Na sahi wasl to hasrat hi sahi

A few mornings ago I was reading an article about one of those assistance dogs that do such amazing things. After sufficient ooh-ing and wow-ing I remarked that I should become a dog trainer. Seconds later I added that I would be a terrible dog trainer because I wouldn't be able to discipline the dog and would pretty much let it do whatever the hell it wanted. A digression here to inform readers that while friends and even colleagues know that I have the ability to be scarily strict and no-nonsense type, it is limited to members of the human species. With animals I melt like a slab of butter when Jerry soothes his burning bum on it (The fact that I couldn't think of a metaphor better than one involving Tom & Jerry is testimony to my borderline crazy adoration of animals).

So yeah, when I said I wouldn't last three days in a job as a dog trainer, my partner said "You should be a dog spoiler instead"

Friends, nomads and countrymen! The moment comes but rarely in history when you realise what your true calling is. That morning when my beloved told me what I should be, dear lectores, was one such moment.

Unfortunately, I don't think there is such a thing as a dog-spoiler. It got me thinking about additional employment opportunities that haven't yet seen the light of day, but which I would gladly apply for and probably never leave unless forced to do so.

Dog spoiler

Duties could include showing unabashed affection towards the dog, feeding, grooming and playing with it, defending its right to do almost anything, letting it sleep on £5000 mattresses, oh what the heck! letting it sleep on my head if it wants to, talking to it about existence, and receiving gyaan (pearls of wisdom) from it. The only problem is dogs are so easy going and unpretentious that they wouldn't care about many of these services. A cat would, but I don't want to be a cat spoiler. Yes, I like some animals more than others. I like all animals more than humans.

Culturally and intellectually engaged alter-ego of a rich person

A rich man, or woman, wants to keep abreast with the best of literature, poetry and music but doesn't have the time to indulge these cultural pursuits. He/she would pay me to read great books and poetry, attend lectures and talks on a variety of interesting subjects, and listen to beautiful music. I would then take out an hour or two each day to succinctly summarise the plot, philosophy, underlying themes, meanings- both apparent and symbolic, and essence of those books, talks, poems and songs for the benefit of my employer. This combines several of my favourite activities with another- teaching. Hmmm...maybe this could include a travel component also. Since I am making it up as I go along, it shall.

Feedback- giver

Based on comments by recipients and my own gut instinct, I believe I would make a good feedback-er. Good feedback should be useful. Something that the feedback-ee should be able to do something with. Comments like "This was awful" are pointless. So is being too nice. I am not in favour of sugar coated critique. I dislike sugar. Especially when it coats things. Apart from those German mini-doughnut type things, which I could quite easily do with right about now.

Firer

Not guns, though we can come to that later perhaps. I mean the kind person who gets to say "You're fired!". Inspired by cinema, I think companies should outsource firing people. These are tough times, and everyone knows that letting a faithful employee go isn't easy. I would like to be the one who takes that burden of duty off them. Outsource the hatred directed towards the messenger! What a great idea! I will happily take on the part of said messenger. I'm actually surprised this isn't already a bonafide source of income.

Defender of personal autonomy and human rights

In a society afflicted with "fear of offending" I can be hired to tell people off if they interfere with my prospective employer's personal freedom on ridiculous grounds including appeals to religion, class, caste, or the wider social community ("Log kya kahenge"). To tell someone to %$@* off and take their personal opinion with them would feel so much better if it were part of my job description. For two reasons. First, I'd get paid for it. Second, and perhaps more importantly, there would be no dithering or discomfort about meddling in the private affairs of another person. The (somewhat overbearing) presence of my nose and foot in matters concerning a third party would be legitimised by my employment contract.

Before signing anything, I would master some form of deadly combat like Krav Maga to be better equipped to do my job and deal with...ahem....impediments effectively.

Food taster (Vegetarian :-p)

The job title is self explanatory. A dream job list that doesn't involve delicious food is proof that the person making the list is either sadly misinformed about the pleasures of existence, or keeled over in the middle of the exercise, thereby leaving the list incomplete.

