It's hot and humid outside.  The sun casts bright yellow light on the pavement.  Sweat formed above my upper lips and I wiped it off as I squinted uncomfortably.  I walked out of the asian grocery store with five stalks of lemongrass and a box of hot and sour instant noodles, heading home. 

I walked past two girls who were sitting idly on the steps of the Baptist church on the corner and saw them observing me.  At an intersection with a STOP sign, I stopped as a car approaching from the right stopped at the same time that another car from the left did.  I waited for them to continue before I crossed.  They stalled and waited for me to cross.  I stared at them and they drove on.

Reaching the house, some young boys who live across the street were howling loudly on the front steps.  Talking, laughing and screeching like dehydrated wolves on a scorching afternoon.  They were being silly in the way only inner city kids could be silly.  Around here your howling verging on crying and expressing anger would count as acting silly.  Only it's disguised as childish chattering, and less than a handful could detect something else.

I went into the house and gave mom the lemongrass.  She said the weather this year isn't producing good lemongrass.  They're all shriveled up after you peel the outer dead leaves off.  How much did they cost, she asked.  I don't know, I said.  What are you cooking, I asked.  Lamb meat.  You cooked that the other time, didn't you?, I asked.  Yes, she said.  I stalled in the kitchen.  Nothing more was said. 

I went outside and sat on the front steps looking at the neighbors' small gardens and a beetle alighting on the railing near me.  The sun beamed on me and I felt its dry heat.  The boys across the street were still howling and laughing incoherently in between unintelligible words.  I wondered how they have already come to this at such a young age.  I told them in my head, wait until you get older, it'll get better, when the same experience is quieter.

As punishment for defying Death, the Greek gods condemn Sisyphus for eternity to roll a stone up a hill.  Once it reaches the top, it rolls down again.  He must begin again and each time the stone rolls down the hill again.  Camus's way out of the absurd existence of Sisyphus is that "one must imagine Sisyphus happy." 

There are several problems with Camus's use of this myth to explain life's inherent absurdity and lack of meaning and his proposed alternative to suicide.

In Camus's worldview, there is no God, there are no values, "everything is permitted."  Hence the meaninglessness.  But in Sisyphus's world, there is a reason for his absurd life - disobedience to the gods and serving an eternal sentence.  Thus, Sisyphus is condemned to live forever for a task that is inherently useless and pointless.  We, however, know our time here is limited and uncertain.

The difference between the myth and Camus's version of reality is that Sisyphus's absurd task can be explained away against the grand scheme of things.  Sisyphus can contentedly accept his absurd life because he knows why he is doing it even though the very doing is itself pointless.  He does not have a reason to roll the stone up the hill every time it rolls down again.  But he knows the reason why he has to do it, and therefore he can sanely accept his lot. 

As for the man in Camus's world, not knowing why he exists in the first place, and not having a real reason to do anything with his life, he cannot be expected to suddenly come to terms with his absurd life and accept this fact with contentment.  Imagining we are happy cannot really free us from questioning our fate.  It does not help us disconnect ourselves from our daily tasks.  

Yet, perhaps to know that your life for eternity is devoted to something meaningless is not as easy to accept as to know that you have to deal with the meaninglessness for only a brief time.  Either way, I don't see how Camus's solution of "revolt, freedom and passion" has any real effect when, according to him, our initial position is that of bondage and coercion.  We're condemned by virtue of being alive since there is no reason to be alive.  Unless freedom and revolt consist in joyfully rolling the stone up the hill just for the sake of rolling the stone up the hill.  The only real choice is between suicide or God, not imagining one is happy. 

Since his framework is what it is precisely because of his conclusion that there is no God, Camus's man is left with either suicide, or rolling the stone up the hill without thought, feelings, without contented acceptance nor bitter misery, nothing, like an automaton.  Camus, too ernest to live, had to convince himself that there is a relative "reason" in the small scheme of things in the absence of a grand scheme of things.  He must make man happy.

