Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Of Flying Bisons, Liz Lemon & Dickolocausts.

I’ve been aching to blog for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of news that I didn’t, but rather for lack of words. This part isn’t covered in the grownup handbook but apparently what happens is this; you get to a point where you don’t feel the need to talk anymore, because you realize how little anything you have to say matters, and how talking is basically playing molecule fetch. We’re just here to keep the air moving, otherwise it gets stale and the fishbowl wreaks of elephants stuck in rooms and we all turn belly up.

I think aurora borealis is beautiful.

Life has been hectic and meaningless, with heartbreaking ellipses and disappointingly premature periods. I’m juggling a job and uni, previously two but then economy happened. Which I don’t mind, the mind-numbing emotion-draining robot-mutating capitalist nature of 21st century work suits me well, it comes in handy sometimes. Although, at other times, I go from worrying why momma ship is ignoring my distress signals to worrying that maybe my distress signals brought momma ship down.

I still don’t understand people, the only difference is that now I’m not even trying to because who needs that?



Let me take you for a walk in my shoes so you’d understand. For instance, this whole Saudi women driving campaign is like a guy getting kicked out of his house putting up the fight of his life to keep the doormat. Forgive me, but shouldn’t they be fighting for rights to lead normal lives first? Aren’t there severe human rights violations and freedom shenanigans to sort out? Shouldn’t you worry about your school lunch before snagging your toy back from the big bully? Priorities, people. I get it that you gotta start somewhere, but it doesn’t have to be a commercialized first-world whine in a third-world environment. That’s not square one.

Then there’s 30 Rock, which everyone finds hilarious and I find incredibly depressing. What is funny about an intelligent beautiful hardworking woman getting fucked over and having her dreams stomped and is humiliated on a daily basis for absolutely no reason at all? How is that funny? TV sitcoms should tend to escapism, not serve as painful reminders. I mean, Louie I get, we laugh in self-defense. But Liz Lemon? Come on, Liz Lemon should rule the world goddammit.

Then there’s a dude friend who, talking about his crush, quips: “It's like she's the female version of me. Well, I'm the female version of me, but she has the package.” Yes, it’s funny. But is that really all? I knew guys think with their dicks but this is a whole new level of dickhead-ism. I’m starting to think that the whole ‘Guys think with their dicks’ thing has more truth to it than the revelation most of us had at 15. Everyday it proves long-lasting. But then again most chicks these days remind me of energizer bunnies, in the sense that they’re immortally cute squeeze-balls who have nothing at all to add to the world other than their squeaks, so guys aren’t entirely to blame.

I hate adjacent lines. I think it’s cruel that two lines can overcome so many forces to meet at a point then have no choice against the same forces to part, with no hope of reprieve till they’re a circumference apart, god knows when. Parallel lines have it easy, compared to that. I wasn’t going for a bumper sticker line but it looks like it came out that way.

I have stalkers now, it was annoying at first but then I came to think of them as puppies. When trained, they fetch you stuff and bite at cue. It’s entertaining, if it hadn’t been for all the time spent in curt social interaction directed at saving the feelings of someone who has proved they have none by being there. This doesn’t make sense to me either. The only thing that pisses me off, and by ‘pisses me off’ I mean I haven’t found a silver lining with yet, is this annoying tidbit: They won’t let me read. Much like puppies, they feel offended if your attention is directed at an inedible object that isn’t them. This is equally baffling to me.

Japan would have got a lot more media attention if geishas had swag. Floating around all 'I be rocking this Okiya like it was Okinawa brah san.' What does have media attention, however, (Other than the last Airbender who likes penguin sledding and has a pet flying bison) is the release of the new iPad air, which is a lighter, faster, more expensive bourgeois clone of its predecessors. Apple doesn’t make sense either. You see, the only reason Apple is so famous in the US is because they produce quality gadgets with a cheap price tag. In the Middle East, it is ridiculously overpriced next to its more competent competition that comes at half the price, and remains the most purchased because that’s how parallel universes work I guess. US Apple fan boy vs. Arab inferiority complex. Meet Asia, working behind the curtains, beating all released smart phones for a fraction of the price, with absolutely no media attention, at all, on this beauty right here: http://techcrunch.com/2013/08/12/xiaomi-beats-samsung-to-top-chinas-smartphone-charts/

