your mind is the worse enemy.

Days gone by remind me of quieter times
When I did not loose myself in the rules of numbers & words, and lived.
I am still like that inside. I know it! I think…
I can see it, when I am not empty like a canteen or peddling fears to myself

Something hardly ever seen in my mind now, are the galleries of memories. My museum of flashbacks.
Halls full of wonders, some innocent like those of a child. Or some among loved ones –Spring picnics, drunken nights and love making on a whim. Gently running your fingers across someone’s lips before that first soft, lusting kiss.
All of them now amalgamated within the retreat of my mind, along my statues of granite reason. What will happen to them? I wonder.
As the comfort of silence, unleashed and uncontrolled can make you mad

So then, when they found me the next day. They couldn’t understand it. How could they? You can’t blame them either. I didn’t, and I was there
Ah, silence! Peaceful. And right before I fade. Just before I fade.
I despised the white noise, a pestilent symphony without coda. Never desisting. Now, I see nothing.

Only blackness. Blinded.
Dear God, …where am I?

Popularity: 8% [?]

One of my favourite guilty pleasures as far as documentaries go –yes, they too can be guilty pleasures– is Supersize Me. Many of you may remember the 2004 Oscar nominated film about Morgan Spurlock, a man who decides to throw health and common sense to the wind and eats only McDonald’s for thirty days straight. Did anyone really think the guy would not get any fatter? Please. If anything, it squarely highlights humanity’s inbred voyeuristic and sadistic tendencies. Same can be said by the explosion of reality shows clogging the airwaves for the last decade. Yes, TV’s Suvivor is that old.

Having said that, this is what A. J. Jacobs has accomplished, a reality TV show created in book format or intellectual fluff, if you will. Yes, you are curious. Yes, you want to see what happens. Then he writes about his life and when I mean his life, I mean, everything. Going for Chinese with his father-in-law, taking his son to a jungle gym at a park, doing his wife. Fantasizing about doing his wife’s friend! Uh, okay… Anyway, the book is more about the man’s neurosis and mysophobia: A peep whole into a not-so-really interesting life. Sure, he mentions some interesting factoids which will undoubtedly be used to amuse your less thansecular friends. For example, the Bible is actually cool with slavery and it is okay to beat the living bejesus out of them –granted they must live at least a day or two post-beating, ’cause otherwise, if they die, you know, it ain’t so cool (Exodus 21:21). Or the term ‘Scapegoat’ is ironically of Jewish etymology. For real, the head Aaron confessed all the sins of the children of Israel on the Day of Atonement into a goat. Then the goat, symbolically bearing their sins, was run off a cliff. Splat! I can imagine my friends sighing already! I will give A.J. points for creatively using the Bible the same way Spurlock milked McDonald’s. Are they the first ones to ever do so? Heck no. But self-experimentation under the cloak of a higher cause is the new, hot marketing tool on the scene.

As I mentioned in the first part of my review, A.J. does not shy from pointing out he is doing this enterprise as a book project and there is nothing wrong with that. However, later in the book when he attempts to highlight a sort of religious awakening within, is where it stops being cute intellectual fluff and becomes a manufactured chain of events which are meant to pluck on the emotional strings of the reader –like the death near the end of the book. I am not denying it happened, however you can sense that actions have been filtered through a literary prism before being neatly set on the page.

Perhaps I was asking too much. Perhaps knowing someone is doing something for a paycheck drains its respectability. As you can’t shake the feeling you are being shepherded into a product, not sharing a journey. This rule especially applies when the material in question is of spiritual and ethereal context. Like the Law of Attraction ‘coaches’ **cough**The Secret**cough** who teach students to free and release themselves from their worldly chains and miseries for $250 per seminar. Of course they forget to mention Zen Buddhists have been doing that for 1445 years. For free. These examples are all a reminder that enlightenment, whichever way you wish you find it, can be found with curiosity and most importantly, within each of us. But it cannot be reached by neither a prescribed capsuled period of time or in Oprah’s choice for book of the month. Even if it is for the low MSRP of $23.95. However four million people have already done so, I call that a ‘crash diet for the soul.’

In the end, The Year of Living Biblically is enjoyable as any fluff. As you are left feeling that A.J. learns nothing deeper than Biblical trivia which will last him for a lifetime of parties, family gatherings and maybe some talk shows. No, A.J. your PR and marketing handlers were only half right. Yes, it was a one man’s quest to follow the Bible literally, that you did for the most part. But was it a humble one? Not by a long shot. No my friend, you made some good coin. Was that the point?

Popularity: 12% [?]

