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the sacrifice

sacrifice is commonly known

but poorly understood,

for its memory has been corrupted,

betrayed,

forgotten,

in the game we play,

we look to our peers,

we worry about a million things,

we question love,

we ignore the call of passion,

we lose sight of our beginning,

the beginning of togetherness,

because a lot of us,

a lot of the time,

are looking at the clock

and looking to gain

but another victory,

looking to add

but another memory,

that is,

the dance of society,

the imperfect institutions,

the tongues and cultures,

the tales of the oceans

and the wisdom of the elders,

the wonders of feeling and flying and flourishing,

the devastation of greed,

the plague of hate,

that is,

we chose this madness

because suffering together

is better than thriving alone,

for halls once decorated by companionship

cannot be abandoned to silence

after tasting the music of laughter,

the heat of happiness –

we set upon justice

because we know

that we need each other,

that the eternal present

is not worth it

without the spirits of others,

and so we spun out of iridescent emotion

a tapestry of commitments,

but the scene is but a means to an end,

not an end in itself,

and I often forget that,

that the minefields that divide us,

the lines that define us,

separate us,

hurt us,

that none of that is real,

I find that I forget that

people,

the people,

you,

are not the enemy,

and if we are to meet ourselves on the battlefield

with the slightest hope of survival,

we must be united,

for the suffocating dictatorship of fear,

the hounds of anxiety,

the kingdom of kapital,

shall not yield otherwise,

we must honor the sacrifice

– for a peaceful world,

 I shall bloody mine –

we must remember

that we take up arms

not for the glory of victory,

but for the beauty of innocence,

that we sail the gales of fate,

fall to our knees in prayer,

and embrace in the face of annihilation,

just to be together.

-j

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inflection

the investigation of a substance,

what i feel, what i think, what i say, what i do, what i

what is internal to my thoughts,

feelings,

conscious expression?

is there something there,

something at the center

of it all?

does unity merely bring together parts,

or is there a greater sum?

what lies at your heart, dear?

where are the crossroads

where i

and now

meet?

the life line

experiences at least one point of inflection

the play of time and space

is directed by the witness perception,

one such perception offers a world with much color and shape,

an elaborate and graceful density distribution,

an unending sea of life

for what are we, when we are most fortunate,

but physical vessels for the accumulation of time?

well,

sometimes,

navigators

captains

agents;

collaboration of the will

an understanding of the winds,

a field for the compass,

invites

the horizons, skies and oceans

to offer their greetings

as might old friends

as love rests on the chest of laughter,

undisturbed,

bread is broken and water forgotten,

apart and together,

each then continues,

at once,

when waves of salty air assail

in celebration

a new purposive volition,

the course inflects –

the truth of the matter,

though,

the legitimacy of the self,

well,

the humility of the sum,

dear,

that’s for you to decide

-j

the birth of god

is the birth of the line

i think one of the best answers i have ever gotten,

i received from a dear friend to whom I asked,

‘do you believe in god’

to which she replied, ‘what does that mean’

another friend, some time later, made the point

rather than ask one another whether or not we believe in god

we ought to ask

what is god?

the answer to that question,

now, that,

would be worth both ears;

the first line

is the father of god,

the god father,

you might say

the original partition

with the fall of the grains

in the hands of an immature intellect

has been poorly cultivated

lines were given reality

and truth abandonment

the continuum of existence is undivided

the matter is arguably indisputable

the subatomic and cosmological universes look strikingly similar,

the shades of physical interaction span a spectrum

that is incomprehensible,

unknowable

beyond

the animal human

the words that offer us dimensions

render our thoughts ultimately circular,

as no dimension exists outside the word,

and our thoughts see no dimensions without the word

yet the immature intellect,

fearing love and spiting humility,

you might notice,

gloriously feasts upon the lines

and harms its partners in unity,

brothers, friends, caretakers,

as it sells freedom as chattel to the master,

belief

that that line,

all lines,

are real;

god, for a great many of us,

is an idealized form,

the sleeping fruit of a young collection of mortals,

and an irrefutable reason to contain the self

you see your skin

and you see the end of you

and the face of innocence’s murderer,

but, also, perhaps,

you feel the breathe of hope

and hear the armies of passion

rising to the summons of beauty,

for what a beautiful thing,

the line is

the projection of form,

the expression that is art,

the final evolution of the line

a state of being where,

when,

without thought,

the lines come together in a project of living together,

the stories intersect and play

as might children in space

and the fetters of necrophilic domestication are lost

as wild civilization

gives life purpose

by taking it away

-j

a meditation on the word

i wonder what a word is

is it a thing that can rightly be called a thing

does it have boundaries

does it have lines that i can draw, see and share with others

does it have limits

sometimes, it feels like it does

sometimes, words seem to flutter as leaves do at the base of the highest mountains in the most magnificent lands

