Always at a distance, no matter how close. As obvious as it seems, it will always be at a distance.
Talk and chances had and lost. They are now distant memories, or they should be anyway.
'Should does not apply' because it rhymes with 'would', and that's too hypothetical for idealists.
We want to see the world we know fall, and the one we dream of, flourish.
Dreams are so distant.
So real, but like ideas, they are distant.
Watching and waiting from afar. Watching and waiting for the next drink from the fucking bar.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Monday, June 29, 2015
"Are you ok?" "No, and you?"
I don't like this question. More often than not the answer is, "yes, you?" Without even thinking of the implications of what we've just done. To be fair, the question itself was asked equally automatically so the person who started the brief exchange also doesn't realise what he's possibly done.
We are rarely actually concerned about how we feel as individuals. We don't have time to feel anything or to listen to how other people feel. And if we ask a person if they are ok and they say no, now what? Do we ask a follow-up? Or simply wait for them to elaborate. And what if they don't want to elaborate? Sometimes that is a really shit question to ask.
How am I after such a long pause from writing? Shit.
It is unfortunate that for two individuals who at a point years ago seemed perfect suddenly find that, for the sake of personal progress, they must be, slowly at first, and then suddenly torn apart limb from limb. Or at least that's how it feels.
In short, no I'm not ok. But nobody has time to sit down and be bothered with being honest about their feelings. Nobody really cares, do they?
That being said, I try to care. If I ask you how you are, I'm not doing it to fill the time. I would love to sit down and listen to whatever is bothering you because I know that at a point, most people who I will listen to will in turn listen to me if they ask the dreaded question.
Me. Me. Me. Always about me in the end.
Good morning, the interwebz.
(As a sidenote, I am going to attempt to start writing in this again in case anyone still cares about my rambling)
We are rarely actually concerned about how we feel as individuals. We don't have time to feel anything or to listen to how other people feel. And if we ask a person if they are ok and they say no, now what? Do we ask a follow-up? Or simply wait for them to elaborate. And what if they don't want to elaborate? Sometimes that is a really shit question to ask.
How am I after such a long pause from writing? Shit.
It is unfortunate that for two individuals who at a point years ago seemed perfect suddenly find that, for the sake of personal progress, they must be, slowly at first, and then suddenly torn apart limb from limb. Or at least that's how it feels.
In short, no I'm not ok. But nobody has time to sit down and be bothered with being honest about their feelings. Nobody really cares, do they?
That being said, I try to care. If I ask you how you are, I'm not doing it to fill the time. I would love to sit down and listen to whatever is bothering you because I know that at a point, most people who I will listen to will in turn listen to me if they ask the dreaded question.
Me. Me. Me. Always about me in the end.
Good morning, the interwebz.
(As a sidenote, I am going to attempt to start writing in this again in case anyone still cares about my rambling)
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Progress
I have been roped into new technology.
I am genuinely impressed by all advances made in this sphere, however I do remain a bit of a technophobe in the sense that embracing new things in general tends to give me the willies. Like most people, I am one who does not seem to look at change with a 'bring it on' kind of attitude. I am hesitant at first, albeit most times it is such a brief moment of hesitation it is barely noticeable. It's there though, I promise.
I find myself inspired to write something purely to try my hand at a new keyboard which sounds like a typewriter and yet seems entirely absent of any of the qualities of one. Well, all apart from the letters and the relationship between my fingers and the appearance of one of them on a likewise entirely absent paper.
Speaking of change and new prospects, taking on a road to professional discovery and a clear step towards what is shaping up to be a potential career is terrifying. I'm not inherently a responsible person and yet I'm seemingly fitting into that role quite nicely. Of course, that is, if I completely ignore all the mental anguish that is constantly present. My strong senses of pessimism, failure and self-destruction are constantly present but then, one can't assume to make a full change. One thing at a time, Mathias. Steady now.
Yes I have bought an iPad to help with my new professional image and looming tasks, most of which must be electronically presented, as the educational world progresses. I am attempting to progress with it. Find the key word in the previous sentence.
It's been a while. Good night, the interwebs.
I am genuinely impressed by all advances made in this sphere, however I do remain a bit of a technophobe in the sense that embracing new things in general tends to give me the willies. Like most people, I am one who does not seem to look at change with a 'bring it on' kind of attitude. I am hesitant at first, albeit most times it is such a brief moment of hesitation it is barely noticeable. It's there though, I promise.
I find myself inspired to write something purely to try my hand at a new keyboard which sounds like a typewriter and yet seems entirely absent of any of the qualities of one. Well, all apart from the letters and the relationship between my fingers and the appearance of one of them on a likewise entirely absent paper.
Speaking of change and new prospects, taking on a road to professional discovery and a clear step towards what is shaping up to be a potential career is terrifying. I'm not inherently a responsible person and yet I'm seemingly fitting into that role quite nicely. Of course, that is, if I completely ignore all the mental anguish that is constantly present. My strong senses of pessimism, failure and self-destruction are constantly present but then, one can't assume to make a full change. One thing at a time, Mathias. Steady now.
Yes I have bought an iPad to help with my new professional image and looming tasks, most of which must be electronically presented, as the educational world progresses. I am attempting to progress with it. Find the key word in the previous sentence.