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Amongst the many other things that I still don’t understand is how onion soup is so underrated, how Tennant never showed up on the Simpsons, how struggles and snuggles are only a letter apart and people still opt for the former - Well two, alphabetically speaking. One, mathematically speaking – why people refer to Wust el Balad as some muggle Diagon alley where they can find anything, from Unicorn blood and falcon hooves to phoenix litter, why there are 18 stair steps on each flight rather than an easily manageable 20, how no one has orchestrated a dickolocaust yet, why burger patties are so hard to make, why they’re called unicorns rather than uniswords or unispears or unilances since they don't have corn on their heads, and last but not least, why they still haven’t built an aero hydraulic Quidditch coliseum, magnetically levitated broomsticks, a repelling snitch & a ginormous remote-controlled bludger when there’s an unfunded kickstarter project begging for Quidditch to be an official sport.


I rest my case.

Monday, 16 September 2013

Adam’s Apple.

You know what the problem is? I'll tell you what the problem is, it's life as a concept, treating life like an absolute block of something that doesn't make sense when taken apart, when all you're supposed to do if you wanna give life meaning is break it down and tend to the morsels. Treating life like a block is what makes people act out of character, because they’re so sure that block is supposed to fit somewhere, or take shape, but they have no idea where it’s supposed to fit, how it’s supposed to look like or why it’s supposed to look like that. A lot of ‘supposed’ presets that somehow precipitated in people’s subconscious as the ultimate goal. I don’t know, is that what it’s really all about? All what we’re going through, you take a flaming ball of uncontrolled circumstances set in motion by a random state of pulsated chaos and somehow make it into a shape whose form, origin and reason are unknown? That’s a little too complicated for a couple of naked schmucks who were stuck in a garden with a morbid apple tree, wouldn’t you say? And isn’t that what eventually triggers the state of frantic achievement that transforms people from many single human beings to an unthinking, unfeeling, unsatisfied stampede? Aren’t those who think they know what they’re doing to get there the most delusional of all? I think it’s simpler than that. I think we’re put here on this weirdass planet to live in knick knacks. I think the planet itself having an expiry date is a cheat code. I think the fact that days are similar means that nothing is moving forward or backwards but a groundhog day syndrome. They’re not supposed to be connected, leading up from anything or to anything, they’re just there and you’re supposed to enjoy them while you can because they’re gonna run out and thank god they will.

Friday, 30 August 2013

Wage Beauty.

We live between
crosses and crescent moons
prayer rugs, cell blocks, & a ballot box
prisoners and presidents
resistance and resilience
hope and a hurricane
hope and a hangman
hope and a hang noose.
When our children are elders their children will call this time we live in "the era of wounded dreams" when systems openly assassinated imaginations.
No one tells stories anymore.
It's as if we believe gravity is real & unicorns are not.
We've swallowed the sugar coated cyanide that tells us the narratives of invaders hold more truth than the memories of my grandparents.
How damaged our belief systems are.
We tell ourselves existence is resistance, not life is affirmation.
to fight and write back, but not fight and dream forward
to deconstruct empire but rarely blueprint ourselves
it is as if we have forgotten that a nation is nothing more than a collection of narratives.
A community does not make sense of the world thru statistics but stories and bigots are painfully unimaginative
this is why they want to censor our culture
they know they cannot compete with our creativity.
So this is for you
who dance write speak dream love exhale the work anew
who place starlight in the barrel of rifles and march against darkness
militant sunflowers holding up your heart up like a hand grenade
hummingbird in a hurricane with hope strapped to its core like it was c4.
We remember the only reason we are alive
is because we had at least one ancestor who refused to die
and lived long enough to have children who did the same.
This is our genetic inheritance
remember this
so dance indigo
cultivate brilliance
speak life
name pain
grow dreams
& in times of terror...
Wage Beauty.

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

‘We need to be more offended, in order to be more passionate.’

‘You got it backwards there.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘How so?’

‘Passion is usually a paradox, something that requires faith with so much absurdity around, offensive absurdity.’

Thursday, 15 August 2013

Saturday, 10 August 2013

Schrödinger’s Sonnet.

Capture

We’re all Schrödinger’s cats. The one difference is that atheists know they’re Schrödinger’s cats.

Agnostics, however, live the benefit of the doubt that keeps it alive and dead, simultaneously.

