Heaven ain't close to a place like this

Strike one
Strike two
Steeeeeeeeeeerike.. two again? :-/

Wow Inland Revenue must've really hated me to send the same rejection letter twice! Of course for what it's worth, it was my first interview, blah blah excuse blah, evil interviewer, yadda yadda yadda.
Bloomberg of course was just silly! Mass giant interviewing, and I was surrounded with Masters students all of whom had proper work experience, two of the three I was being interviewed with actually in current full time jobs! Rraszm fraszm, oh but the building was stupendous :D

It is reported.. I expect the Lloyds rejection soon now after having laughed during the interview because I thought one of the questions was weird (apparently a big no-no) I err.. might have insulted him too :$ Total mistake though! Nyah :-(

Happy Birthday to Del, though she'll never see this here 8-)

And umm, right moving on! Live videoconference with 11 sites was so coolishly fun :D There were 10 other uni sites, and one running from Sri Lanka, all set up in the World Bank (lousy London office btw :-/). But I am now part of the leadership squad for the the "Americans for Informed Democracy". Clarifications: It's not for Americans, and Democracy=Global debate. Of course since the words for and informed still remain relevant, there's no majority overhaul of the group name required :P

I have also managed to ( and phaw they say don't start every sentence with an I, rah rah rah!), yes what I've managed to (brackets are hard to ignore, even though they're supposed to not impeded the sentence flow), have managed to... oh , take over control of my UN delegation for the London International (CONTRADICTION IT IS REALLY!) Model United Nations 8-) Am hoping to put together a play, am booked for a boat party cruisin vessel on the 9th, and my academic workload is beginning to creep into my nightmares :D

Right ok so now I'm waiting to take a quiz... I'm sure the results will give me something very fascinating to talk about. Tappity tappity tap tap..
Riiight heads up people :D

Take the quiz: "Which'>http://www.zenhex.com/quiz.php?id=5343">"Which famous dictator are you?"

Joseph Stalin
You're Joseph Stalin! You're the communist leader of the Soviet Union. You got into power by lying, manipulating and murdering... Oh well, power is power. You're probably one of the most paranoid people ever to walk the earth... Yes, they ARE out to get you! You're really ugly but you don't allow the public to see that... Image is everything and what they don't know can't hurt them, right? You can't stand those who question you... You tend to make them disappear very quickly. You need some serious counseling.

I'm not ugly.. sob wail cry shout scream.. *shoots his make-up department*
HAH last time they'll try that! Where's my jobola oil!
Anyway image is what counts.. and Red Alert was about ME!!! Me me me me Meeeeeeeeee!!! I rule, stfu! (A)
I just like saying that.. sounds kinda like stuff you... hehe (A)

Oh yes, what with half an hour left to waste, I shall now perform an autopsy of loooove.
There are many kinds of love.
The opposite of love is hate.
You can love, hate or not give a damn.. sorry dang.
Love is in all of us.
Contrary to popular toon-induced propoganda, the heart is not shaped like that n a deck of cards but is a big pulsating muscle that usually tries to run out of your chest and smash your ribs to pieces whenever you might come across love... or big scary dudes in dark alleys.
The kind of love means that English does in itself not provide enough variations.
Attraction = Love
Love for your family,friends and other half is all different.
Your other "half" is usually easily amputated, not necessary to survival, and the donor market is the largest.
Sometimes other halves, using this thing called love, believed in by teeny boppers and a band called Darkness, to cast a spell due to which amputation may cause scarring.
The only way to deal with lost love is to use lots of hate, much like a chemical acid-alkali reaction.
This may leave you feeling somewhat salty.
There are no absolutes in love.
Hence, love scarring may also be fixed by the use of, say, more love.
This may leave you feeling a bit like melted chocolate.
The association of love with food is unusually strong only if such love as is applicable to other "halves" is mentioned.
Other sorts of love, such as that for family, is more shelled.
Shells are boring.
Love for friends is the most easily revived, dead for years and easy shock therapy solves most scenarios.
The use of the words "I Love You", which are only slightly less powerful than "Banana Hammock", is usually reserved for such cases where the user is either trying to salvage a flailing relationship, or post 2am at a bar.
Saying I love you to friends is either A) A recipe for disaster, or B) Very gay.
It can also be one of C,D or E, but they're most likely to be found imprinted on Teddy Bears.
Another interesting sort of love is that for things, or activities.
Such love depends on the thing, or activity.
Hate can also be easily spun against the same things, or activities.
Love and hate are an emotion that can thus be tied up to both animate and inanimate objects.
Together, this makes a crucible for Romance.
Romance involves love, hate and flowers.
It can also involve banana hammocks, but this is purely island dependant.
If it weren't for love, men would not rule the earth.
Hence, Love=Man power.
This is open to debate.
You know you love me really!
Have a wonderful day, this is Ray signing out.
Lots of love,
Joseph Stalin.
xxx