the lands, of course, of feeling

of being

and other times, words greet you with the embrace of an ocean,

deep blue, deep, blue, welcoming,

infinite

the way i see it, i guess, either purpose was prior to the word, or the word was prior to purpose

but, you can rule out the latter

for, the substance of word is meaning, and meaning is grounded in purpose

that is, you cannot have a word without meaning, and you cannot have meaning without purpose

it follows, then, that a ‘word’ prior to purpose would constitute a contradiction fundamental to the nature of the word

so, it seems to be the case that purpose preceded the word,

purpose preceded the birth of the element of human communication

purpose, thereby, preceded the genesis of worded thought

to seek purpose, then, in the vast majority of the manifold ways in which we are taught to in contemporary society, paths structured and contained by worded thought, is an absurdity

further, the word, it appears, has been corrupted

humanity has enslaved the word and rapaciously groomed it into a servant of violence

the word, we must have realized, was a dance, a song, a story, through which we could stay with others, a medium through which we could share purpose with each other, a foundation upon which we could build society,

and breathe, together

in a home of love, an economy of word, where transaction is without traditional temporal value, for this kind of value defines social activity as a divisive struggle, might come about,

and in such a world, the word may act not only to bring purposes together, but also serve as the basis upon which an altogether different purpose arises,

one of all people,

the people

now, the character of meaning had to be configured before any particular meaning was attributed to any particular word; that is, the unifying device of the word, meaning, holds all words derived thereof in its domain

let us call this character of meaning the ‘source meaning’

it is evident that, at a critical historical juncture, violence was chosen as the source meaning

why was violence chosen, in lieu of love?

how was violence chosen, in lieu of love?

we set sleeping innocence aflame, and brutally proceeded to turn violence into the despotic ruler of a dehumanizing system of oppression

our being together, our language, our words, all of it – poisoned

lost, but not forgotten

broken, but not hopeless

the amputation of purpose, the mockery of truth, the murder of freedom,

comprise the challenge that is reality,

a challenge that we must meet,

for we must end the rape of the word,

and love must be liberated

we can overthrow the tyrant that is violence,

for the mind is the origin of its power

we must overthrow the tyrant that is violence,

for, in the last analysis, the peace that is justice demands it

-j

An Essay

Why do you want to be a PCM Scholar?

I applied to be a member of the Patient-Centered Medicine Scholars Program at UIC. The essay I wrote for the application was largely influenced by the learning I’ve experienced whilst in India, shaped by the teachings of Krishnamurti, in part. Let me know what you think, what you feel : ) .

I search for reality. Sometimes, I feel like I find it. Other times, I feel uncertain. Other times, I find fear. We learn what to do and what not to do, what is right and what is wrong, what is good and what is bad. The thoughts and beliefs of countless others shape the experiences, memories and ‘truths’ that we accumulate as we try to figure out how we want to live with others, for others. Popular rhetoric continually urges us to know who we are, to make coherent the identity that is contained by the name, to decide what we want and what we need to do to attain it. The dogma of communicable truth is inseparable from the compartmentalization of life, from the systematic bifurcation of arbitrarily named entities. The result is a perpetual state of contradiction, a fabricated conflict that endures because the type of understanding that we are programmed to seek is unattainable. Indeed, even those constructs that are often portrayed as ends, such as happiness, fulfillment, and love, have been integrated into the same thought structures that convince us that the traditional conception of ‘success’ matters, that faith must be kept in something, that we must have a purpose – that the identity that contains the name, if nothing else, should be remembered.

As an incoming medical student, I am afraid of the institutions of thought and belief into whose jaws I willingly stroll. I am afraid of the mutations that might seem random only because I cannot understand the forces shaping my motives and intentions. I am afraid of slowly but surely turning into the physician that reduces the alleviation of others’ suffering into a task to be completed, into a wrong to be righted, into a lever-press to be rewarded. I am afraid of forever being a prisoner, of denying myself the opportunity to be what it is that I am, of never tasting freedom. But, then I recall that only I, the self, my self, can get in the way of that. And I recall why medicine is the only thing that I want to do with my existence. Unlike fear, pain is real. Everyone has a right to understanding the words that envelop them, to understand what they are and what they love. Pain gets in the way; it stays in the way. My experiences have taught me how to feel both what I feel and what others feel. I have been given time and opportunity to study, contemplate and meditate, to seek, wander and discover. I have been lucky with my health, fortunate with my body. My luck can be that of others; my fortune must be that of others.

Medicine, as a collaborative effort to achieve health justice for patients, can help people help themselves. It can provide people the opportunity to be themselves, to understand what that means, what that is. Medicine, construed as anything but ‘patient-centered,’ is just a business. And I’ve never been much interested in being a businessman.

– JiNiT