As far back as I can remember in my adult life, I’ve been waiting for my own ‘falls to his knees’ moment. It’s the much dramatised scene in which our protagonist falls to his (or her) knees, utterly overwhelmed. Maybe exhaustion from rescuing pensioners out of a burning building, or relief as they spy an oasis from afar after thirsty days in the desert wilderness, or even in reverent awe as they watch a projection of God himself descended to the Earth.
I’ve wanted it not so much for the drama involved, but rather for the spontaneous feeling that ignites the moment. You obviously don’t plan for it, and I don’t think many people like being on their knees, so when it does happen it’s likely the effect of a profound emotion. And that is something I think I need to experience.
It’s not hard to be weathered by the world so that you’re desensitised to where you barely betray or even feel much emotion. There are only phases in life when you actually care about shit. I mean when you really, truly give a fuck about shit. Any shit, however inane or intense, as long as you wake up to the day with a thought in your head that you really believe in. But after a point, the journey seems to take a common turn for most people, irrespective of which walk of life they are from (I say most people because I obviously haven’t met all people. I haven’t met most people either, but I’m surely allowed to take creative liberties in my assumptions, without going to hyperbolic extremes). You learn to take things as they come, finding ways to deal with or work around hiccups along the way. You’re doing well, always looking to ‘get ahead’ in the old rat race but hardly noticing the slow countdown that runs unerringly in the background while you take baby steps towards inescapable doom.
There needs to be an awakening, a break from the mundanity that creeps up on you in the guise of life-as-it-has-been-foretold. Enough of this urban bullshit. Forget the work week. Nevermind making plans for the weekend. I need to feel something. I need to feel emotion well up to where it has to bust out of me. I need to cry till I run myself dry, I need to laugh till I can’t bear the aching, I need to rage till I’ve forgotten the very the reason. And all these things shall make me happy and tired and alive.
“Can’t seem to get it together. I’m twenty six years old. I’m healthy, I’m capable, I’ve had every opportunity. My friends are getting married and having kids… and I’m just so far away.”
Nikka Costa - Call Me
Glen Hansard / Markéta Irglová - When Your Mind’s Made Up
I’ve decided to re-try my hand at something I haven’t done in a long, long time - reading. It’s been a while since I last perused something in print other than a price tag or the occasional newspaper headline so this is a big step for me.
For some reason I felt compelled to choose Douglas Scott Adams’ first book, although I have never really read his comic strip and even confess to hating it for no particular reason. Today, I began.
I have a tendency to try and find glimpses of myself in any fiction I read before I actually imbibe any of the intended content. Although I haven’t done much in recent times, old habits are meant to die hard, and in keeping with this fine tradition I was soon thinking how alike in thinking we were and how I had missed out on being a syndicated caricateur (I think this word sounds WAY better than ‘caricaturist’; unfortunately most dictionary folk don’t see eye to eye with me. And maybe Adams isn’t really a caricateur but I don’t give much of a fuck, ‘cos that isn’t the point) and an author. But there was a lingering uneasiness even as I got through to every next page, as though I was trying to write with the wrong hand or kick with the wrong foot (I’m no soccer player). 38 pages later, I gave in and turned back to my laptop instead. Guilt, me, awash with it. But luckily, I can live with that!
It has come to my attention that my writings are being found by those who would seek fruitful information and are accordingly dismayed when they come upon my posts, misleadingly titled such that they are irrelevant to the immediately following matter. Besides, the incongruity can’t be helping my credibility with Google search, whatever it may be. Be that as it may, I shall continue as before, to use titles that bear little or no resemblance to the actual posts they are associated with, other than to provide an additional point to ponder, perhaps.
Floyd: Heard anything from that girl recently? I haven’t. Have you?
I’m always thinking one step ahead, like a carpenter… that makes stairs.
Roxy Music – If There Is Something
Jon Secada – Just Another Day
A couple of weeks ago just as I was leaving for work, I saw this lady come out of the neighbouring building. About mom-sized and, as is the norm around here, wrapped in a million scarves. Big deal, I think, and carry on my way happy with the thought I’d thunk that I’d be long gone before she even extracted her keys from her hideous purse. Instead, I eventually found myself behind her on the road, trying desperately not to gun the throttle and smash into her tail light out of frustration. Not only was she going my way, all the way, she somehow constantly managed to stay ahead of me, slowing down only at every turn, where she seemed too timid to maintain her momentum.