Someone close to me bought me a book entitled “The Year of Living Biblically,” ironically, as a Christmas present. At first, when you crack the sucker open it is hard not to feel comfortable as you sail past the first few pages. A. J. Jacobs, a self-described agnostic-Jew who takes pride in his generally God-less existence, is a fun, if a little neurotic scribe. He guides you quite easily through the origins and the concept of his project: To live one year as literally conscious of the Bible as possible –and yes, also book contract. So far, he hasn’t let that one veer to far out of his peripheral sight. As much as he may want to learn more about the insights of living a non-secular life style, so far he has made note of his book contract about five times into the read. You need to work on that one A.J.

I am not going to lie to you, I haven’t finished the book yet, as I am only on page 108 out of 332. So far he has read the bible(s) as there are countless versions –some experts count them well into over a thousand– and pointed out many of the pseudo-forgotten rules within the ‘book of all books.’ Down to the downright obscure: “Kill all magicians!”or the rule disallowing men –and some women– from “trimming the ends of your beard.” Which by proxy includes skipping on shaving altogether, hence his Tres-homeless chic look. Or my personal favourite: If in the scene on an unresolved crime, you must break the neck of a cow as sacrifice. Can you imagine that?

‘Honey, what happened to the $5 I left on the coffee table?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t take it though.’
‘That’s alright, I have a cow right here. Hi cow.’
‘Moo?’
SNAAPPPPPP!!
‘That’s okay honey! I took care of it.’

There are also some other strange ones, like not touching women… specially if menstruating. In fact not only you ladies are unclean but everything you touch, including me, a chair or a bench becomes unclean as per Leviticus 15:20: “everything upon which she lies during her impurity shall be unclean; everything also upon which she sits shall be unclean.” And you thought being a leper was bad enough. At least we have found a cure for that one.

With such truck-load worth of idiosyncrasies, I cannot help enjoying the book so far. Hearing some of the most ludicrous and forgotten rules from the Bible, as they themselves are presented as proverbs and parables from A.J.’s current day life in New York city make for quite the funny read. However it makes me realize two things. First, –and this is my own personal choice– as someone raised in a Catholic household who has read the New Testament, the Torah (parts of the Talmud) and the Koran: Holy books should never be taken completely literally, as they simple contradict themselves way too much. This is how political agendas are fueled and wars started.

The “Give the other cheek…” argument VS. “Eye for an eye.”
…”Stone all gays.” VS. “Let he without sin cast the first stone.”
…”Kill magicians\ stone sinners, and non-believers!” VS. The *Don’t do onto others what you would not like done to you,* Golden Rule.

The list goes on and on… for centuries. Secondly, as easygoing as A.J. is, ultimately he is praying –pun intended– on a gimmick to make money. A stunt, a piece of chicanery that although amusing never relents its true intentions: Sell books. Make money. So, the questioned begged here at the end of the day is: How Christian/Jewish/Muslin/Hindu/Scientology?/*insert next religion here* is that?

I find it amusing that as I read this book, I am getting stopped on cafes, buses, subways and well, anywhere I like to read–9+ times so far– about this book. Mostly because they have seen the author getting interviewed on CNN, or some morning show. Guess the advertising budget is working its magic. Pretty sharp A.J. Pretty sharp.

I will post more once I finish the book.

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(Notes at bottom).

The Date

The sweat on the small of his back gave it all away
The fulfilment from the date was surprising for a first
As it is hard to resist love on the first day of May
And a Spring which makes people for seduction lust and thirst

Regardless of age, from time to time one needs to do wild, crazy things
For unfulfilled passion can easily bore both, and the status quo
Thus one should eat to eat, drink-to-drink and sing-to-sing
Or risk becoming a restive fool, as your soul doesn’t know where else to grow

Her closed eyes and simper
Was a delight for him to watch!
As time no longer ruled his office
Surprisingly, he had hired his very match

The picture on his desk was neatly facing down
No need to execute the feeling
For morality was really, the last thing on their minds

As this night would not be forgotten
Come lovers! Break the chains and bind
For reality would have eventually caught you
…And as for the children? Their parents will soon take the stand

For his heavy gold wedding band
Given to prove to the Lord her undying love
Was nowhere near his hand
But on an inside jacket pocket on the floor

(Someone once asked me to write about one of the topics that I hate to think about. Well, the idea of cheating has always bothered me, because like anyone, I would never want to be on the receiving end, so I wrote this as an exercise, I think it came out okay).

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I love reading. The seed was sowed –whether I had liked it or not– when I was a wee lad, no older than four I think. I was curious about the colour of the sky, so I went to my father, the fountain of all my knowledge back then and asked why it was blue. His answer still resonates loudly even today: ‘We have a library, go look it up.’ Damn.

Whether he was too busy with whatever dads do when their kids ask them strange questions or he was teaching me a life lesson about the innate power of books has escaped the grasp of my memory and now, I will never know for certain. But after his passing, the seed he had so subtlety planted had matured not only into an adult but also into a very avid reader.