Of the above-mentioned, I believe the professional firer, feedback-giver and alter-ego are real possibilities. Do millionaires with no time on their hands read this blog?

One lives in eternal hope, doesn't one?

Elevator etiquette

There are many circumstances in which one may find oneself pushed against or packed into confined spaces with strangers. Crowded buses, trains, tram et cetera, to name a few. Elevators are mysteriously different. To elucidate, let us consider the example of a crowded Delhi- Gurgaon Haryana roadways bus, or the London underground for that matter (not that the two are alike in any way, other than acute-onset claustrophobia and a burning desire for fresh air and freedom).

People may be sharing breathing space with one another but the sense is one of individual collectivity. The presence of the other may be acknowledged, or if particularly offensive, scorned, but what is not discernible is the effect of person A on person B. Laughter continues, gossip flows freely, serious conversations carry on in murmurs and silence…well…silence remains silent. Entering a train or bus, one would not immediately perceive that one’s presence has, in Lewin’s words, changed the ‘field’ significantly.

By contrast, in elevators, the perception that one has interrupted something by walking in is overwhelming. Even while walking into a quiet elevator, one notices a shift to the left or right, straightening of slumped shoulders, and cessation of any activity involving body to body contact – including self to self contact. Conversations either stop, or if unstoppable, mellow down rapidly to a whisper. Giggling or guffawing of any kind almost always ceases, often with a cough or clearing-of-the-throat to aid the smooth transition from a state of laughter to non-laughter.

Once the tumult caused by arrival of new member onto the scene subsides, there is the awkward and slow ascent or descent. Eye contact with fellow travellers is to be avoided at all cost, and as far as possible restricted either to the dull grey elevator floor, or the flashing numbers above. Talking is a strict no-no (maybe that’s why they have elevator music). There are always exceptions of course, as discussed below.

Scenario I- It is an old apartment complex in India, and the neighbouring aunty or uncle saunter in. ‘Neighbouring’, of course, used rather loosely to imply anyone in the same building (or blocks of buildings) as opposed to neighbours from the same floor. In such cases customary greetings are exchanged, and there is necessarily some talk about one’s studies or career depending on age. Some polite enquiry about one’s family or comment about extreme weather may follow. Strangely, in such cases a lot manages to get said and heard in a short journey of five or six storeys. If you’re particularly lucky, you may get a herd of seventeen children cramming into the elevator with you, intent on pushing all the buttons, thereby giving you the chance to be all grown-up and say ‘tsk tsk’ with a shake of the head while they smile sheepishly and proceed to ignore your protests.

Scenario II- It is England, and no one really talks to anyone unless something is out of the ordinary. Elevator wise, this would mean it being especially crowded, inviting a comment such as –“We’re packed in here a bit like sardines aren’t we”, followed by gentle laughter- or if something goes wrong. Say the lights go out and the elevator comes to an unexpected halt. Then all of a sudden we are all brothers and sisters, fighting for survival, eager for answers, searching for suggestions and a whole lot of “Oh dear, what’ve they gone and done now?” ensues.

Scenario III- It is anywhere in the world, I am in the elevator and someone brings a dog in. Any tentativeness is motivated not by social norms, but by self-preservation, manifested in the form of the question “Is he friendly?”. If the unsuspecting ‘person’ responds in the affirmative, all rules are broken and the only etiquette I am even remotely aware of at this point in time is the golden rule- thou shalt not crush a dog to a pulp out of affection.

Then there is the end of the journey. There are the obvious rules about letting people alight etc. which I don’t find particularly interesting. I don’t know about others, but I feel a sense of relief once I have left the elevator, or if I am left alone for the remainder of the journey. There may not be something I have been dying to do which the presence of others has deterred me from doing, no visible change in my demeanor, but a sense of psychological freedom comes rushing in because now, at least I have the option.

Sometimes I almost feel there must be a perverse pleasure in getting into an empty elevator from one of the middle floors. It’s like a present you weren’t expecting.

