whispers from a dotage-afflicted nationalist

Beijos a todos meus fans, beijos em suas bocas! Muah, no apologies! I know there are not many left, but nevertheless, the sentiment is there, behind my breath.

From pseudo-Catalonian nationalism to sublime mysticism, I have vacillated coquettishly. Fastidiously-rendered Björk-like facial gestures interposed by giggles and sticking out of the tongue, punctured the monotony of conversation forcefully tinged by pseudo-intellectualism. “The Catalans are and have been a separate people; culturally, historically. They are exempt, along with the Basque, from the vexatious accusation that their blood is contaminated by Moorish and Jewish elements,” I say. Later, “I don’t believe in God. What need does the free man have of God?”

So, effortlessly, I constructed a lofty chimera. Lies are wonderful especially when the one consuming these ephemeral skyscrapers is not able to discern past the sarcasm and the liveliness that infects the eyes as what escapes from the lips shocks and produces a reaction. The happiness that spills forth from the eyes, windows to the soul, only reveals the delight the storyteller takes in weaving fanciful tales that have no grounding in reality, that are as solid as the sea of air, and yet are greedily consumed by the spectator!

Now, let’s clear the air. I don’t believe in nationalism; it is a another man-made idea. Unlike the individual, a nation hasn’t any natural boundaries – they are fictitious. Nations exist, but they are not natural, they are conventional, and as all conventionalism, they are in flux; they shall expire only to be replaced by some new form of association.

I hate the word spiritual; I don’t believe in mysticism. I leave that for others. I am too corrupted and worldly. I seek truth, not comfort. I am atoms and though I shall never transform into a majestic bird only to take flight and thus freedom upon dying, those bits of stuff that constitute my being shall metamorphose ad infinitum.

But all this is waffles. Anyone can construct an elaborate system of philosophy; the difficult part is living by it, otherwise it is an empty and worthless skeleton. Fortunately I live by my edifice. But I honestly do not care.

Caption: Standing under the sun, looking out at the Ocean; nothing to hide.

I simply wish to return to San Francisco and satiate my eyes with the beauty of the Pacific Ocean. Sadly, for all I have attempted and done, I will return there to live and die. I miss it terribly – there is no place like it. It is home. And I am now able to accept it without shyness or shame, for I know that the cosmopolitan man can have a home though he is a citizen of the world. Thus I say, my home is San Francisco. Shocking that I should show signs of attachment like any other mortal; after all, I am not some animal in the zoo or some hero from millennia past, both these removed from us so as to surprise if ever they show human emotions! But the return cannot be now, it must wait. I have to do this Maryland thing (sjca.edu) and then maybe one more exile before returning home to make anew a niche and home for myself. Until then, much must be done and reflected upon. Action without reflexion is pointless. Onward!