It's been a while. Good night, the interwebs.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Piece of Paper 3
The shapes and shadows form the usual faces on the walls. They're always the same. They never judge, they simply regard in silence.
The faces seem somehow different tonight, however. They are cold and unwelcoming. But don't get me wrong, they never judge, they simply regard in silence.
Mad men hear voices. I only hear my own. It offers no comfort. It only offers judgement and tormented yells.
Sometimes I wish the faces would answer me. They're ever so silent.
I am my own worst enemy yet I am also my most welcomed company. Misery loves it, or so I've heard. I've heard plenty. I've heard way too much, yet I can never hear enough.
My inner ear must be going deaf while my inner child lives on forever screaming for attention.
I wish he would just shut the fuck up.
Maybe then the faces might offer some consolation? I don't assume they enjoy the ramblings of an attention whore child.
Children hate being regarded in silence.
I'm sure there are a few children who enjoy silence. Indeed, they perpetuate it.
At first we call them well-behaved. Angels, even. Then we start to worry because we all know there are no such things as angels and demons. Not in an ethereal state, anyway.
It's like we can never really decide what we want. Do we want to worry about a silent child, or do we feel comfortable scolding a rowdy one?
I really do wish the faces made up their minds. They are becoming rather irksome, albeit silent.
Can silence be a solution? What about all that's left unsaid? Then again, what about all we wish we hadn't said?
What's the worse kind of regret? That of regretting an action of the lack of it?
Perhaps we should just be content with the faces. Maybe they too have regrets.
Do they regret their silence? Or do they regret the fact that their silent regard has been driving me mad since I was a child?
I hate the faces. I wish they were alive so I could wish death upon them.
The faces seem somehow different tonight, however. They are cold and unwelcoming. But don't get me wrong, they never judge, they simply regard in silence.
Mad men hear voices. I only hear my own. It offers no comfort. It only offers judgement and tormented yells.
Sometimes I wish the faces would answer me. They're ever so silent.
I am my own worst enemy yet I am also my most welcomed company. Misery loves it, or so I've heard. I've heard plenty. I've heard way too much, yet I can never hear enough.
My inner ear must be going deaf while my inner child lives on forever screaming for attention.
I wish he would just shut the fuck up.
Maybe then the faces might offer some consolation? I don't assume they enjoy the ramblings of an attention whore child.
Children hate being regarded in silence.
I'm sure there are a few children who enjoy silence. Indeed, they perpetuate it.
At first we call them well-behaved. Angels, even. Then we start to worry because we all know there are no such things as angels and demons. Not in an ethereal state, anyway.
It's like we can never really decide what we want. Do we want to worry about a silent child, or do we feel comfortable scolding a rowdy one?
I really do wish the faces made up their minds. They are becoming rather irksome, albeit silent.
Can silence be a solution? What about all that's left unsaid? Then again, what about all we wish we hadn't said?
What's the worse kind of regret? That of regretting an action of the lack of it?
Perhaps we should just be content with the faces. Maybe they too have regrets.
Do they regret their silence? Or do they regret the fact that their silent regard has been driving me mad since I was a child?
I hate the faces. I wish they were alive so I could wish death upon them.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Ramble on a scrap of paper. Part 2
Everyone writes about love for the sake of writing about it. Love tends to be a subject which inspires some sort of reaction. Whether the reaction includes flushed cheeks or a groan of cynical rejection is arbitrary.
Artists - of whose group I do not wish to be included in - feed off attention. If one is to assume that we are all artistic, then this attention-seeking is also to be attributed to every single one of us, no?
If so then what about the quiet ones? If good guys always finish last, could it be that they genuinely don't give a fuck?
This is without assuming that an artist can never be an introvert, or rather that an artist does not require love.
I believe I have just found a paradox within my rambling.
If an artist does it for attention and approval, which in turn feeds and clothes him, then how can one explain introverted artists?
I believe the answer lies somewhere within the dichotomy of the artist as a normal person, and the person communicating via their chosen medium of expression.
These two distinct personalities can always make AND break anybody simultaneously.
Think of all the drug abuse and inanities that artists are known for throughout history.
The personality of the artist could be trying to take over from the introverted personality which the person exhibited before he found his craft.
Now the person is entirely unhappy and the only way to reconcile the two is to try to numb the feeling of the gaping metaphoric wound caused by the rift.
When someone tells me about wanting to be some sort of artist, I have two distinct reactions which tend to fight to get out at the same time.
1) "That's great! Follow your heart and see where it leads you!"
2) "Run."
I figure those are my two - or rather, two of my - personalities. On one hand I want the person to success. Who knows, maybe the next Hendrix is just around the corner.
The other reaction comes from my years of struggle for minuscule success and even this marginal victory is negligible.
Bottom line, art is work. Love is pain. Work and pain are all we have to look forward to is we are to have marginal success.
It's worth it.
Artists - of whose group I do not wish to be included in - feed off attention. If one is to assume that we are all artistic, then this attention-seeking is also to be attributed to every single one of us, no?
If so then what about the quiet ones? If good guys always finish last, could it be that they genuinely don't give a fuck?
This is without assuming that an artist can never be an introvert, or rather that an artist does not require love.