Coming soon.
Hugs, Kisses and Hersheys. The biography.

Angels and Demons and Dreams

www.stickcricket.com
Brilliant game to play, but can be incredibly frustrating, causing me to deliver this post prematurely. Maybe I'll toss it into an incubation chamber before it's ready for the grand unveiling?
You can bet Word would have thrown a green line fit over that last question mark. But since I am a man(possibly) of focus(suprisingly) who feels that all entries must have a structure(ok I'm NOT talking about me anymore am I!), I shall hasten to the ultimate purpose of this highly enlightening revelation.

I have regrettably found myself a fan. No dictionaries needed, but it is true. Long a supporter of the LOTR way of life, never could I have found myself at such a perilous juncture, where the very fabric of my fantasy-ridden persona finds itself dishonourably attracted to a completely heathen style of writing. The culprit in this saga, Mr Dan Brown. For not even the mighty LOTR did I ever attempt to finish in less than a day. Not when reading Winters Heart by Robert Jordan did I find myself so drawn in that no manner of sleep deprivation would hold me away from its pages. Brown has been my downfall. No other author have I ever stayed up all night to get through, tucked in bed with images of ghoulish fiends bursting through my closed bedroom door as dawn breaks through my blinds. Such images are often entertained by my more vampiric senses as daylight creeps over the horizon, sending images to assault my senses that make the exorcist girl look like a Barbie doll. Dawn is no time for a decent count to be found with his eyes glued to a book, scratched by the inevitable turning of pages, and barely registering the rest of the family dutifully leaving for work/school. Bless the holidays and their allowance for mad rushes, spoken in true Ross-onian style.
That was the Da Vince Code in the holidays. The matter here is not that I have never stayed up all night before, nor that I would indeed be reading a book from the general night-starter of 10pm. But it was a book I had begun in the early afternoon, interrupted for a test, tea and tv. When I revisited at 2am, the bed-time story seemed to stretch considerably longer than intended. Angels and Demons, its predecessor, only kept me offically awake till 3am. Images it had created wouldn't leave me till much later though, and over the two days I hacked at it between train rides and sitcoms, the dreams it generated have been demonic, the angelic part obviously reserved for my daily exuberance shown to the dear world around me.
But enough of dilly, and Queen dally-ing. What's the point! Ah-ha, such is the issue. What_is_the_point. Well the point as it is seems to have rather unfortunately spread itself into a giant puddle of befuddlement that now plagues my very existence. His ability to merge fact with fiction, twist things to make that seemingly true a fabrication based upon centuries of deceit, bah, it's almost painful to withstand such an onslaught in a single session.
Do I exaggerate? Inevitably. But it is only out of admiration. He took Roma, and he turned it upside down on its head, making me want to go there now, even though I visited it just this summer, more than I have ever wanted to do in the 20 years of my life before I had even considered such a trip. He turned France into a treasurehouse of such secrets that I spent the next week, only recently concluded, verifying the accuracy of the many tales he spun. All based on some bits of history or the other, clever mergers, and some startingly true. The redefinition of the Holy Grail is a must read for all avid supporters of "feminism", sacred feminism even. Conspiracy theories have always been there, but never presented in such a fictitious manner as to make annoyingly clear the huge amount of knowledge that I must have. Not an egotistic statement, it's meant to show my desire to get that knowledge. The knowledge that I must have but don't! There's so much buried on this planet, I'd happily live in university lectures all my life. Not the math ones though ;)
Angels and Demons happily didn't climax till the end, rather than mid-way like the Da Vince code, which totally shakes you (given the information there is "new", which it obviously isn't for some people, depending on what you've been reading at other points in life). It was less predictable, shedding light on strange practises and events that all find their verification from given monuments. Perhaps the most frustrating move of Brown is that by writing these books of fiction, he raises the question of what the quirks his work is based on are actually doing there in the first place. Certainly not coincidence.
He seems to have a certain amount of venom for the Church, though not Christianity. It's absorbing, but this is hardly a book review. All it's done is inspire an up and coming theology vs atheism post. So dark the con of man.