Earlier today, I was on the eighth floor, waiting with some colleagues to catch the elevator down, when I was struck by their reluctance to get into the elevator on the left side, because even though the doors opened in front of us, someone else got in first. We waited, and waited, and then finally had to give up being fussy and get in after twelve other people. What is interesting about this whole incident is that it’s not really about being alone in the elevator. It’s not like we would have deliberately pressed the doors shut in someone’s face if we saw them running to catch a ride down. It seems to be more about a prior claim. We went in first, and then let the others in.

Ah yes, the simple pleasures of life.

I am a team player, and that looks like two cuddly bears hugging

On a grey day made worse by a blocked nose and tired body, cancelled appointments come to my rescue.

Cancelled appointments, and something to write about.

********************************************************************

"I taste you and you taste me. I am your taste and you are mine,

but I do not taste your taste of me in your ear. One cannot both be

everything and have everything at once"

-R.D. Laing

The manager thought it would be a good idea to hand-out Belbin's Self Perception Inventory at a team meeting to assess the role we play within a team.

Her: 'Would you like to take one and fill it out?'

Implicit message: Take one and fill it

Me: Oh yeah yeah, sure.

Underlying thought: I couldn't care less about my team role.

A slight detour here to mention that if there is one thing I have mastered, it is the art of concealment. No, I am not referring to the cosmetic concealer (which btw, I still do not know how to use), but rather to the finely tuned skill of letting others see only what I want them to see.

Psychological tests I am particularly good at. I don't even understand why they are used as diagnostic tools. All one needs to be able to deceive is a basic level of intelligence. Okay, I just realised what I said and before you point it out, I hasten to add that it is missing in most people (at least people I seem to hear about). Seriously though, I think the average person would find them fairly easy to crack. But when one has administered them on unsuspecting others, analysed results and made interpretations, it becomes much easier.

Remember the Rorschach inkblot test being administered on Rorschach in Watchmen? Where he is thinking of dead dogs and hanging, rotting, bleeding flesh and answers 'that looks like a pretty butterfly'? That's the kind of stuff I am talking about.

Man, Rorschach is one of the greatest fictional characters ever.

Anyway, I picked up the pen and paper and went through the BSPI in a flash, ticking boxes, scoring them and arriving at my 'team-role description'

It was -

Monitor/Evaluator:

Sober, strategic, and discerning.

Sees all options. Judges accurately.

Lacks drive and ability to inspire others.

Uh huh. I see.

What it doesn't reveal is my sheer hatred for working in groups or as part of a team. Hmm.... I write this while the world cup match is going on and Slovenia have unfortunately drawn 2-2 with USA. I love watching football. But could I ever play it the way it is meant to be played? All this passing? All the uncertainty? All this relying-on-another-to-finish-the-job? My partner will testify to my inability to play a passing game. While playing FIFA '10 on PS3, I flourish and bloom the most when I play a one-man game. I am talking defensive tackle, a long, solitary run across the field, and a goal.

I am an individualist and a perfectionist. I genuinely believe that if I want something done right I am better off doing it myself. My experience working in groups (and this applies to forced, not selected groups) has been utterly disappointing and wholly frustrating. I am intolerant of stupidity, slowness and lack of depth and unfortunately have been dealt with all of these in varying combinations while working in a "group".

Methinks groups bore me a little. I have evidence to back this up. The only time I fell asleep while reading a book was when I had to read an entire book devoted to groups. The poor print quality and dull, mossy green cover didn't help either. I might find an activity by a so-called group interesting, and this might lead people to conclude I am interested in the group itself, but the fact is I would probably be interested in the said activity even if one person were doing it. Gymnastics is a good example. Curious rituals undertaken by people in a religious frenzy yet another.

I don't know what a "group identity" is to be honest. I don't think I have had any first hand experience of it. People have unsuccessfully tried to convince me of my group identity. I have successfully deflected all these attempts.

I think the very idea of a group is a myth. A big fat illusion crafted by the guardians of civilisation and all that sort of rot.

Freud said something about love thy neighbour being a cover-up for the allegedly more sinister and dangerous notion, kill they neighbour.

There is no way to express this other than as a paradox- we, a collective, are all individuals. The only characteristic that unifies us is our individuality. I have expressed my thoughts on the unavoidably solitary nature of our lives, even within the scaffolding of close interpersonal relationships.