I believe I have just found a paradox within my rambling.
If an artist does it for attention and approval, which in turn feeds and clothes him, then how can one explain introverted artists?
I believe the answer lies somewhere within the dichotomy of the artist as a normal person, and the person communicating via their chosen medium of expression.
These two distinct personalities can always make AND break anybody simultaneously.
Think of all the drug abuse and inanities that artists are known for throughout history.
The personality of the artist could be trying to take over from the introverted personality which the person exhibited before he found his craft.
Now the person is entirely unhappy and the only way to reconcile the two is to try to numb the feeling of the gaping metaphoric wound caused by the rift.
When someone tells me about wanting to be some sort of artist, I have two distinct reactions which tend to fight to get out at the same time.
1) "That's great! Follow your heart and see where it leads you!"
2) "Run."
I figure those are my two - or rather, two of my - personalities. On one hand I want the person to success. Who knows, maybe the next Hendrix is just around the corner.
The other reaction comes from my years of struggle for minuscule success and even this marginal victory is negligible.
Bottom line, art is work. Love is pain. Work and pain are all we have to look forward to is we are to have marginal success.
It's worth it.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Lucky
The first to be picked, yet the last to be smoked.
It is lucky because it is initially spared the fire.
In the end it is lucky because after seeing all the others burn, it doesn't want to be left behind.
Perhaps it is lucky because it is the final cigarette I will smoke. Until the next one.
Perhaps it will be the one to ultimately lead to my lucky breath.
In the end, it is lucky for the brand. Once it finishes, I have to buy another packet.
Thus the cycle returns to its starting point.
[I have decided to start posting even the random rambling writings I occasionally produce and keep to myself. I have plenty of those, you see?]
It is lucky because it is initially spared the fire.
In the end it is lucky because after seeing all the others burn, it doesn't want to be left behind.
Perhaps it is lucky because it is the final cigarette I will smoke. Until the next one.
Perhaps it will be the one to ultimately lead to my lucky breath.
In the end, it is lucky for the brand. Once it finishes, I have to buy another packet.
Thus the cycle returns to its starting point.
[I have decided to start posting even the random rambling writings I occasionally produce and keep to myself. I have plenty of those, you see?]
Sunday, December 8, 2013
I'm not back, but I try.
Two phrases have popped into my mind this morning while conversing with a good friend and nursing one of those hangovers which makes your whole body tremble as you try to nurse what's left of your pride from the night before and its aftermath.
1) "We are all victims of circumstance"
This to me makes a lot of sense and puts people into two categories. The first being people who seem to be shat on by life in general because they simply fall flat against the wall which circumstance represents. These people seem to lack the lucidity needed to make their own lives work. It's unfortunate but very real and, in fact, most people fall into this category. It's worrying to me that we have some such a long way as a race but only because of the few people who fall in the second category, hence why we are still so far behind.
The other group of people, the rare ones, the ones I envy greatly, are the ones who look circumstance dead in the eyes and take control of it. Those people who we tend to see in the films who have an epiphany and then make their lives their own. I have yet to learn how to do this. Maybe one day.
2) "Luck is there for people to rely on when they lose hope"
If you know me well enough, or even if you have read a couple posts here, you will know that I am cynical about many things. One of them being luck. I hate the idea of luck, I think it's nonsense. I imagine that the reason why I believe it is nonsense is because I wish so desperately that it were real. Then I could blame all my fuck ups on bad luck instead of knowing that they are my fault.
Kind of like how humanity always needs hope so they create false hope just to convince themselves there is still some after they've really given up. Luck is a waste of time. It's false. It kills you in the end.
On that note I would like to thank the handful of people who still visit this page. I haven't actually been on it for the last 5 or so months but it seems that I still get regular visitors hence this post. I still write, I just don't publish anything. I am too defeatist nowadays. Circumstance dictates that this is a waste of time, but then again writing has always been on the borderline between public art and personal escapism.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
Maybe I will write soon, or maybe I will wait another few months, who knows.
1) "We are all victims of circumstance"
This to me makes a lot of sense and puts people into two categories. The first being people who seem to be shat on by life in general because they simply fall flat against the wall which circumstance represents. These people seem to lack the lucidity needed to make their own lives work. It's unfortunate but very real and, in fact, most people fall into this category. It's worrying to me that we have some such a long way as a race but only because of the few people who fall in the second category, hence why we are still so far behind.
The other group of people, the rare ones, the ones I envy greatly, are the ones who look circumstance dead in the eyes and take control of it. Those people who we tend to see in the films who have an epiphany and then make their lives their own. I have yet to learn how to do this. Maybe one day.
2) "Luck is there for people to rely on when they lose hope"
If you know me well enough, or even if you have read a couple posts here, you will know that I am cynical about many things. One of them being luck. I hate the idea of luck, I think it's nonsense. I imagine that the reason why I believe it is nonsense is because I wish so desperately that it were real. Then I could blame all my fuck ups on bad luck instead of knowing that they are my fault.
Kind of like how humanity always needs hope so they create false hope just to convince themselves there is still some after they've really given up. Luck is a waste of time. It's false. It kills you in the end.