Now, let’s fast forward to two and half months ago. I was enjoying myself at a bar on the Queen Street strip called the Bishop and the Belcher, catching up with a few friends and discussing photography. A few pints had tagged along as well. We were there until pretty late and whether it was alcohol, forgetfulness, tiredness or just my propensity for mixing all of the aforementioned options, I ended up leaving a book on the booth we had been at. Realizing it the moment I got home I phoned the bar. ‘Yeah, it’s here.
Drop by anytime to pick it up. I’ll leave it behind the bar’s register.’ Said the man on the other line.
‘Phew.’
I felt much better as I was well one third into it and was curious to see it through.

What’s the name of the book, you ask? It’s ‘Stephen King On Writing,’ by, well…duh. But first allow me to tell you just how much I normally dislike Stephen’s main body of work. In the books of his that I have dwelled in, I always come out with the same conclusion: ‘overly populist,’ and by that I mean too mainstream. So, what if he has millions of fans and doesn’t need to work another day in his life? No, that’s not it.

I simply can’t relate to horror novels in general, and partly because I cannot relate to the general subjects he picks, particularly his later work. Yes, I am unfairly shooting a horror genre messenger here, I know. That’s like saying that I hate the colour white because I dislike zebras. Yet I would never dare say the man lacks talent. In fact, I have yet to read another writer alive who has honed the craft to such capacity where his words seem to so effortlessly flow from page to page like a mountain stream pouring down towards the sea. He is that good.
That is why I bought the book in the first place. In it he describes not only his take on writing, thankfully avoiding his usual clichés like poltergeists, socially awkward youth with startling mental powers and viruses wiping out 99.9% of the human race and talks candidly about his childhood and how he got into the craft.

Imagine my surprise to discover he begun writing due to his frail heal which kept him indoors for a good chunk of his early years. This book is simply full of surprises. It is really one of his best works and I cannot recommend it enough, especially for any would-be writer. Like they say, ‘if you love to write, you’ve got to love to read.’
Okay, back to the present, my apartment and the issue of the lost Stevie. I thought of dropping by on that weekend and pick it up. ‘No worries,’ I thought. I mean, they found the book, is not like it was going to go anywhere, or so I thought.

I ended dropping by the following Monday night. Looking forward to finishing those two thirds left. Just as if I was continuing a dish that I had saved in the fridge for when I was really hungry.

‘Sorry. Can’t find it.’
‘Excuse me? The guy I talked to last Thursday said that it would be in the bar.’
‘Sorry. Checked already. It’s not here. Maybe it got moved to the office. I don’t have keys for the back. You are gonna have to come during the day when a manager is in, but call first.’ With that he resumed pouring a draft.
Damn.

So I called a few days later. ‘Yes, its here,’ said the manager. ‘When would be a good time for you to pick it up?’ I was a little annoyed, but figured the weekend seemed like a good bet. I said I would be there on Saturday morning to pick it up. ‘Sure, ask the bartender, it will be at the bar.’ Okay, no big deal, the book is there, is not like someone took it, this sort of thing happens I told myself.

‘Sorry. Can’t find it.’
‘Wha? I spoke to your manager on Tuesday. I was told it would at the bar.’
’Sorry. Can’t find it.’
‘The manager said it would be at the bar.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘Didn’t ask. How many managers do you have on a Tuesday?’
‘Two’
Damn.
‘Well, the woman.’
‘They are both women.’
Double-damn.
‘You are gonna have to call back and speak with whomever you spoke about it.’
‘But if I don’t have their name how am I going to know unless I call until next Tuesday?’
‘Then you are going to have to wait. Look, I am really busy and I looked. I am busy and it’s not here. I can’t help you.’ And with that she turned and ignored me away.
Bitch.
So, I wait until next Tuesday and I speak to Jennifer, the manager.
‘We can’t find it Mauricio.’ How could that be? She told me she had it only a few days before. I felt like someone was playing me for a fool.
‘I saw it, but we are in the process of moving. Maybe it got packed into one of the boxes by one of the owners.’
I sighed.
‘Alright, when are you moving?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘…!’
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry,’ I said as I bit the %$^##R$#@ hell out of my tongue. ‘I am just thinking what my options are here.’
‘You could try calling after we move.’
‘…!!’
‘Hello?”
‘That’s fine, I’ll call in two weeks.’
‘Sorry.’ She said as she gave me the new address near Bloor and Church streets.
‘Thank you anyways, Jennifer.’

Alright, I bought the book on sale. I did not even pay full price for it. The book went for $37 Canadian when it originally came out –yeah, for real— I paid $6 at a used bookstore. I could just get another copy, and get it over with. But no, I liked my copy. I liked the way I folded the pages to keep track of where I was. No, no cheap cop-out, I was going to get my book back. If anything I was going to do it for the principle of it. But, if they ultimately lost it, is not like the world was going to crash and burn. Right? Right.