Laing wrote that 'our relatedness to others is an essential aspect of our being, as is our separateness, but any particular person is not a necessary part of our being'

He called this a potentially tragic paradox. To me, it becomes tragic only when it is accompanied by the hope of it being any other way.

A perfect 180

20:16 - I stare out the window at a brick building. It isn't very tall. As my eyes trace its length to the the top and stop, I have an instant image of myself falling off it. In poetic, slow motion. I land with a "splat!" on the concrete. There is a splatter of blood as my head hits the hardness with a crunch. I smile. Then I conclude I am fucking crazy.

The predominant feeling is one of despair, and being trapped.

20:50 - I am tucked in bed under a duvet, wearing pajamas, drinking delicious white wine, and watching football while cradling sleepy loveliness in my free arm. Despite the fact that I know there is work to be done once the match is over, the predominant feeling is light, and of things being just right.

These two are parallel universes within which I exist. Usually, I forget the latter while in the former, but am unable to do vice-versa. Maybe when I reach vice-versa, the former will implode.

Pickled shoes

I ought to throw them away

Maybe some day I will

These (imaginary) shoes I have

Which I shall never fill

What might the obstacle be?

You may wonder, or ask

Oh how do I make you see

The impossibility of the task!

I know they wouldn't comply

And surely they can't resist!

But how do I discard a thing that

Probably doesn't exist?

On why I bought a cap I did not need

In the summer of 2007, I was in Srinagar contemplating the purchase of a cap. It was one meant for men, and while trying it on I caused the shopkeeper to laugh heartily when I asked my companion if it made me look like Ghulam Nabi Azad.

In pitching the cap to me, he said "Haan haan..namaaz padhne ke liye badhiya rahega"- Yes yes, it will be great for saying namaaz (Muslim prayer).

My companion looked at me in a manner that made it obvious to the shopkeeper that I was no namaaz-sayer.

A second later he added, "Uh..vaise pooja paath mein bhi pehen sakte hain sar dhakne ke liye"- But you could also use it to cover your head during (Hindu) prayers

While it was very perceptive of him to gauge from my companion's expression that I was not the namaaz-saying type, he did make a big leap in assuming that I was a pooja-paath doer.

I did appreciate the flexibility of his sales pitch, and ended up buying the cap.

And now it's official

Holy Cow: the other day a 72 year old sat in front of me and said

"I am so sick and tired of stupid people"

and I could totally relate to her

Comfort: lol..

u have the wisdom of a 72 year old..!

:)

Holy Cow: ha haI have known that for a long time :-)
PS- I feel, at this juncture, obliged to admit that I have also, on one occasion, related to the phenomenological position of an infant. She was sitting across from me on the Delhi metro, and our eyes met. Me, tired after a day long day of psychopathologising, and her, forced to sit uncomfortably cramped on her mother's lap. Her expression was one of sheer existential angst.
So there you go. Things I can relate to include an infant with an existential crisis, and a frustrated 72-year-old.
Such are the chatte and batte of my thaali*

(*apologies to readers unfamiliar with Hindi proverbs)

You know you are in England when...

1. You step on someone else's toes, and both of you end up apologising.

2. You hear people apologising for a lot of things. For example, asking for the bill after a meal at a restaurant ("Sorry, but I could I request the bill please?"), or asking for anything from the person at the till ("Sorry, but could I also have ....."). Sigh! All this unnecessary apologising!

3. You get referred to as "My love", "My darling", "Sweetheart", "My sweet" and other terms of endearment by total strangers. This usually happens if you are female and the stranger in question is male*

4. No. 3 feels strange at first, but you get used to it and may even find it kinda nice.

5. You feel compelled to hold doors open for other people who feel compelled to hold doors open for people after them and so on and so forth so that nobody except the first and last person to walk through the door actually has to pull/push it open. You may, like me, even wonder what the appropriate distance between you and the next person has to be, before this social rule of holding the door open comes into play.

