Finishing line

Good gravy, I’ve almost missed another month. I know it looks like I’ve been away from here for a long time, but I haven’t really. In the process of starting my Tumblr page, I may have left behind my November post in favour of ‘micro-blogging’, but that was just a minor oversight. I’m still here, and Tumblr will only be my new graffiti wall, not mind space.

The time for retrospection, revelry and resolutions is upon us and most everyone around my age is under great pressure to be happy. Appropriately enough, I’ve been looking back at myself over the past year to find the bright spots and the not-so-bright ones, all essential to passing the time. While there were enough low points that I’d rather not dwell upon, one memory certainly stood out as a highlight to remember for a long time yet.

So far, I have never been in an unsuccessful interview. Or rather, I have passed every interview that I have ever attended (and having said that, I hope I haven’t jinxed myself). Early this year, I was the subject of a totally unconventional interview, conducted by a young lady who was obviously quite experienced at this sort of thing. She had with her a notepad in which she recorded my every answer, which kinda made me nervous, but I wasn’t sure why. On the subject of names, she first struggled through spelling mine, but was then quite giddy when she found out that she shared my mother’s first name.

She then asked me to show her my home city on a globe of the world and then had me calculate the amount of time it took to get from Point A to Point B. Contrary to a regular interview, she wasn’t concerned with the process, only the final answer; she was quite satisfied with mine. After that, she suggested that I shift home.

Of course, there was a cultural disparity since we were from different countries, which was probably why she was so interested in every little detail that I provided. But I still couldn’t believe my lucky streak; yet another interview in which I could do no wrong! At one point, she even high-fived me when she found out that I enjoyed Jolly Rancher candy as much as she.

And then we had dinner and she gulped down all of the root beer I had brought along.

I really should mention that she was 8 years old.

KT Tunstall – Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)

Koop – Strange Love

And now, the news

Ok, I haven’t had time to write something special for today, so I give you this delightfully horrific little story by Edgar Allan Poe: Read!


On a side note, too bad about poor Caroline Wozniacki’s on-court spasm. Although, I’ll bet that video of her cramping up is really popular on the Internet and her grandchildren will probably watch it when they’re old enough to surf the net unsupervised!


Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London
Michael Jackson - Thriller

When September Ends

One of my favourite cinematic scenes is when someone crashes through a wall. No matter if the wall looks like it was constructed of papier-mâché, it’s still a greatly dynamic instant. I’m pretty sure I can’t break through a regular wall, but drywall is very much within the realm of possibility! Idly dreaming during (sometimes unnecessarily) long work meetings, I can imagine myself busting through the wall into the adjacent conference room. And just in case that isn’t intimidating enough to the unassuming folks on the other side, I can also be green and make caveman-ish sounds. Easy peasy!

I know I have a long way to go still, but at some point during the journey I would like to experience the event that becomes my story. Many people have many stories to tell, some more than others, but only a few have the story, the tale they tell that stokes the ember of interest in every listener. Whether horrific, fantastic or ecstatic, the story never fails to enrapture its audience. And I don’t mean the fluff you might catch in a break room, cafeteria or around the water cooler. This is serious stuff; the kind of stuff that is passed down within families, from generation to generation, changing ever so slightly with every new retelling but never forgoing the wonder of the original. In fact, the story is narrated so often by its owner, that with every passing year it either evolves into something more fanciful than before, or loses some of its less major elements to the clutches of time.

Unfortunately, I have no follies of youth to speak of, no movie-style romantic trysts, nor had any adventure that can be recounted with great gusto and pride. I might say my existence is absolutely unremarkable at present, if only that wasn’t such a cliché for someone my age. Unlike the general trend, I like to look at my life from the outside in, thus requiring more than just a personal sense of satisfaction or achievement to be suitably happy. Which doesn’t mean that I yearn for acknowledgment or approval by the people that surround me; on the contrary, it doesn’t matter as much as my own critique when I look back in at the events that have gone by and continue to do so, shaping my path through time. Narcissistic though it may seem, I think honest retrospection and self assessment does me well, rather than enduring the condescending, biased or disinterested opinions of others.

I don’t want to be greedy in wanting everything at once without having paid the price by facing the rigours of lice life, but I also hate having to think of an unpredictable future in which dreams can be forgotten or snuffed out in an instant, without anyone ever knowing they existed. This has certainly been the nature of things from time immemorial, but I don’t think it’s unfair to want a highlight before it’s too late. I don’t know, maybe it’s all this dreary rain that’s got me edgy and maybe tomorrow I won’t even feel the same way. But at the moment, this is my retrospection and I don’t want to lose it.

“Your world is nothing more than all the tiny things you left behind.”

The Turtles – Elenore

Skeeter Davis – The End of the World

Slither In

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

Twilight of the Thunder God

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