On that note I would like to thank the handful of people who still visit this page. I haven't actually been on it for the last 5 or so months but it seems that I still get regular visitors hence this post. I still write, I just don't publish anything. I am too defeatist nowadays. Circumstance dictates that this is a waste of time, but then again writing has always been on the borderline between public art and personal escapism.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
Maybe I will write soon, or maybe I will wait another few months, who knows.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Clarification. (Read: Cynicism)
As predicted, my last post was read and received in a plethora of ways. This is the reason why I write, the comments and discussion caused. So without further ado, let me finally write a proper reply rather than leaving a dangling conversation hanging in the form of a shoddy comments thread from my side.
It seems that my maxim of "live and let live" left a lot to be desired as it was taken to mean something a little different to what it was supposed to mean but, as the quoted subtitle and URL of this blog point out, everything is subject to interpretation. Allow me to attempt to clarify my position further.
I was accused of being too relativistic, meaning basically everyone has their opinions so you can't judge them and let everyone have them, etc. This isn't exactly what I meant. After a few days of deliberation and a further conversation I had with another friend of mine, I can now finally gather my thoughts.
I dislike the idea of relativism greatly. Especially the kind of relativism rampant within the current "liberal" wave of thinking. I refuse the notion of relativism because it basically leaves no room for actual opinionated discussion, instead it just lends itself to instant and constant disagreement which can never actually be disputed or argued which will, in turn, lead to no reasoned conclusion ever being reached.
I like to think that my position on religion is actually a cynical one rather than a relativistic one. Yes, I am all for everyone having their own beliefs and opinions as long as they don't offend anyone else. However, I am cynical about most opinions. That means that whatever you believe in, I will accept and respect while bearing in mind that it might just be based heavily on bullshit.
On the other hand, rather than claiming that my own views and opinions are the right ones, I know that since I came up with them myself and I am human, most of my own opinions might and probably are heavily based on bullshit too. I am cynical to the point of doubting my own ideas, basically.
My ideas are prone to change, as everyone who knows me well enough can tell you with great confidence. I am uncertain about everything and I am prone to changing the very way I think if an argument to the contrary is good enough. Yes, I'm stubborn, but still, if my arguments are completely destroyed, then I can never say, "Fuck it, I'm right anyway." I will also never, ever, for the love of all that you believe in, resort to "It's just my opinion" because that's when you know that the only thing between you and defeat is stubborn disinclination to accept it.
Hopefully this will clear the relativism argument, which leaves me one more thing to address. In my last post I said that I noticed I wasn't really committed to my belief when I was 15. This does not mean that I took a moral stance at 15 and stuck to it. Far from it! I am still trying to figure out the meaning of life and I am still trying to figure out what is morally right and wrong to this day. What happened when I was 15 was mere realisation that I was full of shit when I said I believed in the Catholic faith because, in reality, I didn't.
If somewhere along the lines I find myself leaning towards a particular faith, I would be inclined to take back my stance against organised religion and become devout to it, it just so happens that, so far, I have never been convinced that religion is not human and flawed. The conclusion being, I'd rather rely on my own human flaws than be expected to believe in things which I think are based on other human flaws.
Feel free to comment and discuss things as per usual, I do genuinely enjoy your reactions.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
It seems that my maxim of "live and let live" left a lot to be desired as it was taken to mean something a little different to what it was supposed to mean but, as the quoted subtitle and URL of this blog point out, everything is subject to interpretation. Allow me to attempt to clarify my position further.
I was accused of being too relativistic, meaning basically everyone has their opinions so you can't judge them and let everyone have them, etc. This isn't exactly what I meant. After a few days of deliberation and a further conversation I had with another friend of mine, I can now finally gather my thoughts.
I dislike the idea of relativism greatly. Especially the kind of relativism rampant within the current "liberal" wave of thinking. I refuse the notion of relativism because it basically leaves no room for actual opinionated discussion, instead it just lends itself to instant and constant disagreement which can never actually be disputed or argued which will, in turn, lead to no reasoned conclusion ever being reached.
I like to think that my position on religion is actually a cynical one rather than a relativistic one. Yes, I am all for everyone having their own beliefs and opinions as long as they don't offend anyone else. However, I am cynical about most opinions. That means that whatever you believe in, I will accept and respect while bearing in mind that it might just be based heavily on bullshit.
On the other hand, rather than claiming that my own views and opinions are the right ones, I know that since I came up with them myself and I am human, most of my own opinions might and probably are heavily based on bullshit too. I am cynical to the point of doubting my own ideas, basically.
My ideas are prone to change, as everyone who knows me well enough can tell you with great confidence. I am uncertain about everything and I am prone to changing the very way I think if an argument to the contrary is good enough. Yes, I'm stubborn, but still, if my arguments are completely destroyed, then I can never say, "Fuck it, I'm right anyway." I will also never, ever, for the love of all that you believe in, resort to "It's just my opinion" because that's when you know that the only thing between you and defeat is stubborn disinclination to accept it.
Hopefully this will clear the relativism argument, which leaves me one more thing to address. In my last post I said that I noticed I wasn't really committed to my belief when I was 15. This does not mean that I took a moral stance at 15 and stuck to it. Far from it! I am still trying to figure out the meaning of life and I am still trying to figure out what is morally right and wrong to this day. What happened when I was 15 was mere realisation that I was full of shit when I said I believed in the Catholic faith because, in reality, I didn't.