6. People will often ask you if you would like to do something for them (For example, "Would you like to pop your PIN in there for me?") Now there are two things to be mindful of here. Firstly, they are actually not interested in whether you would like to do the thing in question or not, but just want you to do it. Secondly, do not be confused by the "for me" at the end. The only person you're likely to be doing the thing in question for is yourself. When I am at the receiving end of this particular question, I feel like clarifying that I would do it, but solely for my own benefit.

7. Bus stops are named after pubs nearby, rather than the names of the streets they are on. Says a lot about what the real landmarks are.

8. You begin to realise that the word "Cheers" is filled with possibilities, and in the past your usage of the word was rather limited. You probably just said it before sharing a drink (or some sort of other consumable good) with near and dear ones, but now find that it replaces "Thanks", "Bye", "Take care" or other social niceties.

9. The greeting of choice is usually followed by "You alright?". This is something that befuddles me. I usually ask people if they are alright when I suspect that they might not be. Personally, if I had to choose, I prefer the more open ended "How are you?"

10. A bright sunny morning can turn into a grey, wet afternoon, transform into a bright sunny, evening before ending up as a windy, dark night. The eye-rolling can stop. You think you can be in England without commenting on the weather?! The famous English obsession with weather-chat is no myth my friends!

(Note: This list is a work-in-progress and will be updated over time. After all, the learning never stops)

* Edit: I was later informed that the reverse is also true. Whether equally or not remains to be decided.

Speaking of birthdays...

Holy Cow: I missed the runts' birthday

forgot

The 'wise' one: Even I forgot

......

Holy Cow: How does one wish babies anyway !

s

The 'wise' one: You wish the parents

Holy Cow: yeah, I guess the parents have done more work than the kids to ensure another birthday.
Birthdays are silly. As Seinfeld said, the only thing you're celebrating is the fact that you managed to stay alive for the last 364 days.
I paraphrase, of course. What he said was probably funnier.

Wanted - An entertaining exercise that stretches the limits of what you thought you could withstand

Despite the fact that the question of why someone in their right mind would want to showcase Salman Khan's dancing is beyond my limits of comprehension, I have to say that Wanted was bizarre, entertaining and all in all quite hilarious. Not because of subtle humour or clever, witty dialogues but because if you watch an ageing SK gyrate to songs like "Your papa says you love me, mama says you love me, so love me baby love me", falling off your seat clutching your aching stomach while your eyebrows threaten to shoot up over your head in absolute shock is a natural consequence.

My partner in crime and I went to watch it just for the heck of it. We read this review, which ignited enough curiosity in us. Plus, when something is described as being extremely unpleasant, I have an uncontrollable urge to experience it. It can't just be bad though. It has to be extremely so. Ask my friends from my graduation and post graduation days and they will confirm it, for many a bad milkshake/ song/ book etc have been thrust upon them by yours truly with the words "You have to drink/listen to/ read this just to experience how bad it is". Call me crazy but it broadens your life experience and I stand by it.

Wanted was one such experiment, and it was worth it.

While I realise that I cannot do justice to the entire film, let me share with my readers what I considered to be some of the highlights.

The story isn't bad. Which is to say that there is one, and that in itself was a pleasant surprise. Is it far fetched? Of course! But few Hindi films aren't so I am prepared to excuse that.

Salman Khan is physically fit, slimmer than he has been in the last decade, and quite old. You can use as much concealer as you like my friend, but no one can hide those bags under your eyes. You could go shopping and bring back 1 Kgs. of alu-pyaaz in each of them. He can't dance, could never really act and can still give a ventriloquist a run for his money. I don't know how he manages to deliver his dialogues without the slightest parting of the lips!

Ayesha Takia is, well...You know the type of roles Katrina Kaif plays in action packed films starring Akshay Kumar? Where all that is required of her is to be dolled-up and stand around? Furniture type, if you will. Ayesha Takia's role in Wanted is similar, except she ends up being a melodramatic item of furniture. Like a sofa that occasionally displays signs of psychosis. Seriously, while I do not wish to trivialise the conflict that one may be fraught with when one falls in love with a contract killer (you know, the whole should-I-love-you-or-should-I-hate-you and I-can't-decide-if-you're-good-or-bad type of conflict), it has to be said that in case of Ayesha's character it ends up looking more like a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder.

