raise a son, plant a tree and write a book. confucius reportedly told his followers some two and a half millenia ago that these three are the only things worth doing in a lifetime.
obviously, i can't bear nor raise a son or, if choice is within my palette, a daughter. and since i rent a rathole in this conrete jungle, arboreal pursuits are also out of the picture for me. that leaves me to play with this cruel delusion to write a book.
no wonder, a friend has repeatedly told me that it is that dangerous to listen to dead men who had a penchant for pithy, and sententious, if i may say, sayings.
to write a book. now what are the odds for me to be able to cop that? when i was young(er), i used to handicap myself quite favorably as to my chances of being able to publish anything of value. not just fluff pieces, but really things worth wasting a good summer afternoon to read.
but now that i have almost seen it all, the chances of me doing confucian edict number 3 is as remote as i, heterosexually married and raising rambunctious kids in the suburbs.
now where that does leave me? since this is a weekend afternoon, in a game, perhaps, confucius, himself, enjoyed - mahjong.
right now, i’'m trying to zip up this post just before my friends call me up so we can commence our planned late afternoon joy luck club. should they call me before i will be able to wrap up this post, tough. this is how i am hooked to this game now. no, i don'’t have a problem. although, i would concede that denial is always a cardinal tell tale sign of addictive behaviors. but nonetheless, i'’m sticking to my guns.
and the thing is, i'm not even good at this game. i totally blow. so much so that, so far, i have devoted a considerable time ruing over my game performance as symptomatic of how i approach life.
no new age mumbo jumbo here, but mahjong aficionados have always claimed that this game is a very salient metaphor for life. (aren'’t all games, anyway?) how being able to visualize the game trend just by paying attention to the tiles thrown on the table is perfectly akin to seeing the big picture in life.
and if really that is the case, then, i'm done for. for in the mahjong table, my mind just goes overdrive. not with game strategies, but with stuff. just stuff.
come to think of it, maybe this is how i am at life, so far. i go to work and i yen to get back to my dingy apartment. i am warm and toasty in my apartment and i long to watch the latest met opera production of faust. i am in a plush seat at the grand theater and i hanker to be in a dank room with twelve other you know who.
oops. there's the call. i have got to go. and maybe, before i would lose again (oh god, please let it not be over a hundred bucks again this time.) i would have the chance to think what kind of book to write. this while playing mahjong.
here's hoping confucius would approve.