If somewhere along the lines I find myself leaning towards a particular faith, I would be inclined to take back my stance against organised religion and become devout to it, it just so happens that, so far, I have never been convinced that religion is not human and flawed. The conclusion being, I'd rather rely on my own human flaws than be expected to believe in things which I think are based on other human flaws.
Feel free to comment and discuss things as per usual, I do genuinely enjoy your reactions.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
The theological argument.
Just been inspired by a brief discussion with a friend of mine about religious beliefs and what not. Now I'm sure most of you either know or have deduced that I have renounced my faith and have been going through a journey or spiritual and ethical self-discovery for the last 6 or so years.
Why am I not still a Catholic? I was brought up, like the vast majority of people on this island as a Roman Catholic. I practised the faith and I believed in it until I was about 15 years of age when I realised that I was actually practising it out of habit rather than pious belief. This is the problem that about 80% of Catholics in Malta still have to recognise, the fact that they actually don't practise their faith, they merely exist within the framework of it without paying attention to what they're actually doing. This annoyed me at that age, and it annoys me no less now.
I believe that religion, from it's very conception, has been created by man to aid in his search for a purpose. If anything, it gives man hope. I am in no way going to disrespect a person for genuinely having faith, if anything, well done for being able to commit to it because I couldn't. As far as I'm concerned, live and let live. As long as you don't cram the fact that I'm going to hell (or whatever cosmic punishment your religion speaks of), then I won't go flailing around calling your beliefs 'horse shit'. I promise.
I am unable to invest myself in any particular faith because, as far as I'm concerned, the big religions have been distorted by generation of the other of blatant human influence. I believe that humans are fundamentally flawed and I'd rather live my life with the burden of my own flaws than claiming that theories changed by years and years of other people's flaws are true.
In essence, any ideal has the potential to be beautiful. I think that Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, even Communism, are essentially beautiful ideas. It the way that they've been presented by humans and their images and notions distorted by years of translation and editing that has basically fucked up the lot of them.
I want to agree with Nietzsche and say that "God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died", but I don't think the idea of God is actually dead. It can never be dead as long as man looks for a purpose in life and as long as a higher power can be described as the cause for all we have. Unfortunately, I tend to believe that if there was a higher power, than describing it in human terms is derogatory because it will be beyond our mortal comprehension in any case.
In a nutshell, I do not believe in any organised religion because even if they had an original divine creation, they are now merely human interpretations of the original ideal. Sort of like Plato's thoughts on art being a weak copy of a feeble copy of the ideal. That, in Platonic terms, is religion to me. I will keep living by my own moral compass created by years of thinking, reading and living within a civilised (barely) society and if, after I die, I find out there is a higher power and how I've lived is not good enough for it, then so be it.
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
Why am I not still a Catholic? I was brought up, like the vast majority of people on this island as a Roman Catholic. I practised the faith and I believed in it until I was about 15 years of age when I realised that I was actually practising it out of habit rather than pious belief. This is the problem that about 80% of Catholics in Malta still have to recognise, the fact that they actually don't practise their faith, they merely exist within the framework of it without paying attention to what they're actually doing. This annoyed me at that age, and it annoys me no less now.
I believe that religion, from it's very conception, has been created by man to aid in his search for a purpose. If anything, it gives man hope. I am in no way going to disrespect a person for genuinely having faith, if anything, well done for being able to commit to it because I couldn't. As far as I'm concerned, live and let live. As long as you don't cram the fact that I'm going to hell (or whatever cosmic punishment your religion speaks of), then I won't go flailing around calling your beliefs 'horse shit'. I promise.
I am unable to invest myself in any particular faith because, as far as I'm concerned, the big religions have been distorted by generation of the other of blatant human influence. I believe that humans are fundamentally flawed and I'd rather live my life with the burden of my own flaws than claiming that theories changed by years and years of other people's flaws are true.
In essence, any ideal has the potential to be beautiful. I think that Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, even Communism, are essentially beautiful ideas. It the way that they've been presented by humans and their images and notions distorted by years of translation and editing that has basically fucked up the lot of them.
I want to agree with Nietzsche and say that "God is dead: of his pity for man hath God died", but I don't think the idea of God is actually dead. It can never be dead as long as man looks for a purpose in life and as long as a higher power can be described as the cause for all we have. Unfortunately, I tend to believe that if there was a higher power, than describing it in human terms is derogatory because it will be beyond our mortal comprehension in any case.
In a nutshell, I do not believe in any organised religion because even if they had an original divine creation, they are now merely human interpretations of the original ideal. Sort of like Plato's thoughts on art being a weak copy of a feeble copy of the ideal. That, in Platonic terms, is religion to me. I will keep living by my own moral compass created by years of thinking, reading and living within a civilised (barely) society and if, after I die, I find out there is a higher power and how I've lived is not good enough for it, then so be it.
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
"Write about your dog!" + rant about debate and religion.
While lamenting to a friend about not having updated this blog for a very long time, he just suggests in his usual lacklustre fashion to write about my dog. So rather than responding that I'd like to write about something while maintaining some sort of dignity instead of writing an essay-type post which harks back to when I was five years of age, I said, "ok."
