I would like to personally invite you to pause a minute to say a short prayer to those who died in the Virginia Tech shooting. It is appalling how many people have died before their time and have suddenly blundered into the afterlife, confused and longing for the familiarity of loved ones. Grief for the bereaved will reverberate in the world. A prayer, that's all.

Evolution of the species actually came not from the chance adaptation of plants and animals to their environments and food sources but rather from their consciousness that comes once a year, plant and animal years, that is. When they become self-aware, they think of how to make changes in themselves so that they and their offspring can survive in the wild. It is also the time when they make peace with each other. But before anything else, they do something to start the very first sunrise of the day of their becoming conscious or sentient, as you science folks call it.

Mr. Snail was just having his consciousness for the very first time when he heard the garden patch was full of sounds of voices from other neighbors who were busy doing vocalizations while the stars were slowly fading in the horizon.

"Do re mi fa..." warbled Ms. Poinsettia, waving her leaves as she went.
"Do...do!" boomed Mr. Frog, dwarfing and startling Mr. Snail as he slid by.
"Doe a deer..." crooned Mrs. Hen, who might've been as old as Julie Andrews but just as charming.
"Why are they doing this?" wondered Mr. Snail, his eye stalks bending every which way. Dew caressed his smooth head, gently falling from Ms. Violet doing soprano notes. An older snail stopped his humming and approached Mr. Snail.
"First morning as a conscious being?" asked Senior Snail.
"Guess so. I started noticing myself and others while the moon was at the zenith."
"Okay. I don't want to spoil the surprise for you, but you'll know what's this all about in a few moments."
"Tell me, Sir, why are you all seem like practicing your voices?"
"Quiet, it's coming any moment now. Listen."
"Listen to what?" Mr. Snail pressed, having the impatience of a new born child.
"Here He comes!" Senior Snail began a Pavarotti tenor tune, soothing notes flowing one after the other. Mr. Snail heard splendid sublime voices sounding like Josh Groban, Charlotte Church, and hearing the others, the Christmas Choir. Then, the sun rose, banishing the darkness, bathing the cool misty ground and the outspread green leaves and colorful flowers with gentle rays scattering into prismatic light of rainbow colors that seem to pulse in time with the adoring songs.

For Mr. Snail, it was the most beautiful sunrise he has ever seen. His eyes cried tears of joy as the most beautiful songs came from fellow creatures singing praise to the effulgent Maker on the first morning of consciousness.

I wrote this as a reaction to a book by Jules Ayer that discounts the metaphysical knowledge capability of man, that is, knowing beyond experience, a priori knowledge, or the possibility of knowing God, Spiritual life. I'd say this is institutionalized atheism taught in philosophy subjects in America.

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The finiteness of the intelligence of man is the assurance that there will always be something that is in existence that is not known by man hence the existence of things not experienced and fully comprehended. Such are a priori knowledge that men can suspect as factual yet untouched by senses. Or by science.

Let not man delude himself that everything that is true and factual is only known by empirical means, that what one can known can only be revealed by the five senses. How many times have you believed someone without seeing what seeing what that one has told? For empiricists would have man limit knowledge to this doomed world whereas it is the stuff of dreams that men can reach the stars and the origin of all.

With tears I pray for and contemplate
The flood of tears and blood in Mesopotamia
Cries for crimes that cry unto Caliphate
Human hears bombarded with psychic melanoma.

Stanch the wound blazing crimson flames
Before the firestorm knocks at your cozy heaven
Amputate the indifference that maims
Before skyscrapers get leveled by craven.

I ask forgiveness for and repose for the souls
Blasting their flesh and incinerating innocence
Hardening the human morphing into ghouls
Threatening heaven while making no sense.

Close the gates opening in the oily ground
Before more beings spread the attack
Chain the neck of the hellish hound
Heaven around must survive Iraq.

One of the most satisfying feelings in the world, while one is still alive, is to know you have helped a friend and that aid has come to fruition almost immediately. What I have done came nothing short of euphoric for me. My friend was very relieved and self-vindicated as well.

My friend, let me call him Argonaut here, would have gotten an F in his undergraduate thesis had he gone with his initial plan which probably came out of his frustration with his thesis adviser and professor, which I call Mr. Crab. The deadline for the submission of grades was on March 31. The same professor told him not to worry since his thesis was really good, which is about the poetic aesthetics of a local literary group. It had 150+ pages at that. He told him he could just submit without having any title proposal and final defense before a panel. Being granted this privilege, Argonaut then redoubled his efforts to research more and really finalize the thesis. When the time came to submit it, the professor was nowhere to be found.

He tried to reach him by phone but by the time I accosted him at 3 pm March 29, he was already despondent. His teacher had not yet replied. Argonaut said he would wait for the professor to come to school. He had to complete his grade now because the next day he had to go to another state to receive the first prize award for his winning poem about romance in World War II and a face off between father and son, where the son took the side of his beloved belonging to the enemies of his father. Star cross’d, you might say, but with a $1000 cash prize plus travel and accommodation expenses, medal, and certificate. The computerized records would automatically give him an F unless someone took care of it. Suddenly, I had an inspiration.

“Why don’t we talk to our department chairperson? Let her read your work. She can be your substitute professor and literary critic. She can give you the grade.” Argonaut agreed with me. We were of the same mind in doing something in the hopes of turning a bad situation good as a last resort. Guess what, she accepted our proposal! She even became proud because one of her ‘wards’ had won a prestigious literary prize. I was there to see the happiness shine on their faces and being a hand in resolving a looming academic crisis. The professor finally sent a text message, saying, “It’s too late to give you a grade. You still have to present it to the panel.” Talk about Twilight Zone reversals.

Argonaut thanked me profusely and we had a small drink afterward in his house. Being a writer, getting an F in a literary thesis would really make him look bad, and would have disqualified from taking a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which he planned on taking in another university.

It’s fulfilling. I have no words to describe it. We were exuberant and in high spirits and I hope he had brought it with him as he’d come to receive his prize.

As for me, I got an A in my thesis, which for me is an important achievement in my course as an educator. I guess I am an Argonaut too.