I do believe I shall now indulge myself in a bit of lunching, before a livejournal post, and then onto other academic pursuits, none of which I hold very dear to my heart. The dreams though, a brief mention of the dreams. The first night, where two boys who I'm sure I know try to steal my car with my siblings in the back. A mad car chase brings us into the Police area near fortress under the bridge, Q**** lines I think or something. There we have some sort of face-off, the exact details of which get blurry, though involve, oddly enough, Haroon and Badar as policemen jumping the two guys, at some point the two guys dieing, and then their mother Madonna! coming and swearing vengeance upon me. Skip to Act II with a large lawn party in some sunny green area. I climb high atop a tower and something startles me. There's suddenly no way down, and I topple the whole tower, bringing myself down and jumping off before ground impact. Unerringly similiar to the image I had of Robert Langdon on the book Shelves in the Vatican vault, only I didn't read that till the next day. There are sparks and family drama, and the secret unveiling of some video. it blurs now, but it left me feeling chilled.
Todays dreams were truly odder, involving the discovery of a fourth marker in Rome that helps kind of neatly wrap up the original Path of the Illuminati. Most odd, only then it spins to me moving through a jungle labryinth. I come across a great gaping hole, and kill a cat for some absurd reason. The way then seems to fill up with twigs and I can cross, only to come to a poll with people waiting to be taken by me. In waht sense? Oh wait I'm suddenly a vampire, and choose some odd goth-ish person, drinking up the blood as the pool turns black. I had fangs very close to those of the HEadless Horseman in Sleepy Hollow, not at all the kind of decent vampire I'd imained myself. Only then the scene backtracks to the path. Still filled with twigs, another cat comes, fat and low. It looks up at me and asks if I plan to skin it, but I say I've killed my cat of the day. It doesn't trust me much, moving slightly backwards and forwards, and suddenly I'm afraid of it. It's teeth, the claws, the arched back. Mutual fears coincide, and I throw the body of the previously killed cat now surprisingly in my hands, behind myself. The cat starts to passs by, rolling over, and all the time I'm afraid it may claw me. It says it's afraid too though, and I believe it. I cross the path again and hear Tarzan. Oh wait, that's my alarm clock. Up for uni, less than 3 hours of fitful odd-dream sleep.


Dus Vidanya!