To be honest, I forgot about the entire affair after the first week. I mean, it was just one book and if anything it was probably in one of Toronto’s landfills by now. Ready to be enjoyed by a flock of seagulls as either nesting filler or toilet paper.
So the weeks went by. Sometimes I would remember and call but kept getting the same message, the phone did not exist. Strange since Jennifer told me they would keep the same number.

Another week or two flew by. The week after that one I tried again. Bingo! Someone picked up and apologized, it seems Bell Canada had messed up the line transfer and had finally gotten around to correct it. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I left a book at your old location…’ As was getting ready to fill her in, ‘You mean, the Stephen King book?’ She interrupted.
Great! She knew about it, which would save me a good ten minutes of my life I would otherwise not get back.

‘We lost it.’
You had got to be kidding me! How could they loose it? I mean, come on!
‘It was packed on the move. I saw it here, but I can’t find it anymore. Maybe someone trashed it.’
‘Why would they do that?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Well, it had been here for over a month, maybe the individual figured you would not be back for it.’ Sadly, she did have a point and I think she could hear my disappointment.
‘How about if you call in a week, maybe it will turn up.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I said.
Yup, seagull-toilet-paper, for sure.
‘I will call. Thanks either way.’

A week went by and I did not call. I was in the process of doing some packing of my own as the entire floor in my apartment was going to get redone and had to move everything from my living room and into the bedroom and move out for a few days. Besides, I had lost hope in the book. It was gone. Out of my head. Finito, Adios! Or so I kept telling myself. But from time to time the thought had a way of cropping up through the proverbial “what if…” scenario. It bothered me and I hated it.

I am one of those who have trouble biting the bullet when it comes to this things –okay— maybe I am a little stubborn, so after another week I found myself making the time to get off at Yonge and Bloor subway station. I hadn’t called the new and improved Bishop and the Belcher but it was only a few minutes away from the subway and at least this way I would know for sure.

The new place is located at the bottom of an office building and has a somewhat sombre feel to it. Guess some of that ‘office building vibe’ managed to ooze its way into it. It had a quirk-ness about it before when it was on Queen Street, but now it looked like a strange green-carpeted-Firkin bar. If you know what I mean by the word ‘Firkin,’ then you know it is no great compliment.
I got there in middle of the afternoon, way after the beehive lunch hour and the establishment was deserted.

‘Hi,’ I said to the pretty brunette near the bar. ‘I know this is going to sound strange, but I left a book here a long…’
‘The Stephen King book?’
‘Uh, ummm…Yeah. It got packed. Jennifer told me it might have been boxed in the move and that I should drop by…’
She went to the back, behind the bar.
‘I guess you found it?’
You got to be kidding me.
She came back wearing a very cheerful smile.
Here. It’s Mauricio, right?
‘Umm, yeah, thank you.’
‘No problem,’ and with that, just like that she turned back and disappeared into the kitchen. Ok, that was anti-climatic and a half.

On my way home on the subway, it suddenly hit me, this book had been out there for quite a long time, months even, how did it get lost? Had it been misplaced in some drawer along with some steak and chicken condiments? Used as a doorstop? A paperweight? Where had it been? I felt like I aught to be angry or pissed off.

Well, wherever it had been, now that I had it back, I sure wasn’t going to let it out of my sight. Yes, I might have gone a bit overboard, but we are talking about a good book here. One that had picked my curiosity out of countless other books, one I wanted to get to read to its last page: It was MY ‘Stephen King on Writing.’ Albeit I felt a little silly for feeling so interested, even a little too passionate –or bloody stubborn, some would say— about it. In the middle of all of this, I noticed a small bulge within the hardcover; it was a piece of paper; a neatly folded white piece of paper, right in the middle of the book, and this is what it said:

‘To the owner of this book,

I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for taking your book home. It sat in the back for a few days and the book had pigeon(ed) my interest, so I figured I would take it, read it, and bring it back. I meant no harm and I am sorry. Enjoy it Sir, for it is rightfully yours to enjoy.

From,
The Book Thief’

I had to smile. How could I not? I couldn’t be upset. After all, the individual brought it back. Besides the curiosity of a good book, a good read, is what kept me going back and not just for Stephen’s tome, but to every single book I have ever picked up after the day I was old enough to question the colour of the sky. I could honestly relate with this person and I was not about to get pissed off at the fact that he was also an avid reader just like me. If anything, I felt an odd camaraderie with this stranger…amazing the power of books, isn’t? It left me thinking and remembering for a moment, ‘Thanks for the great lesson dad,’ I thought to myself.

I smiled again as I folded the piece of paper into my pocket.
Whomever the Book Thief is: Apology accepted.

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