Shall we say Scrooge? I could actually see the Ghost of Christmas Past over his left shoulder taking notes. Meh.
Thursday, November 12
Tuesday, November 10
Happy Birthday Firefox
After five years, Firefox - the open source browser that didn't ship with your computer - has redefined the experience of the Internet for people; Firefox made the whole experience of Internet more personal and more human. It has set such high standards which succeeding browsers try to emulate and surpass, from Opera, Safari and Google Chrome . Happy birthday Firefox. And yeah, us Scorpios rock.
Saturday, November 7
31.
That would be my age come Sunday. It's official - I am part of the thirty something crowd. Yawn. Do I feel old? You bet I do. I don't even know half of the people I see on television these days {maybe because I don't have a tv in my box apartment and I really do not plan on having one}; and I could not even relate to the songs I hear on the radio. It's not because I have been here for over three months, no. It's just I can't relate. I am perpetually stuck in the 90's and backwards. One time my friend Betty was asking me if I liked the Jonas Brothers and I was like "What Jones who?". I had to Google the bastards only to find out that they're a boyband who does a lame impersonation of Beyonce's Single Ladies. Enough said. I am old, period. Do I feel wiser? Not really. Probably a wiseass, but not wise.
A lotta people have been asking me what I will be doing on my birthday. My parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews and my friends, they're all asking me if I would be throwing a party or going out clubbing or whatnot. I ended up telling them that I don't really celebrate my birthday. I mean how do I tell them that I don't eat anything solid on my birthday? They'd prolly find it weird or summat. No, scratch that. It is weird. I told this to my sister, my not eating anything for 24 hours on my birthday, and she just told me I was crazy. I just told her that it was a matter of perspective.
So 31. God, I only have 9 more years till I hit the bucket. It's not that I am planning to off myself, no. It's just that I have a distinct feeling that I would be gone by the time I hit 40. I am not planning on dying on 40. If I live beyond 40 then it's alright, so be it. Somehow, I've always known that the Universe would be pulling my existential plug when I hit the big 4. When I tell this to my friends they get all creeped out and shit. They say life begins at 40. Says who? If a man or a woman's life begins at 40, what about the years the preceded that? I mean, Jesus died when he was 33. I'm just curious. If a person's life begins at 40, how about a dog's life? Or a cat's? Or a rat's? I could go on with the whole phylum chordata but I won't.
I've been thinking about a lotta things lately. When yer unemployed you tend to think a lot, so yeah. I've been thinking about my life. I guess part of being a thirty something is that you tend to think about a lotta aspects of your life - things you have done and you haven't done yet; your accomplishments {if there are any} and your failures; the books you've read and the books you want to read; your body fat and your muscle mass; your hairline and the white hair that grows in your right nostril, stuff like that.
I have been going through a lotta things lately. I might even say that I am going through a rough patch {I could never get that expression}. Do I find it difficult? Hell yeah. Do I wish it to go away? You could say that. Am I regretting any of this? ....... That, my friend is the 7 peso question. I have been quiet lately. I've been introspecting for three months now. That's a lot for some, even for me. I would have wished to avoid it but the circumstances did not permit me. I think it's my karma. {Oh, Paul if you could read this right now. You would prolly be laughing that sinister laugh of yours.} In some ways, I did ask for this. I asked the Universe to bring it on. So she did. It's all but fair. {ég sakna þín} One thing for sure, I am not giving up easily. I need quiet time. I almost gave up on writing, to be honest. I wanted to write so bad that it hurt so much {jinsi gani angeweza mimi kuandika wakati mimi nipo kufikiri ya wewe?}. I almost deleted this blog. But I didn't. I am glad I didn't. There are only two things that keep me afloat right now - running and writing. {Oh yeah, cigarettes and music too.} {geef me een teken, een reden om te hopen}.
About two weeks ago I slept in the streets. I was walking for more than 3 hours and I just realized I was tired and sleepy. I was about to get into a jeepney to go back to my apartment when I saw this shed beside a bank with an ATM machine and four homeless people {or maybe five} were sleeping there. I went towards the shed and saw that one of the "occupants" was awake. He gave me a look that kinda told me to piss off, but I didn't. I politely asked him if I could borrow one of his carton boxes which he used for sleeping. He said he didn't have any spare but he could share his carton box. I was happy to oblige. So I slept for 4 hours. When I woke up, some of the homeless people were already gone. My bed partner was still there, sleeping soundly. I felt grimy and hungry all of a sudden. I wanted to eat or drink something but I didn't. Somehow, I felt guilty for sleeping in that shed and invading their space. I could have easily gotten into a cab or a jeepney and went back to my apartment to shower, eat and then sleep, but I didn't. I felt that I made this whole experience trivial. I asked myself if I got a kick out of this. The Tyler Durden in me answered, "Not really, you were just tired but it would be overstretching it if you wanted to get something metaphysical out of this experience, so go home to your box apartment buddy boy." I carefully stood up, afraid to wake my 'bed partner' and gathered myself and walked home. Why did I write this? I honestly don't know. A filler anecdote, perhaps. But I do know this {et vull encara}, that man was kind enough to share his "bed" with me.
Life is a tricky thing to ponder. I wish {oh how I wish} I don't have to ponder it so much. It would be easier if I just went along with the fucking flow, I mean it's not bad too. I tried. I guess I'm not built that way.