So I had to take her out before she caused me further embarrassment and potentially endangered the life of the mother of her children. A few nicks and bruises never hurt anyone.
I have a phobia of bodily penetrations. Before that statement is misconstrued to be what it isn’t, I should add that I mean bodily penetrations by inorganic objects. Hmm… Ok pointy metallic objects, more precisely. Dammit that still sounds dirty. Ok, I will narrow it down to knives. When blade meets flesh, that’s when my balls literally jump up into my body and wait there till it’s safe to descend again.
For many years, I tried to figure out if there really was something to this ‘stomach churning’ business, as others have put it, but I’ve only recently understood that the most profound effect an external stimulus can have is on my testicles.
And all this medical jargon is reminding me of another thing I hate. Doctors. And the thing I hate more than doctors – doctors who don’t agree that you’re as sick as you feel. I mean it’s a helluva medical anticlimax when you go to the doctor and then undergo a bunch of tests expecting to find conclusive evidence that your spine is horribly mis-shapen, which is the cause of your incredible pain, and after all that he tells you to go home and take an aspirin. Hell, if I’m paying you 400 bucks for consultation plus 1,500 for the tests, at least humour me and say I MIGHT have a horribly mis-shapen spine, which is the cause of my incredible pain!
Or at least have a hot nurse draw my blood. The rest I can deal with.
For the accompanying image: I swear I don’t remember where I got the original. If you read this and happen to be the artist, creds to you. At least I’m not using it for commercial purposes and so you can’t sue me, right? Right?
“This isn’t goodbye, it’s great-bye!”
Robert Palmer – Simply Irresistible
Imogen Heap – Hide and Seek
RIP, Michael. I still love ya.
I had an unusual dream a couple of nights ago that I will now dwell on for my own amusement – I dreamed I was colourizing an episode of I Love Lucy. I know that you aren’t supposed to remember dreams because of REM sleep and all that jazz, but I do recall them sometimes, as I’m sure most people do. Every time I manage to recollect a dream, it is vivid enough for me to break down into parts that I can relate to occurrences in the previous day, at least on some level. This rationalizing allows me to scoff at all those dream readers.
This time though, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what brought Lucille Ball into my sleeping consciousness. I don’t remember any other faces or sounds from that dream, not even Ricky; just her. And her red dress and her red hair.
I don’t like loose ends. This is going to trouble me for a while now.
On a less unusual note, change is in the air. Not just the weather, but me too. I’ll be 26 shortly and before I do that, I’m shedding some skin. Less cursing through the traffic is a start; instead I’d rather enjoy the ride and musical accompaniment. More outdoor activity is another chapter of this new edition. I’m getting used to a gym locker room and hopefully, I’ll soon be emulating a namesake with a racquet in my hand. The best part of all this is that I get to roam around in shorts. It doesn’t matter that the little girls sitting in a row along the garden fence giggle whenever I pass them, this is the calmest I’ve been in a very long time.
There will always be empty spaces that need filling, but I think there are some that need to be filled first so that you can move on to the rest. Maybe I’ve started right.
“Every time I lay you down in that damn crib, I'm gonna think, ‘Damn baby. Damn Crib.’”
Amber – This Is Your Night
Ludacris – Get Back
That’s it! I, am hereby, herein, hereforth AND herewith done with aging... From now on, I’m getting younger by the minute!
Fort Minor - Remember The Name
Bobby Vinton - Blue Moon
As far back as I can remember in my adult life, I’ve been waiting for my own ‘falls to his knees’ moment. It’s the much dramatised scene in which our protagonist falls to his (or her) knees, utterly overwhelmed. Maybe exhaustion from rescuing pensioners out of a burning building, or relief as they spy an oasis from afar after thirsty days in the desert wilderness, or even in reverent awe as they watch a projection of God himself descended to the Earth.
