Sloppy overconfidence

First think of the title, then the content.

“Why thank you, brain,” I bellowed, “how disorderly of you to let me in on the secret years after I cry myself awake.”

“You’re welcome,” says brain, “that dribble of confidence swears down your chinny chin chin though. Now you must sleep till the morrow.”

Overconfidence makes one sloppy and somewhat a double-edged sword. It makes one lax, the guard is down and a bull’s-eye on a leathery back. Now closed, no more help can come through; at least nothing new and pertinent.

In exchange, armed with a diamond-shaped shield made of graphene. Make yourself impervious to anything designed to pin you to the ground. No hammering can royally steamroll your crown. King of the world, no one can say otherwise, at least not to you, convincingly.

I’m pulled in all directions, splayed onto the roughness of my hundred dollars shaggy rug but I’m going out today in a teal skirt and pink cropped-top under a dangly chain—no really, I was planning to but then it rained. Some mistakes I can afford still, already paid for by overconfidence. Yet there remain others too expensive for sloppiness.

Delete button

Don’t do it.

Which button can you press for the ones inside your head?

For the ones you’d like to keep, left crumbling with no support on which to stand.

Take them all, trash and gold. As good as old.

Sort it out when the time comes, when they start to smell like murder and the doctor comes.

You’ll just take all that I have, anyway I try to run.

Greedy little bugger.

Personal Inexperience

Write down ideas and build upon them until the realisation comes that no one knows where you are going with it. That vaguely-familiar song replays itself at random along with inchoate thoughts lingering at the back of one’s head, trembling at the thought of leaving its hiding spot. Why and where? what sort of secrets too precious to divulge is it guarding?

How heavy is the risk of losing to another half-conjured thought? Why should that matter to anyone but you? Curve a finger to cajole with confident assurances of security; it must come out only because it should and somebody wants to see the crown it wears or if it wears any and if it doesn’t, slap one on it pronto.

Found myself patting the back of another whose shoes I wore occasionally. I don’t remember what that was like— both the shoes and the pat. I’ve run too fast for anyone to feel the wind from the dash of lightning or maybe no one really pays attention anymore—distracted with flashy lights and metal.

Like everyone else, all we can do is to hang on for life; most of the time we aren’t even conscious of that, thankfully. We enjoy the ride and feel the breeze generated on the side by a centrifugal force— they don’t know our plans nor should we ever tell them—it’s not like they will see in the same way as we do.

In the end, we are all trying to do the same thing. Extend a hand when you see someone about to let go whilst firmly gripping onto your handle— it won’t go anywhere but transforms you. We have but two and happily, they will suffice.

Nb: translating from feelings to thoughts what it is like to be midway on a journey, on which all pathways are wonky.

Ten chapters

If you could write the story of your life in only ten chapters, how would you write it?

From start to finish, sequentially, and only the good or bad parts whilst leaving out the rest? Would you choose to include the mundane details because they are part of who you are?

Would it be a romance or a tragedy? Would your readers feel good reading them or be inspired by your story?

Do you want to be an example for others to follow or lesson to be learned? Would it sound like a how-to guide e.g successful, good parenting, excellent boss, best leader or friend?

Would you instead, much like me, focus only on key memories which could be a mix of both good and bad as long as they explain why you are the way you are today and the best/worst version of yourself?

The exhibition of Nam June Paik’s work specifically the Sistine chapel reminds me that life could in fact be a series of moments instead of linear, sequentially placement of days, seconds, time etc. I like to think of the story of my life this way—a collection of files in which one would find allegories. They could be significant, life-changing, key-defining moments and normally they are but not necessarily so.

In my view, they don’t have to be snippets of an autobiography nor a curriculum vitae.

They don’t have to be list of adventurous things you’ve done, places you have visited, favourite foods or top regrets of things you wish you hadn’t done or did.

They could be mere fleeting moments that mean something to you even though they would count for nothing to someone else such as an oddly-shaped seashell you picked up whilst on your solo travels to Bali surrounded by couples in love and you remark for the first time, how wonderful it is that you never feel lonely.

They could also be events connected by a single thread whose content you feel is most important, likely values such as forgiveness, patience, steadfastness, generosity and mercy

but that would mean that content of the ten chapters change depending on which threads or values you think counts the most at different points in time making your chapters dynamic and living, just like you.

I want to write them as objectives I wanted to achieve —not necessarily big and commonly-accepted goals like career, choice of marriage partner or university—but objectives that I wanted to realise so badly but didn’t because life took me on a different path and as a result, I am better for it.