A lotta people have been asking me what I will be doing on my birthday. My parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews and my friends, they're all asking me if I would be throwing a party or going out clubbing or whatnot. I ended up telling them that I don't really celebrate my birthday. I mean how do I tell them that I don't eat anything solid on my birthday? They'd prolly find it weird or summat. No, scratch that. It is weird. I told this to my sister, my not eating anything for 24 hours on my birthday, and she just told me I was crazy. I just told her that it was a matter of perspective.
So 31. God, I only have 9 more years till I hit the bucket. It's not that I am planning to off myself, no. It's just that I have a distinct feeling that I would be gone by the time I hit 40. I am not planning on dying on 40. If I live beyond 40 then it's alright, so be it. Somehow, I've always known that the Universe would be pulling my existential plug when I hit the big 4. When I tell this to my friends they get all creeped out and shit. They say life begins at 40. Says who? If a man or a woman's life begins at 40, what about the years the preceded that? I mean, Jesus died when he was 33. I'm just curious. If a person's life begins at 40, how about a dog's life? Or a cat's? Or a rat's? I could go on with the whole phylum chordata but I won't.
I've been thinking about a lotta things lately. When yer unemployed you tend to think a lot, so yeah. I've been thinking about my life. I guess part of being a thirty something is that you tend to think about a lotta aspects of your life - things you have done and you haven't done yet; your accomplishments {if there are any} and your failures; the books you've read and the books you want to read; your body fat and your muscle mass; your hairline and the white hair that grows in your right nostril, stuff like that.
I have been going through a lotta things lately. I might even say that I am going through a rough patch {I could never get that expression}. Do I find it difficult? Hell yeah. Do I wish it to go away? You could say that. Am I regretting any of this? ....... That, my friend is the 7 peso question. I have been quiet lately. I've been introspecting for three months now. That's a lot for some, even for me. I would have wished to avoid it but the circumstances did not permit me. I think it's my karma. {Oh, Paul if you could read this right now. You would prolly be laughing that sinister laugh of yours.} In some ways, I did ask for this. I asked the Universe to bring it on. So she did. It's all but fair. {ég sakna þín} One thing for sure, I am not giving up easily. I need quiet time. I almost gave up on writing, to be honest. I wanted to write so bad that it hurt so much {jinsi gani angeweza mimi kuandika wakati mimi nipo kufikiri ya wewe?}. I almost deleted this blog. But I didn't. I am glad I didn't. There are only two things that keep me afloat right now - running and writing. {Oh yeah, cigarettes and music too.} {geef me een teken, een reden om te hopen}.
About two weeks ago I slept in the streets. I was walking for more than 3 hours and I just realized I was tired and sleepy. I was about to get into a jeepney to go back to my apartment when I saw this shed beside a bank with an ATM machine and four homeless people {or maybe five} were sleeping there. I went towards the shed and saw that one of the "occupants" was awake. He gave me a look that kinda told me to piss off, but I didn't. I politely asked him if I could borrow one of his carton boxes which he used for sleeping. He said he didn't have any spare but he could share his carton box. I was happy to oblige. So I slept for 4 hours. When I woke up, some of the homeless people were already gone. My bed partner was still there, sleeping soundly. I felt grimy and hungry all of a sudden. I wanted to eat or drink something but I didn't. Somehow, I felt guilty for sleeping in that shed and invading their space. I could have easily gotten into a cab or a jeepney and went back to my apartment to shower, eat and then sleep, but I didn't. I felt that I made this whole experience trivial. I asked myself if I got a kick out of this. The Tyler Durden in me answered, "Not really, you were just tired but it would be overstretching it if you wanted to get something metaphysical out of this experience, so go home to your box apartment buddy boy." I carefully stood up, afraid to wake my 'bed partner' and gathered myself and walked home. Why did I write this? I honestly don't know. A filler anecdote, perhaps. But I do know this {et vull encara}, that man was kind enough to share his "bed" with me.
Life is a tricky thing to ponder. I wish {oh how I wish} I don't have to ponder it so much. It would be easier if I just went along with the fucking flow, I mean it's not bad too. I tried. I guess I'm not built that way.
Thursday, November 5
I am afraid to write
Because I know that each word I fashion with my hands takes on a life of its own.
And once made flesh, they shall surpass me, outlive me, outshine me and outdo me.
I am afraid to write because I know that the words that I have created in my own image and in the image of the world I perceive has the possibility to destroy the very fiber of what I am and what I have become.
I am afraid to write because the message becomes more meaningful when they are perceived by others which makes my original message become meaningless.
I am afraid to write because the perception of the written word is not mine to control and shall never be mine because I know I own these ideas in my head but once I have commited them to words they are no longer mine to possess.
I am afraid to write because I know that these words liberated from my head, from my mouth, from my hands, from the pores of my skin are the same words that become a Judas to their Jesus.
Yet I write. Still.
It is my birthright and I need to claim it.
If writing is my salvation, it is also my damnation.
Inevitability is such a beautiful word.
And once made flesh, they shall surpass me, outlive me, outshine me and outdo me.
I am afraid to write because I know that the words that I have created in my own image and in the image of the world I perceive has the possibility to destroy the very fiber of what I am and what I have become.
I am afraid to write because the message becomes more meaningful when they are perceived by others which makes my original message become meaningless.
I am afraid to write because the perception of the written word is not mine to control and shall never be mine because I know I own these ideas in my head but once I have commited them to words they are no longer mine to possess.
I am afraid to write because I know that these words liberated from my head, from my mouth, from my hands, from the pores of my skin are the same words that become a Judas to their Jesus.
Yet I write. Still.
It is my birthright and I need to claim it.
If writing is my salvation, it is also my damnation.
Inevitability is such a beautiful word.
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