So, my dog. She's cute, white, fluffy and old.
Right, that's enough of that.
This is just an excuse to update this little website because I genuinely feel like a disappointment. Not only because of not updating the blog, mind you, but that's one of the reasons. I've been lacking so much motivation recently. It's like the world has conspired against me in this weird inter-dimensional scheme to make my life a living hell. However, it's quite selfish of me to think that the universe actually cares about my puny existence. It's also silly of me to consider the universe as a sentient entity rather than just a vast amount of space. If I did, I might as well go back to faith rather than reason and nobody wants that now, do they?
Speaking of reason and lack thereof, why can't Maltese television debates ever stick to them? I was watching a show about nudist beaches in Malta which had promising argumentation on the show itself but then the idiots who actually bother to care about what they're seeing started calling in. Oh. My. Sweet. Jesus.
Out of the five people calling; two of them mentioned Adam and Eve as key examples of why we shouldn't be nude because when they realised they were nude, they wanted to cover up for feeling shame. Another one had her own logic where she implied that we're already shunned by the rest of the world for dressing like whores so clearly having nudist beaches will actually turn us into whores. Another one was in favour simply because there are nudist beaches in other European countries. The final one which annoyed me the most said that they were mentioning a lot of morals and ideals without mentioning the root moral compass for Maltese people, the Church. What does the church think about nudist beaches and how can we adhere to dogma?
This irks me because I don't consider a system of faith and its physical establishment (clubhouse) to be considered the morality of the Maltese people. I for one consider myself a Maltese person who merely regards the church as being something there rather than being something which I am a clear part of. I like to think I have my own moral compass, as broken as it seems to be most of the time, and I live in a way which I see morally fitting to today's age as long as I am happy and I don't harm too many people along the line. It's impossible not to hurt a few, unfortunately.
Anyway I've gotten some shit off my chest. I'm guessing this blog is going to go back to the basics where I rant and vent my frustrations before I have the structured and planned things to write like I used to do a while back. Fuck structure, who needs it?
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
So, my dog. She's cute, white, fluffy and old.
Right, that's enough of that.
This is just an excuse to update this little website because I genuinely feel like a disappointment. Not only because of not updating the blog, mind you, but that's one of the reasons. I've been lacking so much motivation recently. It's like the world has conspired against me in this weird inter-dimensional scheme to make my life a living hell. However, it's quite selfish of me to think that the universe actually cares about my puny existence. It's also silly of me to consider the universe as a sentient entity rather than just a vast amount of space. If I did, I might as well go back to faith rather than reason and nobody wants that now, do they?
Speaking of reason and lack thereof, why can't Maltese television debates ever stick to them? I was watching a show about nudist beaches in Malta which had promising argumentation on the show itself but then the idiots who actually bother to care about what they're seeing started calling in. Oh. My. Sweet. Jesus.
Out of the five people calling; two of them mentioned Adam and Eve as key examples of why we shouldn't be nude because when they realised they were nude, they wanted to cover up for feeling shame. Another one had her own logic where she implied that we're already shunned by the rest of the world for dressing like whores so clearly having nudist beaches will actually turn us into whores. Another one was in favour simply because there are nudist beaches in other European countries. The final one which annoyed me the most said that they were mentioning a lot of morals and ideals without mentioning the root moral compass for Maltese people, the Church. What does the church think about nudist beaches and how can we adhere to dogma?
This irks me because I don't consider a system of faith and its physical establishment (clubhouse) to be considered the morality of the Maltese people. I for one consider myself a Maltese person who merely regards the church as being something there rather than being something which I am a clear part of. I like to think I have my own moral compass, as broken as it seems to be most of the time, and I live in a way which I see morally fitting to today's age as long as I am happy and I don't harm too many people along the line. It's impossible not to hurt a few, unfortunately.
Anyway I've gotten some shit off my chest. I'm guessing this blog is going to go back to the basics where I rant and vent my frustrations before I have the structured and planned things to write like I used to do a while back. Fuck structure, who needs it?
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
What's in a name?
I had a sort of epiphany the other day. The kind of panic-stricken moment of thought which fleets by most and is a cause of fixation for the select unfortunate who tend to brood on the insignificant.
My own name, Mathias, doesn't actually mean anything. I have spent my whole life identified by a brief collection of sounds which inherently has little meaning and outwardly shows nothing whatsoever about the person it denotes. For instance, a quick Google search will tell you that the name 'Mathias' means 'Gift of God', which is blatantly ironic because I'm quite certain there is no god. At least not in any way close to anything anyone has ever been able to imagine in their head of heads.
I find myself unable to identify with my own name, or any name, for that matter. Perhaps the only real names which I can possibly accept are the ones which I tried to ignore as a schoolboy riddled with bullying. The ones that only brutally honest children with no real sense of political correctness can come up with and still maintain a relatively clean conscience. Ones like 'Fat Boy' or 'Bocca' (the loose translation for any readers who aren't native Maltese speakers is 'marble'). At least these names are descriptive, albeit somewhat too descriptive.