All credit for this chaos must go to the dialogue/script writer however. There are times in the movie when Salman Khan and Ayesha Takia are interacting, and one wonders if they are even talking about the same thing.

As for her appearance, I have always thought that her facial features are too childlike when compared with the rest of her. The filmmaker probably had a similar idea, as he has made full use of both her innocent expression and her large breasts alternating between references to her "fit body" and tight clothing one the one hand, and a naive young girl in mean, mad Mumbai who has to grapple with lecherous policemen and lovestruck landlords while falling for a scoundrel like Salman on the other.

Speaking of lecherous, I think Mahesh Manjrekar is quite good as the sleazy cop. Some men on screen might make your skin crawl and make you want to kick them in the balls, but that just means they're great actors! I swear there were times in the movie where Mahesh made me cringe.

The camerawork reminded me of Crank combined with Hindi television soap operas. There are freezes, fast forwarded clips, and the dizzying camera angles that are much loved by Indian soap directors where there are repetitive shots in quick succession of the same person turning around, or when they zoom in to a person's face again and again to indicate heightened emotion. This is usually accompanied by some kind of tree-swishing-in-a-violent-storm music.

The song and dance, sigh! Oh the brutal murder of lyrics, rhythm and choreography with one fatal blow! Apparently there was a trailer for this movie which suggests that Salman does everything (killing, stabbing, swearing, loving, eating, drinking etc etc) casually, except dancing. You may regard that as a compliment till you see the music videos. That's when you realise that he takes dancing seriously because indeed, it is what he needs to work on the most. He reminded me of a guy I saw at the IIT Bombay festival a few years ago. That guy came forward in front of a room full of people to sing "Wonderwall". He blew it. C-O-M-P-L-E-T-E-L-Y ! But I applauded him for his courage anyway.

There was one good thing about Salman's dancing however. I am always sympathetic to the extras who never get the credit they deserve (and this is not just in Bollywood. Have you watched the video of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal"? Do the extras not dance as well as MJ himself?!!). Watching the dancing in this movie, one can't help but admire the extras. Salman makes them look terrific!

There ARE a few good dialogues, and I mean four or five. The villains look convincingly villainous, except for an item girl aspiring for the status of "Behen" (which I have to say, doesn't sound nearly as underworld-ly as "Bhai") called Shayana who has very unattractive legs.

All in all, the movie ends up making you laugh because it is so inexplicably bizarre. I enjoyed watching it, more so than Dil Bole Hadippa. Let us now carry out some reflection to try and analyse why this was the case.

Dil Bole Hadippa had the misfortune of combining the issue of women's representation in sports at a regional or national level with the usual romantic elements typical of a Yash Chopra production. It was in a sense like Chak De India minus the good performances, good dialogues, subtlety and seriousness but with the Yashraj attempts at light comedy and romance thrown in. Even if we forget about, among other misrepresentations, Rani's garish clothes (not commonly seen in Amritsar), the movie fails to fulfill either criteria. The Indo-Pak tournament cornily called "Aman Cup" or Shahid and Rani's love story don't really warm the cockles of your heart. Nor does Rani's transformation in the end from a (reasonably convincing!) cute Sikh man to a foundation and eyeshadow covered beauty drive home the point of women trying to make it in the man's world that professional cricket still largely is. It failed in my opinion because it was ambitiously trying to achieve too much.

In contrast, my friends, Wanted doesn't seem to have any such ambitions. In fact, one is compelled to conclude that the movie doesn't have much of a point at all. It just is.

What really cracked me up throughout the film was the image of members of the British Board of Film Certification, and possibly Sir Quentin Thomas (President of the BBFC) having to sit through this film, probably more than once, in order to determine what classification it should get.

Good advertising

A Domino's pizza outlet takes advantage of it's proximity to La Sagrada Familia, a church in Barcelona which has been under construction since 1882 and is not expected to be completed till after 2026, to highlight it's main selling points- great pizzas and great timing.

Nausea

There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.