So you could say that believers and atheists have the best bits of the bargain, being the illusion of confirmation of one state as opposed to the other.

What nobody will admit is this; none of the three are better off, because the outcome is the same.

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Monday, 5 August 2013

Of Russia, Dunbar & Being Pissed.

I came here to watch Dexter, or Suits. I heard they were nice, not that I care if they are. I was hoping Hollywood put enough shit in them to drown through layers of ennui, frustration and problems.

Anger, anger is good. People should get pissed more often, I don’t know what people have against anger, wanting to dump it and go for acceptance, a pathetically passive life hack that helps you get over things by extinguishing your core so you won’t have to deal with them, which reminds me of something I read in Catch 22 the other day:

“Dunbar was lying motionless on his back with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll's. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom.
Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead.”

You see, anger is healthy, it means you have gusto, it means you still have some fight left in you. But most of all, it means you still have hope. As long as you still have it in you to get genuinely and vehemently pissed at things, then your soul is fine and kicking. That’s what you should thank God for, you idiots. It’s like he gave you this life-beeper and all you bitches are complaining about is the noise. “UNPLUG MEH UNPLUG MEH D: WAH!”

How can someone in their right mind opt for acceptance over anger? That’s like choosing a wheelchair over a marathon-chiseled pair of Herculean legs. Anger is good for you, you dipshits. Go break something until you feel better. You should be worried if you don’t have it in you to get pissed.

american-badass-7

Gallows humor is damn ugly though. You see, gallows humour is just like anger, except it doesn’t have gusto, fight or hope. It’s the pulverized version of the package, what zombies are made of. It is neither aggressive nor passive, nor does it care enough to be neutral for its own peace of mind. No, it’s the darkest pit of hell, right down next to Beelzebub playing poker with Hitler’s toes. It’s a form of pain that is beyond consolation as well as human reach. It’s beyond the human reach even to the human hosting it. That’s what you do to pain you see, you don’t contain it, you host it, it’s gotta be nice and comfortable with a shitload of ever-expanding space like a black hole that swallows everything and doesn’t show a nickel for it. Gallows humor is what echoes when there is no medium, it’s what makes Russian novelists sell.

I got a theory that if you wanna find the answer to any political impasse, it’ll be right there in Russian history. They’ve been through hell and back so many times that when they finally set foot on solid ground they thought it was easier to walk on water and ended up drowning everybody else trying to patch the gap, jump pits and get some of that nirvana they’ve mined. It just doesn’t work that way though, because they paid for it with years of fighting against their own human nature only to find that humans weren’t that great after all, and their nature, in its purest form, was kind of fucked. Some answers you get when you have no other choice but to go about them the hard way, sounds pretty easy and cliché when you put them on paper, eh?

Man I love Russia, the same way you’d love a dead puppy.

It’s funny how I always find myself staring at a blank post right about the time I’m usually staring at a brick wall. All those years of writing for magazines haven’t done anything but make me feel guilty for whoring it out. I define myself as a writer, not because I can write, but because I need to write. And all that printed shit with marketing tricks and psychological manipulations aren’t pieces of literature, they’re just origami. And not the creative type either, but the type that comes with a catalogue. All about target and method. There’s something about writing for the sake of writing that makes you vulnerable, to yourself and to the world; and that is why I can never see myself writing a book. There’s something about whoring out your vulnerabilities that doesn’t hold a candle to whoring out marketing techniques and psychological loopholes. It’s depraved. Kind of like spending hours practicing an instrument, not for your own enjoyment, but to wow a crowd. One day, the last panda on earth will run into a metropolis choked with humans holding a sign saying ‘You’re doing it wrong!’, and humanity will finally get it.

They say the best thing that happened to humankind was when one of them decided to ask why, I think it’s the opposite. That’s just one of those times when people deny things and rationalize their diametric contradiction so damn well that they couldn’t reach it again for solace if they tried. If somebody pretends to know why, or happens to be sure of anything, they’re probably lying. There are no reasons, there is no design. It just is and you ain’t special.

And isn’t it great?

Thursday, 1 August 2013

Highlight of the Evening

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Meet the friendly neighbourhood butterfly.

All your scribbled lovedreams, are lost or thrown away,
Here amidst the shuffle of an overflowing day
Our love needs a transfusion so let's shoot it full of wine
Fishin' for a good time starts with throwin'in your line.