At least these names are caricatures of what we seem to be to others. They are somehow acceptable in relation to the world. Instead we are stuck with a birth name which was given to us when we had little or no identity. Sure we can always change our name in the eyes of the law, but that wouldn't really change much, would it? We would still be 'Mathias', 'Tom', 'Dick' and 'Susan' in the end and we would all know it.
It's just such a pity that the one sound which truly chases us around throughout life to the point that even hearing something similar to it instantly catches our attention because we are conditioned to conform to the "call - response" physical nexus, actually means nothing to us at all most of the time.
Good night, the interwebz.
If that is your real name.
My own name, Mathias, doesn't actually mean anything. I have spent my whole life identified by a brief collection of sounds which inherently has little meaning and outwardly shows nothing whatsoever about the person it denotes. For instance, a quick Google search will tell you that the name 'Mathias' means 'Gift of God', which is blatantly ironic because I'm quite certain there is no god. At least not in any way close to anything anyone has ever been able to imagine in their head of heads.
I find myself unable to identify with my own name, or any name, for that matter. Perhaps the only real names which I can possibly accept are the ones which I tried to ignore as a schoolboy riddled with bullying. The ones that only brutally honest children with no real sense of political correctness can come up with and still maintain a relatively clean conscience. Ones like 'Fat Boy' or 'Bocca' (the loose translation for any readers who aren't native Maltese speakers is 'marble'). At least these names are descriptive, albeit somewhat too descriptive.
At least these names are caricatures of what we seem to be to others. They are somehow acceptable in relation to the world. Instead we are stuck with a birth name which was given to us when we had little or no identity. Sure we can always change our name in the eyes of the law, but that wouldn't really change much, would it? We would still be 'Mathias', 'Tom', 'Dick' and 'Susan' in the end and we would all know it.
It's just such a pity that the one sound which truly chases us around throughout life to the point that even hearing something similar to it instantly catches our attention because we are conditioned to conform to the "call - response" physical nexus, actually means nothing to us at all most of the time.
Good night, the interwebz.
If that is your real name.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Goodnight.
When I started boxing training, you told me a little story. You told me how when you were young, possibly in your teen years about 60 years prior, you and your friends had one pair of boxing gloves between you. You used to go down to the local hang out, choose an opponent, wear one each, and then attempt to pummel each other with one hand.
I remember talking to you about music because I knew that you played the French Horn in your late teens and well into your twenties too. You told me how you couldn't afford to buy an instrument at the time, so you walked into the band club and asked for one. You had a choice, but you chose the horn. You said it wasn't difficult to learn at all because it was merely an accompanying instrument so there weren't any particular melodies to be played. You stuck with it though, I admired that.
One day while playing with the band during a feast, your girlfriend - soon to be wife - my grandmother, was watching you proud. A man shoved past and nearly knocked her to the ground. One minute you were up there playing with the orchestra, and the other you were running towards this man who nearly hurt your most important spectator. You were going to hit him with your French Horn, silly bugger. Luckily your friend held on to your arm before you could. Unluckily for the man who pushed grandma, your mother was also there at the time. She ended up hitting him over the head with her purse yelling at him not to hurt you.
I spent every day every summer until I was 11 years old at your house and still saw you every weekend the rest of the year. You were a man of few words, but the words you did say were generally either amusing, or thoughtful. You did complain a lot, and you didn't like noise, but you still loved every second of when the whole family was there making the noise. We knew it, even though you wouldn't let us have that little victory. Just that smirk after hearing that joke was enough.
Two days before you died, you were in a lot of pain. They gave you morphine to help and you eventually got out of it. The calm before the storm, as it were. When your family asked you how you were, you took a few seconds to think and then calmly said, "Fucking Hell!"
On the 20th January, you passed away surrounded by your children and your wife. I had just left your side after 6 vigilant hours to go home and get something to eat and to take something for my glorious headache. That was just enough to miss your last breath. I was disappointed, to say the least, but I was glad you weren't feeling pain any more. I was also too shocked at the time to be able to express any of that, however.
On the 22nd January we said our last farewell. I stole away from the rest of the family and cried tears of pure anguish smoking a cigarette where you smoked who knows how many standing on the porch looking at the cars.
I'm going to miss you more than anyone can ever begin to understand. Your influence has made up a big part of who I am today. Your stubbornness, your character, your sense of humour. On the other hand, also things like your sensitivity to the negatives in life and your penchant for depression when faced with harsh reality.
I will never forget when we were alone and you waited for my grandmother to leave before you broke down to me. It was just me and you. I would give anything for one more minute alone with you just to try to let you know how much you meant to me, despite not seeing you as much as I should have the last couple of years. I'm sorry I wasn't there often enough. I like to think you knew that I cared anyway.
I love you and I always will.
Goodnight Grandfather, or as I took to calling you, to your amusement, "Trouble".
I remember talking to you about music because I knew that you played the French Horn in your late teens and well into your twenties too. You told me how you couldn't afford to buy an instrument at the time, so you walked into the band club and asked for one. You had a choice, but you chose the horn. You said it wasn't difficult to learn at all because it was merely an accompanying instrument so there weren't any particular melodies to be played. You stuck with it though, I admired that.