Can you think of moments like that? I can say that most, if not all of them, made you better in some way, if you were really honest and determined to find that nugget of truth.

Will you then be already satisfied with the way things are now knowing what you know? especially if you know now that the future will only get better.

The big picture

It’s that time of the year: a sort of makeshift random annual census that most count as unnecessary, a few others believing in its utility and a minor group liking the attention. This time around, we shall count amongst us, the easily bewitched by that one witching tree that elicits from them so much and only negative emotions, blinding them from the overarching goal of reforestation, a robust eco-system and the cooling effect of clouds —yes that’s a thing.

Today you will come to a realisation that a source of a big worry plaguing you for as long as you can remember, has in fact been neutralised. It has been for a while now; you’ve only noticed it today because you were too busy lamenting, wallowing or concentrating on whatever else in the interim. Now it has become startlingly clear that all that extra time you spent miserable were for nothing: for not only could it have ended much earlier, it took you away from more valuable things that needed your attention.

If only you were looking at the right place—But that’s the thing, isn’t it? All that time you know, or rather, assumed that you were doing exactly that—looking at the right place—with so much attention to detail you never thought you could muster by every fibre of your mortal being—Going over the same few engraved and unchanging lines that was never going to be any different though you become increasingly bored and frustrated but you soldier on, not any closer to your golden prize, but to persist knee-deep in misery.

The right place to look requires a view from high elevation, transcendence beyond your immediate self, outside and beyond still, so you see yourself, in an expansive forest and not merely just next to that one tree trying your hardest to take it down with your bare hands. Why do we do this, I wonder? How silly. Now that tree is not a person, mind you. It could be but you would a fool to think that it could only ever be so. It never was; It was as it has always been, never as simple as that to take you away from any justifiable use of raw emotions and avoid a tragedy and an additional adversity. How to be smart about choosing what to spend your time on, that which brings you joy and rewards your hard work and perseverance?Simply change the elevation from where you are standing. How very silly.

Usual suspects

Usual suspects

Dragonair on the commode

I don’t know what to write about these days; they have been totally uneventful except that time I went to the zoo and walked in just as the komodo dragon was walking up to the glass. It stuck its tongue out at me—reptilian-like 😏 while I took a video of it as though capturing a haughty top-class supermodel on camera. For some reason, I was surprised to notice that it has eyelids—snakes don’t have them—Not only do the dragons come armed with eyelids, they have two different eyelids on each eye, as Google revealed only moments ago—very cool—would have been useful for flights if only they had wings.

During my previous visits—I’ll catch the dragon walking away as though bored and unimpressed with the quality of visitors—“none are familiar with the concept of nourishment and bribe,” thought the dragon bitterly. All other reptiles stayed in their night pens the whole morning, possibly repulsed by the sudden increase of human traffic—or maybe that’s just how I feel *ahem*. Well done for surviving the week! The march school holidays are almost over. Peace shall be restored— when that day comes, celebrate we shall, in spite of the threat of nuclear war looming over our heads— puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?

Precious Minutes

Is this going to be another waste-of-time post? The one good news I can provide with relative certainty is this: The agency to decide for yourselves long before the end. Hurrah! That is a silver lining encased in an opportunity to save some precious few minutes of your lives and no, cynical people, this is not sarcasm in the slightest. Put our thinking caps on and ponder in earnest, I dare say, we might heartily agree that every single minute spent alive is special in the right conditions—in itself not at all uncommon—even more so if we know what to do with it. Let’s take a min to think about what an average person in the street is willing to give up just to spend 1 minute with a deceased loved one vis à vis yourself; the possibilities are endless AND I dare say, some of what we’ll advance will shock or maybe not, costing one kidney and a liver: to unburden the conscience, to be free of regrets, to say words we never got to saying because we assumed that we’ll have more time, one last hug and so on. A kid in China sold his kidney for an ipad and an iPhone (see https://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-asia-pacific-13647438) What will he pay for the secret location of treasures privy only to a dead person?

With that in mind, how much is 1 min with a murder victim to a detective tasked with discovering the identity of a murderer or to the victims’ loved ones waiting for any indication that there is still justice left in this cruel and unfeeling world?

How much is 1 min to Adventurers looking to find lost cities of gold or to the ones caught deep in an endless cycle of poverty?

How much for one to return with answers to long-burning questions, secret recipes to save family-run businesses, keys to inventions or weapons of mass destruction?

How many people will, without a blink of an eye, decimate half the population to pave the way for the return of their most revered religious figures for just 1 min?

How many lives could have been saved had Harry Potter been able to wake Albus Dumbledore and find out how the dickity quacking duck can horcruxes be flat-out destroyed?

