The Elegant Beggar
It’s my day off—whoop-de-doo!
Woke up as late as I could, just to dodge the blistering heat of the day and the drag of having to figure out where to eat, what to say to my son when he returns from school, and I have nothing to offer him—not even pocket money.
I’m living on borrowed time and a borrowed financial status.
Broke to the bone.
And I don’t see the light at the end of this tunnel.
What a way to live.
What a bloody life.
It is a sin to be poor.
Or at least, it feels like it.
It is a sin to be broke.
Of course, poverty is relative. One can be broke in the bank but rich in experience or knowledge. But not having enough money to make ends meet—that sucks. No matter how you philosophize it.
I’ve had to stoop to begging—my son, a few close friends—for a hundred bucks just to pull me through this period. Yes, it's shameful. Yes, it’s low. But it had to be done.
When I meet my Maker—if I do—I will say this: I asked. I begged. He cannot lay it on my pride anymore. I laid that pride on the table.
Now, in the Islamic tradition, I may have committed blasphemy—shirk—by asking from others instead of relying fully on Allah. But full submission, true surrender, unshakable patience? It’s not easy. It's not easy to keep the mind from spiraling into anxiety, wondering how long before the bottom falls out entirely.
And yet... life goes on.
As the Buddha would say—it’s all Maya, illusion. The trick is to pick the lotus without getting your fingers wet.
To live in this world without being of it.
My solo exhibition is just a few months away. There’s so much to do still. But I’ve vowed to make it count—to give the world the best of what I have left to show. The final act in the Bahari saga.
The Art of Living to the Fullest as an Artist—not as a craftsman, but as a true artist, in the spirit of Paul Gauguin.
To explore cultures, challenge life, and laugh in the face of authority when necessary.
To bow humbly as a beggar, to borrow, to steal if it calls for it—without shame.
To love without hesitation and be loved.
To be cheated and to forgive.
To kill or be killed.
To dare to be humiliated and walk away with dignity intact.
To taste victory with grace and gratitude.
To run a hazardous waste facility and also understand the discourses of Sheikh Abdul Qadir al-Jilani and Ibn Arabi.
To have lived in Sandpoint, Alaska. Sendai, Japan. River Road, Penang.
To be married to two American women, and have a child living in the Swiss Alps.
This is life. And only a few ever truly taste it.
Those who do are never ordinary.
This I testify: this is the life of an Artist.
The Elegant Beggar, as Alan Watts might say.
The mad monk at the San Francisco Zen Center.
The Yard Dog at H&H Ship Services on the waterfront.
The ferry ticket seller in Penang.
The halibut fisherman—the fisher of men—in the Bering Sea.
The meat cutter at Green Bay’s Meat and Cold Storage.
Wherever life has taken me, I’ve tried my damnedest to live it fully—and to deliver a standard of excellence, just like an Artist should.
Not merely a Fine Arts student, but an artist of life itself.
I paint my own life.
I give it beauty.
I tear it to pieces.
I am the Maestro.
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