If this be a time of confessions then I must tell you upfront that I am in a precarious mood. I am glued to this monitor of mine without any protection. God help us should there occur any mishaps. In actual fact, now I see a small dysfunctional progressive dancing on my purple bag. How do I know she is dysfunctional and a progressive? I don�t.

I am in a state reminiscent of many ex-ones where I would write things that very few people understand. And I never really met anyone who understood them but I entertain the minute possibility that someone did.

Why do I put incomprehensible word puzzles down then? �Because I want to� is a clich� all too used. I put them down because I find them highly amusing and informative. This condition is somewhat like being placed inside a humungous balloon and trying all the time to jump up and touch its circular roof. You never really touch the roof, knowingly, because you are incapable of registering the success per se. Or perhaps you do touch the roof but since you have no �record� of touching roofs and you do not �know� what the roof feels like, because you have no other precedent to match it to, you remain unaware of your feat.

I will launch this entry as a pure experiment. I wish to learn of your interpretations of it, such an exchange of views, no matter how exotic they come, is always a pleasure.

The title of this post is designed to mimic its �commercialized� sibling that sustains that �The client is always right�. You will learn my motives behind choosing this title, and topic, shortly.

During one of my musings I stumbled across the idea of the relationship between the writer and the readership. I asked myself why people write in the first place. Some write because they feel the need to express themselves, others write for a living, and some other people write because they are simply addicted to writing. Now these reasons may or may not register with you are being entirely correct or inclusive of every cause behind a written piece. It is not my intention, however, in this piece, to detail why people write. This is simply a verbal illustration of the paths my mind trod to arrive to the following thoughts.

Let us discard the first and third reasons that I mentioned above behind people�s writing. If a person writes for a living, meaning that one makes money out of the words he or she writes, does that necessarily make one a hypocrite?
The discussion arose in an Italian Literature lecture. My professor argued that many best-selling books nowadays are not worthy of being read. In his estimation, it is not the number of copies a book sells that determines how �good� the book is. I do agree with him on that point. Perhaps you find that he and I are romantics in this age of mass production even of thoughts. Perhaps we believe in the martyr-writer, a figure that forsakes all for the love of the written word? But no, I find myself obliged to dismiss that assumption at once.

I argued with my professor that a certain �criterion� for what is �good writing� and �bad writing� is totally subjective. If a writer produces a piece and this piece scores popularity, it is perhaps because the thought in the piece beats to the rhythm of current life. My professor then replied that a writer should not write for the sake of �selling�, but for a higher, more personal cause. He mentioned a number of writers who did not receive any fruits of success during their lifetimes but were discovered to be brilliant after their death, it was then that their words found reading eyes. He also followed to a number of writers who knew how to juggle their own �flow of creativity� that may or may not sell, and the �market� that is hungry for a specific type of the written presentation.

Having established that bestsellers are not necessarily of a fine quality of thoughts, I must come to the question of �why� they were written in the first place. This also brings to mind the figure of the writer who �checks� the market first, then proceeds to jotting down whatever ideas are popular then and there. Do not mistake this for a generalization, I am examining my own reflections and I am by no means labeling any writers, be they famous or not.

Now, if a writer succumbs to the temptation of the market, does that make him or her less of a genuine writer? Or does it mean that the writer is genius because he or she �knew� what to write to appeal to the masses?

Welcome to yet another session inside T Play Box. I feel like posting a tilly putty thought but I do not really know what will pop in my head in the next few seconds.

One day I discovered something absolutely delicious about myself. I found out that I can reach some supernatural elevation when I consume the nectar that is orange juice.

Anyone who knows me well enough understands perfectly well what orange juice does to me. It has a strange effect on my being; it makes me a different person. I become extremely “high” and liberated to the degree that I would cross any boundaries of common rules.

I do not know what is it in orange juice that triggers this temporary insanity ( or is it sanity?) but I do know for a 100% fact that it does something to me. This is one of the reasons why I love orange juice, especially in the company of a pleasant person. It does wonders. As I type these words I hope someone would come up, someone who knows how I am like under the effect of that nectar, and tell of how I am transformed into a Tololy closer to that within, a Tololy unleashed.

In retrospect, I can sum up how the juice worked its magic on me on various occasions. I would start laughing and I would become nothing short of naughty , I am such a fun person after drinking orange juice. Why that happens, again I tell you I do not know for sure. Orange juice makes me get my freak on, now that is twisted.

I thank the person who brought the works of Jelaluddin Rumi to my attention. Rumi is a famous Persian Sufi who lived in the years 1207-1273. He was a ” saint and mystic, inspiration for the Mevlevi Order of the whirling dervishes, highly revered for the great Mathnawi which is a majestic tribute to the depth of spiritual life.”