In the Bible, Jesus states that life is more than food and the body more than clothing.  He reassures his listeners that the creator will provide these as he does for the flowers in the fields, which do not even have to work for it.  He also teaches that we should sell all of our possessions and give the money to the poor.  Then he says in another situation that whoever does not give food and shelter to the least of his brothers is denying him, Jesus. 

So being poor is better than being rich, but if you voluntarily become poor, you're no longer in the position to help because now you're considered the least of your brothers.  And those who are in the position to help should give up this position, in order to supply those with possessions the opportunities to help them and be virtuous.  Then the helped is now legitimately worried about acquiring food and clothing, and those who should worry about more than food and clothing should relinquish them. 

What is not explained is why the poor people in third world countries and American inner cities are not provided for like the flowers in the fields.  And why they should listen to people who tell them that life is more than food and the body more than clothing.  I guess somewhere along the line they've been passed over for the higher calling of voluntary poverty.  Whether they will be judged for their daily preoccupation with feeding and clothing their families and not coming up with a solution to world peace is a good moral question for theology doctorates to write their dissertation on.

Many religions say God is the Self.  I agree.  This is the main reason I waiver back and forth.  This is the reason why I sometimes even illogically conceive that I can - and if I can't, I will anyway - in my mind reject and affirm the existence of God simultaneously.  Why it is possible to claim that, in refusing to answer the God question altogether (this is not the same as agnosticism), I essentially both reject and affirm the existence of God.  I think it's valid, i.e. possible, to be neutral and also claim that God exists and yet that he doesn't exist. 

I say I agree that God is the self, our self, with tongue in cheek because if you take away the self, would there be a God?  It's like the question whether if a tree falls in a forest and you're not there to hear it, does it make a sound?  The crucial difference is I know there's such a thing as sound because I've heard it before, but I've never experienced God, which makes the subject even more uncertain.

Can God exist outside of the self's perception of it?  No.  My problem with people who debate with me about whether God exists or not does not concern the possibility, the moral reasons, or how he came about.  My problem is whether without me or anyone else saying it's possible, that is, without me or anyone else existing physically in this world, would it be possible to claim that God (objectively) exists?  There's a difference.  This is the best test for the argument that God's existence is objective, that God exists outside the constraints of time, place, and ourselves.

All ideas originate from the self, the individual.  The self is always situated in something.  Heidegger called this dasein, which is the inevitable situatedness of the self in some kind of abstract place.  It's the act of being itself.  To be is to be grounded in some contextual environment.  That's the definition of being. 

The concept of the self itself emerges from the individual person thinking it.  For every individual person, there is only one perspective.  Even though we are aware of collective perspectives, these are essentially just one individual person's idea of the idea of collective selves.  No one person can vouch for the perception of another self.  Therefore, the notion of a collective mindset that corroborates objective reality and truth really consists of just one individual person's mindset.  I see through my eyes and others see through their eyes and this awareness of the existence of and dialogue with other selves constitute my idea of "objective reality." 

But take my self away, and everything disappears with it.  Without my self to do the perceiving/thinking, I cannot say this is this and that exists.  I can try to argue that God can exist even if I don't exist to acknowledge his existence because God doesn't need acknowledgment, that's why he's God.  But this idea is problematic because if I didn't exist at all, I wouldn't be able to make that argument - let alone to prove its truth - and thus make it public to others.  Other people's existence required my existence because I "know" it through perceiving it. 

Even the truth of the argument that I can try to argue (above) metaphysically cannot be proven if my or your or your neighbor's non-existence is the default position.  What this means is God's existence does indeed depend on my existence.  Because I exist I can mentally go back and hypothetically "cancel" it.  But if I never did exist, God wouldn't either.  I am willing to entertain the notion that God does exist and his existence preceded ours.  The ironic catch is, however, he needs us to say that.  As a matter of philosophical fact, the God question is a self-centric one.