I’d spend one minute with my grandparents who have made me so blissfully happy—even though I only knew later as an adult how immeasurably happy I was at that time, back when there appeared to be no such things as problems, responsibilities, dangers whilst being surrounded by unconditional love just to relive pure unadulterated happiness that is free from any wants, ambitions or other adult-level worries. Would this be one reason some people would not hasten to be in blind pursuit of that expensive 1 min? That different conditions produces different results— that 1 min still comes with the baggage one has now.

For in my darkest days, I wake up wishing I could donate the rest of my life in minutes to someone who, very simply, want them but not today. Today I’m looking forward to the future and using up all those minutes I would have used feeling downcast to write this post, then doing some lower abs exercises and eat some more sun-dried figs. For you see, dear readers, for a while now, OCD has upgraded from unreasonable fear of snakes to unreasonable fear of (scaly?) tree trunks which makes it especially tough because there are more visible trees around than there are snakes but I will press on and it is to the future I will look. This too shall pass.

Speaking of the future, Patrick’s rescued puppy, Marley who without ceremony, turned up in front of the apartment at a few weeks old, has successfully travelled and acclimatised herself in Geneva. She, of a predominantly Tricolour Serbian Hound ancestry, is also a Kosovar by birth which makes her a kind of Immigrant and that tickles me. In anticipation of being a responsible dog mummy, I now have to commit to getting informed of how to care for dogs because I’ve never had one in my life; I’ve never walked a dog, bathed one, clip their toenails (?) cleaned their ears, fed them, had to decide if they needed winter jackets etc. I don’t know what to do with them because I’ve always been a cat slave (Could you tell? hehe). Grandma had hordes of stray cats come to her house just for free meals which continued until she couldn’t physically do so anymore, even when one of them vomited into a pot of food she slaved lovingly for us humans. Oh I digress to the topic of cats again—How easily I let myself fall into the trap.

Back to dogs: what sort of (unexpected) things are dangerous to them? I know chocolate is one *gasp*. What about certain plants? How different are they from cats in terms of mannerism, habits, needs including worldly possessions and attention? I was horrified to learn that the concept of litter boxes is not a factor for them and they needed to be walked outside at least every few hours as puppies. But the silver lining is that she looks the sort that will appreciate the fact that I sometimes like to run at 4am. She might actually want to come along rather than simply ask for food, be let out and left alone like cats do. I’ve always wanted a pre-dawn running companion and hopefully I will have one in her, Lord knows Patrick is not to be relied on for such things. I plan to take her swimming in Lake Geneva too, maybe put a life jacket on her and have her ‘towed’ while I do my laps. Endless and exciting possibilities in those precious minutes. Advice appreciated.

Gratuitously lucky

This morning 2 cartons of oats and quinoa milk were delivered to me in a cheerful green cooler bag making me grin like a kid getting ice-cream for breakfast—so today fine people of the world, allow me to spread the cheer by stating categorically, that we all stand an equal chance of winning litres of golden nectar, that schmancy mountain cabin, a lifetime supply of avocado on toast, sacks of granola and sun-dried figs, mitten-wearing cats and dogs, luxurious bath supplies, non-economy class flight tickets and whatever else dreams are made of—so disperse in the land and participate freely with much gusto especially, no, I take that back, only if it costs you nothing but a few mins of your time—because good things can be free—Maybe just maybe, it’s your turn to shine like the glorious stars that you are to whom there will never be any worthwhile comparison and you know it.

Please accept my sincerest wish for you readers, that in the year of the chuffing tiger, it will never be too late to enter a giveaway of your favourite things and winning them all, for we do increase our chances of winning significantly from a big zero simply by participating—odds of which are in our favour given the number of people who can’t be bothered to do so or worse, still think like I once did —not lucky enough to win anything owing to the number of things that had gone south—to this I say, if this is indeed you, surely one does not have a bearing on the other? Terrible things that happened will not stop you from being infinitely blessed from here on out—if you haven’t yet counted your good luck already—till the end of your spectacular lives.

Self-fulfilling prophecy is a thing so rife we see present even with people we know and love yet helpless to prevent it—if you don’t know anyone deeply caged by their own doom and gloom, only log onto TikTok and prepare for jaw-dropping entries and to scream within the otiose character word limit,” stop sabotaging lives—yes, LIVES, yours and an infinite number of people especially the love of your life who does not deserve to be treated that way—by letting insecurities drive you to oblivion.” There is no sound basis for the lack of self-worth as long it is never, ever forgotten that we alone are the sole-determiners of ours.