What happens, happens, and what man can claim to know the reason for reason

Happy New Year! I just felt it important to deal with the most basic impending issue first. While it may be late, it’s the thought that counts, and if I have your mobile number you shall already have been wished by now. To everyone else my sincerest apologies but I do believe my upcoming resolutions should see to that, though I currently lack any resolution other than the one kindly thrust upon me by BSM to pass my practical driving test. Having dealt with this prime, though most assuredly not most important, issue, I can now move onto things more close to the motivation behind this grand undertaking. Having just finished watching Pretty Woman (finally!) and listening to Take My Breath Away, I’m proud to announce that this is NOT an entry about mush nor love (yay or boo as the case may be) What IS very special about this entry is that it is to be the first that is present in both my journal AND blog, hence the construction in MS Word, a suitably neutral though damnable medium, yet favouring neither beloved keeper of innermost thoughts, and more frequently, general blabbering. What else makes this entry special is that it’s the first one for 2005, and also contains what I hope shall be an account of one of the most unique and wonderful weeks of my life. That hope is likely to be dashed for I freely admit that to put such an event into words is well beyond my ability, nor do I feel that any words written on the subject would do it any justice. In favour of the journal readers, the following section on the brilliance of the “Kith and Kids Experience” shall be provided as an LJ cut, hence removing the scrolling hazard. To the blog populace, it’s there to be scrolled. It’s also going to be one of those rare entries that I write focused upon myself rather than any audience, especially given the general divergence of my blog and journal styles, any similarities to either mode here are purely natural.

Here Goes, good luck!