My ultimate objection has always been that, due to this real ontological dilemma or trap, no one is in the position to make any assertions either way.  But as it so happens that we in fact do exist, we need to deal with this existence because we have no choice.  Therefore it is okay to say in one breath, "I believe God exists and that he does not exist, so I'm just not going to answer the question."

If a Christian criticizes my hypothetical by arguing that there would be no purpose in there being a God if there were no people, I'd refer her to Genesis.

There are certain literary references I thought I knew from hearsay from the public who, as I've found out, didn't read the books themselves.  Certain stories or works have come to define the cultural psyche that even thirteen year olds may misthink that they have read War and Peace or saw Citizen Kane from the way they refer to them as "great works" and quote "Rosebud."  Just because it's popular opinion or "general knowledge" doesn't mean it's true or accurate, even if the majority will not know that you are unintelligent if you hold their opinion. 

In the past few years I took it upon myself to read some works whose actual content have eluded me to find out the truth.

1.  Utopia by Thomas More.

Almost everyone today thinks the term utopia equates paradise, a good and virtuous place where every person is equal and happy.  I was in for a genuine shock when, expecting equality and justice, I found More's Utopia to be a satirical criticism of British government, much like Gulliver's Travels.  The prevailing misconception of the book is that it is a serious symbolic representation of the ideal (Christian) life, when in fact More was engaging in cutting satire. 

The very social set up and actions of people in Utopia are clearly unjust, unequal, repressive and backwards by impartial standards.  Anyone who bandies "utopian" around to refer to peace and love on earth either hasn't actually read the book, or whose idea of justice, equality and forward-thinking models that of the unjust and unequal Utopia (ie, the church, patriarchical hierarchies, aristocratic caste systems - namely history and present-day, not some future perfect society).  How anyone can not see through More's deliberate tongue in cheek storytelling, who finds it a cozy enough book to sleep with at the fire, baffles me.  I blame it on Ever After.

2.  The Story of My Life by Helen Keller.

You'd think a deaf blind girl in the country and woods would just read with her fingers, talk with her hands, climb trees, smell flowers, and pet animals and be known for her cute phrase of the best things in life are felt not seen.  No, as a young girl Helen Keller was falsely accused of plagiarism by a headmaster of a pioneering school for deaf blinds when she wrote a cute little story in braille precisely for him about the Frost King.  She has met and conversed with many U.S. Presidents spanning several terms.  She went to Radcliffe, a prestigious women's college, and did the same amount of work in the same amount of time as her seeing and hearing peers.  Nor was she given extra time or accomodations for exams, even Math exams where you have to literally retrace your previous calculations to determine your final answer.

3.  The Bible by a bunch of unknown men long time ago.

Jesus of Nazareth actually didn't say gay people will go to hell or that only men can be priests, or that it is a sin to miss church or daily confession.  The pope did.

I was sitting towards the back in a vacant bus making the daily commute this morning.  It got me thinking about the bus fight during the American civil rights era.  The injustice lay in the coercion and not the actual physical space.  Black people were angered not because the place they sat was at the back of the bus, but because they were told they were only allowed to sit at the back of the bus. 

Today the back of the bus is where the cool people choose to sit - the young and mostly male.  Older people and women tend to gravitate towards the front of the bus.  The back allows you to see and observe everyone, while in the front you are the one being watched.  There's a sense of security and invisibility that younger and male passengers seek in public places.

An interesting hypothetical is whether back then black and white passengers would have deemed it discriminatory if the law required black people to sit in the front of the bus while the back seats were reserved for white people - in the same spirit of segregation of the times.  In other words, would this reversal in the estimation of different physical spaces make people think differently about the law while coercion is still the dominant factor?  If blacks were only allowed to sit at the front of the bus, would they still feel angry at being told where to sit? 