What follows is my thank you post on Instagram—I thought it’s polite to do so considering they made sure it got to me just in time for the Chinese New Year Holidays and made me really happy. The year of the Tiger is going to be great—I feel it in my meowness—and I hope the same for all of you. Huat ah!

Say thank you even if it’s small

Personal art simplification

There is something impressive about museums preserving fragments of history as old as their number, recounting dark tales of caution or serving sunny day inspirations minus the chaos of boisterous people—thankfully—because there’s more than enough energy in display within the introvert’s playground—Immense and quiet spaces with artwork on high ceilings that mirrors the capacity of liberation and expansion within our mind’s eye, if only we allow ourselves to listen to our thoughts stimulated by labyrinth of images, forms, structure, materials and so on.

That a ‘D’ art student— I’m talking about me—can still appreciate art should mean that it does not require any sort of recognisable talent and counts largely as a matter of taste and opinion; Perhaps many would disagree with this sentiment but there is no stopping a whirling time of good fun to which we keep returning—a playground indeed. Arguably, a subject is admired (or not) in accordance with the nature of our idiosyncratic selves and with that assuring thought, some of us resign ourselves—without complaint—to that of mere onlookers skilled with the basic art of simplification— as with reality— theorising until easily digestible by the mortal human’s bounded cognitive ability even if pale by comparison with the original. Heuristics —a temporary mental shortcut— is like the instrumentalisation of experiences to elucidate new ones which are then categorised into one of the many internal shelves within the head space—like lazy thinking that if not carefully restrained and properly filtered, can turn into dangerous stereotypes feeding searing prejudice; still, their usefulness should not be understated: efficient use of time and mental processes to make decisions or judgements quickly and answering questions like ,”what the actual fuck is this?”

Chaque stencil une révolution

This exhibit over at MACBA, entitled ‘chaque stencil une révolution’ (see https://www.macba.cat/en/art-artists/artists/echakhch-latifa/chaque-stencil-une-revolutionn) is memorable to me because of the contradistinction of simplicity conveying many fantastical and successive meanings. Walls were lined with identically-cut carbon paper from floor to ceiling, differentiated only by colour bleeding achieved by the unmethodical use of a dissolving agent. The result: a trickling down effect— pooling in some areas and leaving others untouched—and gorgeous hues of blue as profoundly imperceptible as the midnight sky or a luminous azure one at noon; The colours, however, were not the point at least, not as important as the process of achieving it and the meaning behind it.

The mental shortcuts used in making sense of this work were akin to the bridging of experiences—read, heard, watched, learnt about etc— in the form of facts, principles or assumptions. Carbon paper was used in the 60s to carry and transmit powerful messages from where the storm of protest or revolution is seeded; thus, whilst smack in the middle of the artwork, awed by size, creativity and what not, I was reminded by how alike and different humans are, if seen in light of mass movement participation—purposeful—just like the individual pieces of paper glued to the wall—regardless of whether it was the Artist’s intention or not. Spreading awareness of an issue is but one important step whilst the “trickling down effect” of the colour bleed appeared like the significant effects of passing the message along: by speaking of it, debating, writing, convincing others of the same with different intensity and success rates and at the same time, be reminded of how easy it is for any message to get lost, bungled up or erased.

This task of adding members to the band is made easier through the use of social media as every issue is given the brightest spotlight and a microphone, recruiting scores of roadies and fans to the cause whose strength in numbers are previously unseen coming from far and wide. Solidarity with opinions nurtures confidence, validate feelings, solidifies beliefs and emboldening us into action as the risk to us personally is dispersed thus minimised—participation need not guarantee anything concrete before we are spurred into action, no matter how small, as long as we remember the overall picture and the intricate web that it is or simply enjoy the fun.

what it does not say is as important as what it does say —According to the law of closure, we perceive a circle even if parts of it are missing by doing some kind of patchwork in our minds and filling it with things we already know—that in itself is not problematic as long as we remember that the fillers and the overall picture it forms inside our heads, do not necessarily represent truth because by treating each and every wholly independent subject as though they are connected, we are adopting and applying fiction.

Visual metaphors, more so when unaccompanied by annotation, can spur many interpretations branching off from one single trunk, blooming banality into the extraordinary, setting loose parallelism via association or analogy, shaping allegories or simply shining a light on zeitgeist or everything else beneath the stars, in a way that using only words cannot. There is something extremely powerful about this work —it keeps the wheels turning and with each turn the end result is clearer-like a moving picture; I suppose the more I make of it, the more valuable it becomes like sentimental value.