I have included here and there brief references to three training days I had attended prior to the beginning of their Christmas Project. There is no particular need to delve deeply into their substance, seeing as how they were primarily aimed at familiarising us with the basics of a variety of disabilities and the sort of situations we might encounter. The Sunday immediately preceding the beginning of the event was spent meeting some of the members, but as the one I was volunteering with wasn’t in, it was more an observation experience than anything else. So I can generally skip quickly towards Monday, the 27th of December. The training days were themselves however the beginning of my experiences of the most energising games played in groups exceeding 60 people, at times crossing over the 100 mark. Organised by Robin, they were different and yet promoted a sense of familiarity amongst all the participants that was surreal. Have you ever seen energy? Because you could actually see energy there, sparkling clouds of it falling off volunteers from every walk of life. Though when it comes to visualising energy, this was just a small taster from the great dish in making.
It’s a good 15-20 min walk from Seven Sisters station to the KK centre. Add to that the average journey time of nearly an hour, the general physical state as you step in after braving the cold winds and sacrificing much tissue paper in such a perilous journey is rather dismal. At least at the entrance for once you step in there is a veritable shower of pixie dust. Faith, trust and pixie dust… think of a happy little thought, those are the ingredients to flying if my memory serves me right (and it unerringly does on such matters). There is this buzz you can hear, as the small bands of volunteers that have arrived go about setting up the materials provided by the administrators before the much-anticipated arrival of the members. This is the day after Boxing Day, and after nearly a week of festivities or general relaxation, everyone is in a state somewhere between anxiety and lethargy. They may not be linked states, but the middle is quite a sight. (At this time I would like to apologise to any readers for the tense switching, it’s just how it comes: $) So I stroll in towards the big hall, and this is quite an extensive centre. One large hall, a kitchen, several rooms, and another fair sized cabin-come-shed at the back. There’s some paved area as well, green fields don’t find themselves at home in London. So yeah, back to the hall, past the cloakroom (the existence of which remained unknown to me for several days). I see some familiar faces, but they’re all either helping out or heading towards the kitchen for some morning tea to bring them back to Earth. I scribble my name on the sign-in list, make myself a name-tag {We all had these, and I believe they are really very useful. All people in uni/work should be required to wear one, helps boost conversation, or maybe that was just the atmosphere 8-)} what did I do then? I think I just found someone nearby to sit and talk to, couldn’t remember who it was. I did however get lost enough to be totally oblivious to Carrie (organiser) calling out my name as my member (Louis) arrived. The other volunteer who was on Team support and was also assigned to Louis seemed similarly lost though, and so the poor kid was attached to a different volunteer as the organisers waited for me to “arrive”. I did finally arrive 5 mins later and went in for my first meeting. It has to be said that Louis was really early, almost everyday. No other members had actually started to pour in as yet. But we said our hellos, and went on to introductions and how are you, etc etc. Twas never going to be easy as he seldom spoke. But with a barrage of questions and much head shaking and nodding, we set up some line of communication which led us to the kitchen and finally to a table where we sat drumming our fingers waiting for the day to begin.
Fingers dancing gracefully across my memory. They trickled in, slowly and steadily. People, but so different that the elusive nature of the entire spectrum of humanity could never be more obvious. They jumped and shouted. They cried and jogged. They hid behind their parents or glanced apprehensively towards their new volunteers. They tackled strangers and communicated with gestures and sounds that you found easy to respond to and yet exhilarating to go through. As the rest of the “adult” group gathered (So labelled due to no other distinguishing characteristic other than the desire of the members to be known as such, and their increased affinity for assimilation into the “mainstream”) After all, the level of disabilities here was massive, ranging from barely detectable, as it was in several members of the adult group, to, well, the other end is too diverse to even begin commenting on. So we marched off to the back cabin, which was to be our base of operations for the first three days, and was later abandoned due to a rather heavy gas leakage!
And now for the group, and little “satellite” which was to make the primary component of my interaction over the next week.
Co-ordinators = Dan and Deborah
Louis = Mesa and Liz (And Lok for a large part)
Martin = Barbarah and Santos
Mark = Naz and Katie
Ben = Kevin and Chris
Antony = Callum and Jey
John = Tim and George
Richie = Kola and Natalie
I do believe that was the lot of us, the happy little bundle that we were. And it was in that group that we were loosened up with games such as Anyone Who, and Zip Zap Bop, and the rather unforgettable morning Yoga sessions! They would talk about all the issues concerning adaptation and anything that might concern our bonding and interests. There were more games, and tasks such as discussing qualities while modelling clay on it. And now I give up even trying to do this on a day-by-day basis, it’s suddenly rather overwhelming, and to put it into words properly would require some serious effort. This is a horrible job; it’s more like the thought flow without any construction whatsoever, and I feel to miss anything would be a grave injustice. I would like to have put these memories down so I can look back at them someday, but in a way, to even admit that there be such memories that far exceed the perimeters of any short stories, and could show the roads to riches