Vixey’s Pawprints

     On the same morning, three signs arrive from
different continents: an e-mail from journalist Lauro Jardim asking for
confirmation of some data on a note about me and mentioning the situation in
the Rocinha slum neighborhood in

Rio
  de Janeiro

. A phone call from my wife who has just
landed in

France

:
she has been traveling with a couple of French friends to show them our country
and they ended their trip frightened and disappointed. And lastly, the
journalist who is coming to interview me for a Russian television channel: “Is
it true that in your country half a million people were murdered between 1980
and 2000?”
     “Of course it isn’t true, “ I answer.
     But it is. He shows me data from “a Brazilian
institute” (actually the Brazilian

Institute

of

Geography

and
Statistics, one of the most prestigious in the country).
     I keep silent. The violence in my country crosses
oceans and mountains and comes all the way to this place in Central Asia
Central. What to say?
     Saying is not enough; words that are not turned
into action “bring the pest”, as William Blake said. I have tried to do my
part: I opened my institute, and together with two heroic persons, Isabella and
Yolanda Maltarolli, we try to give education, affection, and love to 360
children from the Pavão-Pavãozinho slum in

Rio de Janeiro

. I know that at this moment
there are thousands of Brazilians doing much more, working away in silence,
without any official help, without any private support, just not to let
themselves be overwhelmed by the worst enemy of all: despair.
     At some moment I thought that if everyone did
their part things would change. But tonight, as I contemplate the frozen
mountains at the border with

China

,
I have some doubts. Perhaps, even with each one of us doing our part, the
saying I learned as a youngster still holds true: “there is no argument against
force.”
     I look at the mountains again, lit up by the
moon. I wonder if there is no argument against force. Like all Brazilians, I
have tried, fought, and forced myself to believe that the situation in my
country will one day get better, but each year that passes things seem to grow
more complicated, regardless of who is in the government, the party, the
economic plans, or the absence of any plans.
     I have seen violence in the four corners of the
world. I remember once in the

Lebanon

,
right after the war of devastation, I was walking through the ruins of

Beirut

with a friend
called Söula Saad. She remarked to me that her city had been destroyed seven
times. I asked her half in jest why they did not give up re-building and just
move elsewhere. “Because this is our city,” she answered. “Because those who do
not honor the earth where their ancestors are buried will be damned for ever.”
     The human being who does not honor his land does
not honor himself. In one of the Greek myths of creation, one of the gods,
furious at the fact that Prometheus has robbed the fire and is going to make
men independent, sends Pandora to marry his brother, Epimetheus. Pandora brings
a box with her, which she is forbidden to open. However, just like Eve in the
Christian myth, her curiosity gets the better of her: she lifts the lid to see
what is inside and at that moment all the evil in the world is released and
spreads over the Earth.
     Only one thing remained inside: Hope.
     So, despite everything pointing to the opposite,
despite all my sadness, this feeling of impotence, despite being this very
moment almost convinced that nothing is going to get better, I cannot lose the
only thing that keeps me alive: hope – that word always used with such irony by
pseudo-intellectuals who consider it a synonym for “fooling someone.” That word
so manipulated by governments who make promises fully aware that they are not
going to keep them and tear the hearts of the people even more. That word is
with us so often in the morning, is wounded in the course of the day and dies
at nightfall, yet always rises with the dawn.
     Yes, there is a saying that goes: “there is no
argument against force.” But there is another saying that goes: “where there is
life there is hope.” And that is the one I shall remember, while I gaze at the
snow-covered mountains on the Chinese border.

Copyright @ 2005 by  Paulo  Coelho
Warrior Of The Light

Today was such a yummy day! I completed The Star’s Word Puzzle and dropped it off at the Kelana Jaya post office. I can already picture my face in the papers as the first prize winner of RM30,000. WOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Well it wasn’t really all fun and games trying to stick those itty bitty bits of paper together, watching the ink smudge because of the glue and getting carbon all over the place. YUCK! But thats a small price to pay for the RM30,000 I guess. But still, I wish we had the ready made post card thingy they gave out last year.

Ahh well….

Anyway, the icing on the cake for today was visiting the Brickfield’s Buddhist Temple. Although I was baptized as a Catholic, Buddhism has always been the anchor of my spirituality. And lucky for me, my parents had the wisdom to expand my horizons by not supressing my quest for God and MY Path. It feels rather nice having the little yellow string tied to my wrist. The string in itself has no power but its a reminder that there is something infinitely powerful and beautiful in the human spirit.

That with a little hope and faith, all things are possible. Namaste!

In my notes for the year 1989 I come across some sentences jotted down from
a conversation I had with J, whom I call my “master.” At that time we were
talking about an unknown mystic called Kenan Rifai, about whom little has been
written.