No, I am not contemplating the nothingness or thing-ness of human existence like dearly beloved Sartre above. I am sharing with you an experience that assailed me as I walked down the street with the man I love, in a city that I am trying to claim as mine. My relationship with it is similar to that of a disgruntled host who offers his home not with delight but with resignation, and an annoying relative who receives the hospitality of the former not out of desire but out of desperation. Actually, my affair with the city lies even lower on the scale of passion, because instead of disgruntlement or annoyance, there is just... is-ness. A shrug here and a shrug there. I am in it and it is around me. The city isn't pleading with me to accept it, nor am I begging to be embraced by it.

Like Sartre, while my feeling of nausea was also brought on suddenly by the appearance before me of a group of five adolescent girls who dressed, talked and walked similarly, that was merely the tipping point. The last straw, if you please, on the back of a camel already burdened by a heap of sameness.

Boredom and anxiety can be quite complementary. I can say that with confidence because I felt both these feelings come together to form the frown in my brow. This similarity of hair & skin colour, indistinguishable voices merging into each other by virtue of saying fairly indistinguishable things filled me with a sense of fatigue and anxiety as it struck me that I was swimming in a sea of homogeneity. Hmmm... fatigue? Fatigue and boredom aren't the same thing. I was bored, fatigued and anxious. Fatigued because I had been splashing about in new waters, and bored because I had momentarily stopped splashing and was just floating in a sea of homogeneity. That's it. I was floating like algae floats on water, asserting it's distinct existence, clutching to the surface for fear of drowning and being consumed by the depths below.

And anxiety? That was because I realised that my refusal to let the city in, metaphorically speaking, was because I would then have to let in all that the city contains. I have nothing against the buildings, the trees, fountains and the streets. I have a problem with those who work in the buildings who are the same as those who sit under the trees who are the same as those who look at the fountains who are the same as those who fill the streets.

I felt stifled by their sameness. Maybe it's because I come from what is known as the 'land of diversity', where walking around in a marketplace for five minutes, you cross paths with people dressed differently, saying distinctly different things, sounding different even if speaking the same language! In contrast I find the present surroundings sickeningly homogeneous. I am not making this up, seriously, but if you give a sentence or paragraph to ten different people to read out loud, the impression I have is it will sound like the same person reading it over and over again. How can so many people sound exactly alike? Similar pitch, rhythm, voice quality..... something about that disturbs me I tell you. Makes me very uneasy, this obliteration of individual uniqueness.

Such were the thoughts I was grappling with. Thoughts, and oddly enough, a viscerally felt sense of asphyxiation.

Many may think I am overreacting. But those who crave individuality and diversity will perhaps understand.

Words spoken by a classmate during my very formative journey through a Masters programme come back to haunt me. He looked at me one afternoon and said "I have worked out the essence of your existence". Curious, and prone to sarcasm, I asked him to share his insights so that I too may learn of my essence. He looked straight at me, smiled his large African smile and said "You thrive in uniqueness"

In light of recent events, I can't help but wonder if he was right.

I guess I will have to drag variety and uniqueness out from the deeper recesses into which they have been pushed, and toss them back into the world out there before I can be surprised and thrive once again.

Till then, maybe I can come up with ideas to amuse myself with this mundaneness.

Oh well! As most people around me would say "Cheers darling!"

B-)

The Baby Delusion

Shudder do I at the thought of reproduction

Prospective parents and their debilitating delusion

Believing their children are the miracle of immortality

When gene-perpetuation is, ironically and evidently,

A hopeless repetition of man's inevitable self-destruction

The Epidemic of Botched Plastic Surgery

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/congresswoman_says_botched?utm_source=a-section

Que divertido ! B-)

Psychosis of a "crazier" kind

“I felt as though Satan was trying to tempt me in asking this question,” she said. “And then God was in my head and in my heart saying, ‘Do not compromise this. You need to stand up for Me and you need to share with all these people...you need to witness to them’.”

Carrie Prejean in a radio interview on her opposing same sex marriages.

More here

What I don't fully understand is, how come these people get invited to talk shows and such, while people who think aliens are using their bodies to wage war against insects have to languish in mental asylums?