beyond gold, that caused hearts to lift feet off the ground, that made bonded complete strangers to turn goodbyes into heartache, heh, making love out of nothing at all. I stuck with Louis, and together Liz and I with our prompting could if we were lucky get complete sentences. Had we a month, I feel he might have overcome his hesitation, and then again, had I a month, as I believe Kola put it, it’s all well and good for us to say we could have bonded better and achieved so much, but then to break away from the members, as unsupervised communication is not considered favourable, would have been more than they deserved to be put through. At lunchtime, the queues of people, the short moments spent with people who were creating energy as if it were something natural… and I suppose energy, as a word is only a meagre substitute for what was there. A constant beehive of activity is further from the truth than an energy waterfall, where there exhaustion came and yet was pushed back by the concentrated efforts of the organisers that caused adrenaline to rush through so that at the end of the day a fallen workforce would jump out of its seats and run rings around the compound. It was, a better place. Where a simple design of stripes was an artistic masterpiece, where clapping hands could send waves of joy, where the natural detachment and hostility of the human race was melted. May that spirit never die, the one that was so obviously there. It was so obviously another world. People could be themselves. Shed the shackles of society that make it aloof and cold. Perhaps it’s naïve of me to think that this happy friendly face of man is its true nature, but the infinite rounds of applause for finally achieving a state where everyone could be oneself made it apparent that in the end that is what we all are. And the “real” self that may be malicious and self centred is only as real as the broken world we live in makes it. There was an odd sort of disco, the sort of disco that discos should be. Where people can be themselves rather than polluted alcohol-driven shadows of their souls. There was a show where the talent on display earned more genuine applause than we would give to an Andrew Lloyd Webber play. It was, ultimately, a life within which I could happily lose myself, apparent though it was that it’s as disconnected from reality as the earth is from the sun. The sun affects the earth, not vice versa. And so it was a thrill ride, one that I may never be able to experience again, due to the time constraints that seem to rule life. We went bowling for a day, 3 of the members, and their 7 volunteers. It wasn’t a group of life-long friends. It was a group that knew it would probably never meet again. And yet it was the most enjoyable bowling experience of my life. And when Louis scored his strike, he WAS “walking on air”. There was a lot of air-walking that week. And of course I managed in all the madness of it all to actually toss my ball behind me (A)
One thing that did stay with me was my inability to actually compliment someone properly. Though I’m trying to bite down on my sarcasm, I have learnt to rather modestly take things such as “you’re so funny”. Or as modestly as it can be taken, and yet when I was given things such as my voice has a wonderful melody or my personality is sweet and wonderful, that was incredible. Maybe because you don’t hear that in “real life”, as life outside KK was regularly referred to. Not an odd reference, given how removed that life was. And yet while I’ve often had such things written to me, to have some things said to your face is totally different. Well, ok, to have them said with such seriousness from people you’ve barely known 4 days then. That’s what made it so unreal, and so utopian, if that’s the right word for such a case. The support was so powerful and remarkable that it almost seemed like you didn’t need it. And we were often reminded of how remarkable it is that perfect strangers could have become so tight within so short a period. When it came to the goodbyes though, I was horribly bad at them as always. I didn’t allow for number exchanges though. We did all realise that in the REAL world, we all came from backgrounds too far removed from one another. None of us were going the same way, and I for one wasn’t about to wait around for something that isn’t going to happen. That said I do truly wish to attend the Thursday evening events held every fortnight. Maybe it’ll be some small leftover to savour, though the entire power of 120 people merged into that area to build up a force of such unspeakable power is probably not going to return till the subsequent Easter and Summer projects. Heck, I even played football and loved it! Not to mention the talent demonstrated by apparently “disabled” people in the realm of video making. I saw the most incredible home videos ever, funny spoofs of star wars, the office, star trek, old detective show, the work by Martin and Mark in that field was absolutely stellar. It was a wild mix, I can’t say that enough. But there must be other such little worlds, hidden in the gaps allowed by Mother Earth in her domain of chains and social rules. I wonder if I could find them, or if this was truly unique. It was truly unique for all the people there, so if not, it’s rare enough to be worth its weight in gold. And how did we end? Surprisingly, it was something I had actually said we should end with on Thursday, so that on Friday, the 31st, the last day of the year, we said goodbye to the members with the Hokey Pokey. I’ve always wanted to do that, and to have it done in a group of 120 was like a dream come true… least my hokey pokey dream! And now this has become a kind of dream, floating out on the tide, yet it shall in some way, remind me of what lurks under the stonewalls we have erected for ourselves. If nothing else, this is the sort of thing where you can drag the pessimists and cynics to and shout out Damn em all! Optimism has to finally pay off; it just needs a chance, as do most things.
There’s too much left to say, I could never. Bright eyes burning like fire. Peace all. I wish I could show you everything inside, I wish you could be there to experience it. Then again, I wish it were “real life”, but we gleam hope from where we can, and I’ll dutifully plod along after this carrot.