If no, that would imply that the physical space has inherent value and meaning, front being esteemed while back being lowly.  Otherwise why did the white establishment create this bus law in the first place?  Yet today's trend when choice is given implies the opposite.  This contradiction is resolved when you understand the civil rights bus battle as revolving around imputed meanings and relative definitions and the freedom to define these for oneself.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both.........

..........Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I've shortened Robert Frost's widely-known poem to its gist.  It was inspirational when I read this in high school English, and it's still inspirational now.  But reading it again today, I realized something new which I am surprised I took for granted before.  The title is ambiguous.  Is it intentional or just pure accident?  I doubt that Frost didn't know he chose a title that could refer to two different ideas in the poem. 

The road not taken in the poem is the road he kept for another day - the one he didn't take and probably will never take.  Yet the core meaning of the poem is to praise the person who chooses the road that the speaker in the poem chose - namely, the road less traveled by.  I take this to mean the road not taken/chosen (as much as other roads). 

So here's the ambiguity and the confusion this stupid preoccupation with meaning has left me in: the title "the road not taken" could refer to both roads.  When applied to one, it has one meaning, when applied to the other, it has an another, opposite meaning. 

This is a confusing scenario because when you take the poem's main focus and message together with the message of the title, they do not support one another.  This is true only if my interpretation of the tone of the title is correct, which is one that refers to roads not traveled/taken by others, but which the speaker will take.  But even if you keep this view, and apply the title to the poem as a whole, it could refer to the spurned road, not the chosen road.

This reminds me of the visual perception issues cited by relativists, specifically the duck/rabbit example:

This symbol is intrinsically neither duck nor rabbit, but seen one way it's a duck, seen another way it's a rabbit.  It is said that you cannot see duck and rabbit in the same moment, but only one at a time.  Can it be, then, that the road not taken is both the road taken and the road spurned, in their own way - and that the speaker both regrets and not regret his choice?  Is the intentional ambiguity the very embodiment of the fork in the metaphorical road? 

This poem is interesting because it suggests that going down one path in life means foregoing other things.  The idea is that you already have lost what you never had to begin with once you exercise choice.  Once you pick, you lose - but you also gain, and that makes all the difference.

The day after New Year's I woke up to find myself debating whether I wanted to go on living like I am or not.  More specifically I laid in bed half awake at 6 am and had a strong urge not to go back to work after a week's company holiday.  I don't know if it was part laziness or a breaking point where I really felt like doing what I felt like doing - stay in bed, not return to that workplace, just sleep through the whole day, and maybe buy a ticket to some African country and learn to play the djembe and let all my inhibitions out in ritual dance. 

When I realized that was impossible at least for now, I then wished the next possible alternative.  I just wanted to cease to exist.  The idea of not having to do anything anymore or deal with anyone was comforting.  The day before, I was laughing with family, eating and drinking in merriment, smiling in front of the camera, stringing beads into my 4 year old niece's hair.  Suddenly I don't know where the despair came from.  It's as if the hours before the sun rises in the morning is the truest representation of reality - stark, cold, empty and desolate.  It was as if I was suddenly hit by reality - I couldn't bear it. 

I talked myself out of almost ruining my life.  I didn't call in sick and I didn't quit.  After going back and forth on what I feel like doing and what I should be doing, I finally dragged myself out of bed.  I felt like hell on the bus to work.  I almost decided to just stay on the bus until its last stop and roam the city the whole day and take a nap under a tree instead of reporting to work.  But I managed to get back to my rigid daily routine. 

By the end of the day as I caught the train home, I no longer had the rebellious urge to escape.  To me this yearning to escape everything is a weakness in character and determination.  I lose respect for people who give in too quickly and give up when they're on the verge of a turning point, people who couldn't deal with the temporary agony and despair.  They could have achieved a lot had they stick with the feeling of despair a bit longer.  By whose standards?....

Monotony saved me from myself.  I'm not doing what I feel like doing.  But I'm doing what society considers reasonable.  That's all that matters.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

-Emily Dickinson