     “Kenan Rifai says that when people praise us
we should watch how we behave,” says J, “because that means that we hide our
faults very well. Finally we end up believing that we are better than we think
and then the next step is to let ourselves be dominated by a false feeling of
security that will eventually set up dangers all around us.”
     “How can we be attentive to the opportunities
that life gives us?”
     “If you have only two opportunities, learn how to
turn them into twelve. When you have twelve they will multiply automatically.
That is why Jesus says: “he who has a lot will have a lot more given. He who
has little will have that little taken from him.”
     “That is one of the harshest sentences in the
Gospels. But I have noticed throughout my life that it is absolutely true. So
how can we identify the opportunities?”
     “Pay attention to every moment, because the
opportunity - the “magic instant” – is within our reach, although we always let
it pass by because we feel guilty. So try not to waste your time blaming
yourself: the universe will see to correcting you if you’re not worthy of what
you’re doing.”
     “And how is the universe going to correct me?”
     “It won’t be through tragedies; these happen
because they are part of life, and they should not be thought of as punishment.
Generally the universe shows us that we are wrong when it takes away what is
most important to us: our friends.
     “Kenan Rifai was a man who helped many people
find themselves and to achieve a harmonious relation with life. Even so, some
of those people proved to be ungrateful and never even turned their head to say
‘thanks’. They turned to him only when their lives were in a state of utter
confusion. Rifai helped them again without mentioning the past: he was a man
with many friends and the ungrateful always ended up on their own.”
     “Those are fine words but I don’t know if I am
capable of pardoning ingratitude so easily.”
     “It’s very difficult. But there is no choice: if you
don’t pardon, then you’ll think about the pain they caused you and that pain
will never go away. I’m not saying that you have to like those who do you
wrong. I’m not telling you to go back to that person’s company. I’m not
suggesting that you start seeing that person as an angel or as someone who
acted without any hurtful intentions. All I am saying is that the energy of
hate will take you nowhere, but the energy of pardon which manifests itself
through love will manage to change your life in a positive sense.”
     “I have been hurt many times.”
     “That’s the reason that you still bear within
yourself the little boy who cried hiding from his parents, the boy who was the
weakest in his class. You still bear the marks of that frail little boy who could
never find a girlfriend and was never good at sports. You haven’t managed to
chase off the scars of some injustices they committed against you during your
life. But what good does that do you? None at all. Absolutely nothing. Just a
constant desire to feel sorry for yourself for being the victim of those who
were stronger. Or else dress up like an avenger ready to inflict more wounds on
those who hurt you. Don’t you think you’re wasting your time with all that?”
     “I think it’s human.”
     “It’s certainly human. But it’s neither
intelligent nor reasonable. Respect your time on this Earth, understand that
God has always pardoned you, and learn to pardon too.”

     After this conversation with J, which took
place just before I traveled to spend 40 days in the Mojave desert in the

United States

,
I began to understand better the boy, the adolescent, the hurt adult I once
was. One morning, going from the

Valley

of

Death

in

California

to

Tucson

in

Arizona

, I made a mental list of everyone I
thought I hated because they had hurt me. I went along pardoning them one by
one and six hours later, in

Tucson

,
my soul felt so light and my life had changed much for the better.

Warrior Of The Light                                                           Copyright @ 2005 by Paulo Coelho

Last Sunday, one of my worst nightmares almost came true. It was early in the evening and I was settled comfortably on my couch watching The Kumars. Suddenly I heard lots of shouting coming from my mad neighbour’s house. Nothing unusual when it comes to their household but I went out to check things out anyway.

I noticed their gate was wide open and the whole family was watching its dog  run up and down the road. I just stood by the gate watching when suddenly I noticed that Earl Grey was crouched underneath a car on the road.

I rushed to open the gate just about when the dog noticed him under the car. It was horrifying watching the dog crawl under the car and all I could hear was loud scuffling, barking and hissing.

I tried my best to pull the dog out but I couldn’t get a proper hold on him. And one of its Masters, the Mad Neighbour’s son was transfixed by the car totally unsure as to what to do.

Finally I got my dad’s walking stick and managed to frighten the dog out from under the car. When I looked underneath, I held my breath expecting to find the mangled body of my Earl Grey instead I found NO KITTEN!

I was not sure whether to be happy or to panic. But luckily not long after that, Earl Grey made its appearance and slinked quietly back home. Amazingly he didn’t have a scratch on him!

However, that incident sparked off another row with the Mad Neighbour but I shall not contaminate my blog with details about that Madman.

Now if only Earl Grey learns from his mistakes. I seriously doubt it though because as of right now, I know he is outside Dancing with Death yet again.

About a week ago, Jared noticed this tiny grey and white kitten meowing pitifully along our back lane. We took a closer look and found that she had a terrible gash along her back on her right hind leg.

We coaxed her into coming closer and soon she started eating and sleeping in my back yard with Kitty. We tried to clean the wound as best we could and made an appointment to see our Vet. Unfortunately, before we could get her some medical attention, Moon as we had come to call her, just vanished without a trace.

Around the same time as Moon’s appearance, we found this tiny black and tan furball prancing about in our front porch. He looks just a little over a month old and has apparently been abandoned or ran away from its litter. Anyhow, it has managed to assimilate itself with Podgie and Earl Grey.