I do have a couple of other topics I’d like to brush over before I call it a night. After all, tomorrow, or this afternoon, depending on how you look at it, I have my Inland Revenue Interview. Should try to get SOME sleep for it!
But first, some of the many things I’ve been dieing to put down into writing, just so my future self can have an idea of how my thought progressed over time. HEY FUTURE RAY! You rule! Or at least you did back now, sucker: P (A)

Comedy

It’s only fair to point out the heavy influence on my line of thought that the Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams happens to have had in certain areas. And comedy would be one of them. Well ok, maybe it’s better to phrase it as what it means to be funny. In a good week, I can wrack up an almost daily utterance of “you’re so funny”. It’s not that it comes naturally to me, it’s really the kind of approval my system begs for, and hence the vines encircle any hapless victim and force him/her to utter these words. It’s like I need some affirmation that what I do is different from sheer idiocy, lunacy and madness on the slim basis that it does actually make people laugh, at times a good deal more than it should, countered by just as frequent forced laughter. I’m not looking for an appointment as a court jester though. It’s more like a self-designated position of “Bringer of Joy and Laughter”. Discarding modesty, I know that I manage to get there for some people, and fail miserably for others. For some, it’s only as long as I can keep it going, for a laugh is by no means a permanent solution, though a treasure that can be valued when it comes only to be forgotten later. Yet what are the parameters of such a task? To be funny, would require the use of some clever utilisation of wit. Satire. Mockery. The two are different. To mock things beyond ones understanding or over ones status is “funny” but only in that the ridiculing of the unachievable for a moment tempers the maddening desire to be somewhere you shall never be unless by some miraculous change in fortunes (or some serious dedication that the majority of man shall go through life without exerting). Now to be funny is much easier. People will laugh at anything and everything. Trip over a loose piece of pavement or fall down when brushed by a twig and you’re at least as entertaining as Tom running headfirst into a frying pan. Dance a little jig with a duster is entertaining; coupled with a suitably ludicrous song makes it funny. I would know, I’ve done it. I’m in now way saying that I’d rather give up such slapstick comedy and move onto the far more complex task of sitting at a table and making people laugh while NOT resorting to a book full of jokes (the majority of which are probably less funny than … Here I’m at that point where I could insert some comparison to something obviously not very funny. To say a Gay Eskimo would be lost on most, to say George Bush would be found funny in specialised circles, in fact, it’s an open joke, one where what you put in can be made to cater for an audience. The end result is only to prove that books of jokes are generally a lot less funny than, well, to be honest books of jokes. We’ve all read them and know exactly how charming “What’s black, dangerous and flies?” “A crow with a machine-gun” can be.). To be intellectually amusing is a serious risk. In an increasingly diverse world, where our variety is often suppressed by a need to conform, we run the risk of in fact trying to toy with something either incredibly personal to some stony faced individual, or totally lost on pseudo-intelligentsia. I’ve read Mark Twain. I never got his social satire, at least not in the way that I would finish a book of his and remember that as its defining point. Apparently, he’s famous for his social satire. I know I find Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams funny. I don’t know why, and I also know people who despise both authors. In the end I’ll wallow in the glory of being praised as incredibly funny, but it all comes down to identifying with your audience. I’ll never be a stand-up comedian because my area of expertise is a far smaller group. People I know. I generally end up offending strangers I don’t know. Maybe because I act too familiar. We all must hide behind our castle walls. Who knows what we laugh at behind them? But laughter comes more easily now, “funny” as a memorable personality trait is used to replace a blank for less well-known people in a life where we shall interact with dozens on a daily basis.

Feelings

My titles are coming rather abruptly, and for that I can only blame their being saved in my mobile and the typing is slow in that field. At least on my To-Do list. As the time nears 3am though, I’m not so sure I want to go into this. Yet I know not when next I’ll attempt such a focused diary entry while avoiding dozens of distractions. So I might as well go the full 15 inches. Without my generally flowery introductions to all subject matter though, this is to do with nothing more extravagant than the commercialisation of human emotion. And is based more on a series of questions than conclusions. Why do we feel more pain when someone close to us is hurt, yet shed more tears upon the smallest dilemma of a closely followed soap character? Why does the plight of a hero affect us more than the more tragic story of the homeless man? Why does news of deaths in a bomb blast cause less concern than the death of just a single person by artificial means in ones own city? Why does the tsunami receive less attention in social circles than the latest football match? Why does the lack of a decent storyline cause such outrage when it may be more in tune with normal life? Why, ultimately, do our feelings experience such a roller coaster when faced with fictional events yet remain impervious to the horrors of human tragedy? Why not!
Of course it’s easy to scream out loudly in your disapproval of any listed allegation, but they are all based on some observation or the other. They apply not to anyone in particular, but to the dissipation of feeling in people as such. Many a man have I met who has said he shall cry at the movies yet find himself unable to do so even should his heart scream for tears of blood. Is that really a social stigma? Men say they are told not to cry in public. Yet for ages now that as been changing in favour of tears as a powerful emotional release. Perhaps the movies are just a starting point to bringing humanity back to humans. Or maybe they will become a place where we can be human in the darkness of a hall, where no one else can see us. For it is only within ourselves that we can afford to show weakness.