I shall leave the rest for you to discover. Bear in mind though, that you need to approach the works of Sufis with delicate care and no prejudice. Prejudice, or preconceived ideas, will only serve to make your refusal of the texts hasty. Do not be tempted by effect of what you have thus learned to pass a ruling and dismiss the works of Sufis, denying yourself the pleasures of exploring them.

In the orchard and rose garden
I long to see your face.
In the taste of Sweetness
I long to kiss your lips.
In the shadows of passion
I long for your love.

Oh! Supreme Lover!
Let me leave aside my worries.
The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.

By Allah!
I long to escape the prison of my ego
and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.

These sad and lonely people tire me.
I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.

I’m sick of mortal kings.
I long to see your light.
With lamps in hand
the sheikhs and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.

You are the Essence of the Essence,
The intoxication of Love.
I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.

- ‘The Love Poems of Rumi’ By Deepak Chopra

The news of the passing away of Rosa Parks is splashed all over the internet, and for no unobvious reasons. I studied about Parks in school and I came to read of her later on in some Italian class.
I learned of her death through muppetlord�s blog. I did not have the time to listen to or read any news recently, and that explains my tardy learning of Parks� death. I was struck by a shade of sadness and pain. A feeling somewhat shallow, because as I read the news bit on the BBC site, I noticed that Kwame Kilpatrick is still mayor of Detroit.

It is odd what the human mind captures of seemingly important matters. There I was, reading about the death of the prominent spark behind the modern US civil rights movement and I noticed that Kwame Kilpatrick has won the elections in Detroit. He was running for the position, to resume his previous round, against Freman Hendrix during the final days of my stay in Michigan. The issue was big at the time, and it looks like it still is. Kilpatrick seems to have a knack at having scandals glued to his name.

Kilpatrick’s reelection takes the “wow” out of the current political situations of Arab and Muslim countries, I’d say.

October 27th note: I need to brush up on my news. Kilpatrick is still in office because the elections are scheduled November 8th. Should Kilpatrick win, my entry will be valid as a comment on that victory. Should Hendrix win, it would serve as a critique on Kilpatrick’s time. I do apologize for the errors in dates.

I received my last Greenpeace Activist News on October 15th. This is the content that I want to share with you. Take a minute to read it :

Kimberly-Clark and Kleenex: Stop clearcutting ancient forests

Did you know that it takes 90 years to grow a box of Kleenex? That’s right, every time you use a Kleenex tissue, you are blowing away ancient forests. That’s because Kimberly-Clark, maker of Kleenex and other toilet and tissue products, all but refuses to use recycled paper in its products. Instead, Kimberly-Clark is clearcutting some of the rarest and oldest forests on Earth - just to create disposable paper products.

Take action now to tell Kimberly-Clark to Stop Clearcutting Ancient Forests

You can voice your protest, should you desire to, by sending an e-mail to Cheryl Perkins,Senior VP & Chief Technical Officer of Kimberly-Clark, and to other company seniors. All you need to do is follow the link I provided above.

Another blast from the past comes your way. This is an entry I took from my former blog. Posted on Friday,October 29th, 2004.

She had long curly hair, the color of the night. It swayed over her waist as she walked. Smooth dark skin, generous dark brown eyes that shone with care.
She often told us stories of her life in the german convent. To her it was her only “home”. She never knew any other form of belonging to a place, or a person.
She was one of the most important female figures in my life. She touched my entire being, and she taught me so much. I am forever thankful that I got to know such an amazing muse.
Some people go through life never meeting someone who is “true”. She was true, and real. She never ceased to amaze me, she was a role model to me and she still is.

Where are you Rita?

current mood: curious

In Adiga tradition, now practiced less than before, respect is fundamental.
Respect for the elderly is a custom highly emphasized and taken into consideration at every occasion.
It has come to my knowledge, either through close personal observation or word of mouth, that Circassian youth take every measure possible to ensure that their behaviors are harmonious with the wishes of the elderly and regulations of tradition.

I will provide a few examples that should portray what a youngster can and cannot do in the presence of his seniors in age. A young Circassian person does not sit down, if in a gathering, before his elderly do. He or she does not smoke in front of an older person, nor does he or she speak before that person.
When a senior enters the room, all rise to salute him or her and the young offer their seats, taking care not to rest before that person is at ease.

At weddings, the bride and groom would remain standing as long as seniors are dancing in the Jagg. This particular is the �reduced� form of the real custom that states that the bride and groom should remain standing throughout the wedding party. And that in return is a “less extreme” custom, I should say, compared to the one that prohibits the groom from attending the wedding. Chechens still largely abide by that rule.

I was once in the company of a Circassian friend of mine, who was enjoying a hubbly-bubbly, also known as �Argileh�. He suddenly panicked and hid the instrument and all of its components, and I soon discovered that the reason behind this rush of adrenaline was the passing of an older Circassian fellow, an absolute stranger.