However, its only Podgie who seems to give it the time of day. Earl Grey has little patience for anyone or anything!

Chef: Roger Bayley
Serves 4

Degree of difficulty: Low

You need:
500g beef mince
25g fresh breadcrumbs
25g grated Parmesan
1 egg
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons olive oil
100mls red wine
400g tin tomatoes
20g basil leaves
Parsley, to serve

Method:
Mix together the mince, breadcrumbs, Parmesan, egg, onion and garlic.

Wet your hands and form the mixture into around 24 small balls about the size of a golf ball.

Heat the olive oil in a large frying pan and cook until browned all over. Cook in two batches.

Transfer to large saucepan. Pour the red wine over, then let it bubble away until syrupy, about 5 minutes.

Stir in the tomatoes, 100mls water and basil leaves.

Bring to the boil then lower the heat, cover and leave to simmer for 30 minutes until cooked through.

Serving Suggestion: Serve sprinkled with chopped parsley.

The Japanese journalist asks the usual question: “And who are your favorite writers?” I give the usual answers: “Jorge Amado, Jorge Luis Borges, William Blake and Henry Miller.” The interpreter looks at me in shock: “Henry Miller?” But she realizes at once that her job is not to ask questions, and she continues her work.

When the interview is over, I want to know why she was so surprised at my answer. I tell her that Henry Miller may not be a “politically correct” writer but he was someone who opened up a vast world for me, an author whose books are filled with a vital energy that we rarely find in today’s literature. “I’m not criticizing Henry Miller, I’m also a fan of his, “ she answered. “Did you know he was married to a Japanese woman?” Yes, of course I did. I am not ashamed to be fanatical about someone, so I try to find out all about their life. Once I went to a book fair just to meet Jorge Amado. I traveled 48 hours on a bus to meet Borges (which ended up not happening for my fault: when I did see him I stood paralyzed and could not say a word). I rang John Lennon’s doorbell in New York (the doorman asked me to leave a letter stating the reason for the visit, said that Lennon would eventually telephone, but this never happened). I had plans to go to Big Sur to see Henry Miller, but he died before I had enough money for the trip. “The Japanese woman is called Hoki,” I answer proudly. “I also know that in Tokyo there is a museum with Miller’s watercolors.” “Would you like to meet her tonight?” What a question! Of course I want to be close to someone who lived with one of my idols. I imagine she must receive visitors from all over, and requests for interviews, after all they lived together for nearly 10 years. Won’t it be difficult to ask her to spend some of her time with a simple fan? But if the interpreter says it is possible, then better trust her – the Japanese always keep their word.

I wait anxiously the rest of the day, then we get into a taxi and everything begins to feel strange. We come to a halt in a street where the sun probably never shines, with a viaduct passing overhead. The interpreter points to a second-class bar on the second floor of a building that is falling to pieces. We climb the stairs, enter the completely empty bar, and there is Hoki Miller. To hide my surprise I try to overdo my enthusiasm for her ex-husband. She leads me to a small room in the back where she has installed a small museum – some photographs, two or three signed watercolors, a book with a dedication, and nothing else. She tells me that she met him when she was doing her Master’s in Los Angeles and to support herself she played piano in a restaurant, singing French songs (in Japanese). Miller went to have dinner there, loved the songs (he had spent a good part of his life in Paris), they went out a few times, then he asked her to marry him. I notice there is a piano in the bar – as if she were going back to the past, to the day that the two had met. She tells me delightful things about their life in common, the problems because of the difference in age (Miller was over 50, Hoki was not yet 20), the time they spent together. She explains that the heirs from the other marriages were left with everything, including the copyright on the books – but that was of no importance, what she lived is beyond financial compensation. I ask her to play the same song that had called Miller’s attention many years ago. She does so with tears in her eyes, singing “Autumn Leaves” (Les Feuilles Mortes). The interpreter and I are also moved. The bar, the piano, the voice of the Japanese woman echoing off the bare walls without any care for the glory of the ex-wives, the oceans of money that Miller’s books must bring in, the world fame that she could now be enjoying. “It wasn’t worth fighting for the inheritance, love was enough,” she finally says, understanding what we were feeling. Yes, seeing the complete absence of any bitterness or rancor, I understand that love was enough. www.warriorofthelight.comCopyright @ 2005 by Paulo Coelho

Each day seems to pass faster than the previous one. For one who apparently is unemployed, I surprisingly find myself with little time left on my hands to devote to my precious blog.

Ahh..but I am not complaining. If I am too tired out by night time to type some trivial nuggets of blah blahs and more blahs, it generally means that I have had an interesting and productive day.

Although I find great release and pride in this blog, there are certain happenings in my life that I want to keep private. Well at least for now. What I would share with you my faithful readers, is this; I am very much in Bo-Land right now. Yes, you guessed it. I am totally infected by the Bice Virus and I am fighting against a cure.

Toodle loo everyone! LIVE MUSIC MATTERS!