Is nothing sacred anymore?

For what it’s worth, I demand appreciation of my title improvisation. It was not pre-constructed, though it truly be a song. To end, or at least hopefully end, because while my mind swims with more to talk of, I feel rather lost in the sea of my own thoughts to go on much longer and shall allow the sandman to drown me in them soon. Anyway, I have only recently dreamt of a world full of superheroes swinging through buildings as Spiderman and fighting Godzilla, the rush was incredible, and oh so real. But changes, for it is the New Year after all. And what New Year can be ushered in without at least some reference to that most remarkable of phenomena known as changes. I’ve only ushered in many things with some words or the other on it. In a recent conversation with Fern (yes I DID actually manage to find time to make SOME phone call 8-)), it was rather surprising to see how much has changed. Even in 3 months. How can so much change in 3 months yet so much remain static over a decade? I suppose the only real answer anyone comes up with is I don’t know, and yet that never detracts from the originality of the question, as it is thrown over varying time periods. How could so much have changed over even a week? A day? Heck I don’t know, but I know it can change, and while change isn’t irreversible, chances are that unless there is some compelling reason it will remain as part of the evolutionary process. (D’oh! Reminds me, I wanted to write about evolution too!)
But we’re all changing. Some rapidly while others not so much. Sometimes the subtlest changes lost on those around us come out upon reunions with old acquaintances. We’re all having a most fascinatingly diverse set of experiences. It prepares us for nothing and a lot, and while we lose a lot of what made us, it’s more like a snake shedding its skin whence its task is completed. Unless we evolve, we shall be submerged by the ever-rising tide of change around us. And then our own choosing brings about some changes. Some by mistakes, and hell I know I’ve made those. To vanish into my own world and then try to re-enter one I had so actively been a part of seems a daunting task in itself. There’s never enough time, never enough energy to do everyone the justice they deserve. Especially if in the time spent apart there have been changes even you understand and see, but believe to have been for your own betterment. Cautious optimism to replace a quixotic ness that often caused disappointment. An increased amount of self-reliance since dependency removes the ability to criticise and voice opinions felt detrimental to ones position. If you become too indebted to someone, you gauge your actions too carefully. You lose the position of being a good friend to being someone who shall do his best to keep the other happy. In that case, you’re worse than a friend. Changes are scary, and yet we can all adapt. Yet even for the most unchanging of us, to adapt to the changes in others breaks our own diamond-enforced view of the world. If you keep your mind as open as a scientist yet your soul as closed as the Gates of Hell (if only ;), then there shall be conflict. Conflict resolved by change? Why this example? Even a vice versa example would have sufficed, if only to illustrate that change has no path to follow, and nothing to predict. It can be welcome for it must be welcomed, better read in reverse.
What of changes in the quest for genuine happiness? Empirical evidence collected by manual observation would suggest that the attainment of a relation in the form of a boyfriend/girlfriend brings the same happiness now that having the latest toy in a craze would have brought all those years ago. That said I still envy Adeel his Optimus Prime: P But the rules change. Some changes are socially evolved. Others are of our own choosing to counter social influences. And etc etc etc.

Ah, so much there is. Thoughts whiz about like the snitch, and in my pursuit of one I often lose the other. I’m going to call it a won match this time, for once. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I don’t even know what today has made me bring! Just don’t ask me what it was.

Take care everyone. Bestest wishes for a new year. May it bring you all the happiness and comfort that the last one stole away. If naming years were to be a tradition, I’d just call this the year of Change really, for so much of it is yet to come. It also abbreviates to YOC, which can be pronounced yolk, from which a new chicken shall cometh. May your chicken be a good one!

Dus Vidanya! xXx