One day while playing with the band during a feast, your girlfriend - soon to be wife - my grandmother, was watching you proud. A man shoved past and nearly knocked her to the ground. One minute you were up there playing with the orchestra, and the other you were running towards this man who nearly hurt your most important spectator. You were going to hit him with your French Horn, silly bugger. Luckily your friend held on to your arm before you could. Unluckily for the man who pushed grandma, your mother was also there at the time. She ended up hitting him over the head with her purse yelling at him not to hurt you.
I spent every day every summer until I was 11 years old at your house and still saw you every weekend the rest of the year. You were a man of few words, but the words you did say were generally either amusing, or thoughtful. You did complain a lot, and you didn't like noise, but you still loved every second of when the whole family was there making the noise. We knew it, even though you wouldn't let us have that little victory. Just that smirk after hearing that joke was enough.
Two days before you died, you were in a lot of pain. They gave you morphine to help and you eventually got out of it. The calm before the storm, as it were. When your family asked you how you were, you took a few seconds to think and then calmly said, "Fucking Hell!"
On the 20th January, you passed away surrounded by your children and your wife. I had just left your side after 6 vigilant hours to go home and get something to eat and to take something for my glorious headache. That was just enough to miss your last breath. I was disappointed, to say the least, but I was glad you weren't feeling pain any more. I was also too shocked at the time to be able to express any of that, however.
On the 22nd January we said our last farewell. I stole away from the rest of the family and cried tears of pure anguish smoking a cigarette where you smoked who knows how many standing on the porch looking at the cars.
I'm going to miss you more than anyone can ever begin to understand. Your influence has made up a big part of who I am today. Your stubbornness, your character, your sense of humour. On the other hand, also things like your sensitivity to the negatives in life and your penchant for depression when faced with harsh reality.
I will never forget when we were alone and you waited for my grandmother to leave before you broke down to me. It was just me and you. I would give anything for one more minute alone with you just to try to let you know how much you meant to me, despite not seeing you as much as I should have the last couple of years. I'm sorry I wasn't there often enough. I like to think you knew that I cared anyway.
I love you and I always will.
Goodnight Grandfather, or as I took to calling you, to your amusement, "Trouble".
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Overnight Success
Is it just me that's annoyed at all the little steps one must take to reach a goal? I mean you always hear of these incredible success stories that happen overnight, why can't that be me?
I've been in music for almost a decade now and only now am I getting some sort of success margin. Still it is almost negligible to some local talents, let alone how totally insignificant I feel in comparison to international stars. It just seems to come so easy to some people whereas I've been busting my arse to the point of almost giving up for as long as I can remember. I go to bed after every gig with so much back pain I can barely stand. I've always joked that that's the sign of a good gig, not being able to walk properly for a few days but in reality, that's also how someone feels after getting bummed in prison.
How about writing? I started to enjoy writing as a child. I used to love my English homework, go figure! I always enjoyed all the different combinations of words and all the potential each bloody syllable has to move and inspire. Unfortunately, not really much has happened there either. I've been writing here for god knows how long and I'm stuck. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that I tend to have an audience to read my rambling and I even get people who have read my things stopping me in person to discuss them. I love every second of it, even the seconds spent defending something I've written which isn't necessarily agreeable. Now I've started writing for a separate website/magazine I'm also enjoying the potential for a bigger audience, but I'm not quite happy yet. There's a lot more left to do.
A hidden desire I've always had is that of acting. I've always gazed with admiration at the actors in film. Any and all kinds of films simply enchant me. I want to be there on screen. I want to have the badass catch-phrases and the side-busting one-liners and all the other hyphenated film-related jabber. However I'm stumped because I can't stand the idea of acting for theatre which is a necessary stepping stone for most acting platforms. It's all down to my need for instant gratification and general apathy for really getting down and working until the last possible minute. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I can't learn lines for a play overnight like I'm able to learn things for an exam. I also don't have anywhere near the right credentials to improvise any sort of script like I can do during a gig if I forget what I'm supposed to play. It just doesn't happen.
In the end I just want one of those Hollywood success stories. I just don't want to deal with all the hard work it takes to get there. I want to be a global star, as childish as that seems. I now know that as a child I never really wanted to become an actor/singer/writer/entertainer; I just wanted to be famous. I craved attention as an only child and I still do however I want attention when I want it, not all the time. I'm also selective about the attention I crave. I'm a walking conundrum in the sense that I don't want all kinds of attention, just the attention I want. Get it?
On that note, good night/morning the interwebz
I've been in music for almost a decade now and only now am I getting some sort of success margin. Still it is almost negligible to some local talents, let alone how totally insignificant I feel in comparison to international stars. It just seems to come so easy to some people whereas I've been busting my arse to the point of almost giving up for as long as I can remember. I go to bed after every gig with so much back pain I can barely stand. I've always joked that that's the sign of a good gig, not being able to walk properly for a few days but in reality, that's also how someone feels after getting bummed in prison.
How about writing? I started to enjoy writing as a child. I used to love my English homework, go figure! I always enjoyed all the different combinations of words and all the potential each bloody syllable has to move and inspire. Unfortunately, not really much has happened there either. I've been writing here for god knows how long and I'm stuck. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that I tend to have an audience to read my rambling and I even get people who have read my things stopping me in person to discuss them. I love every second of it, even the seconds spent defending something I've written which isn't necessarily agreeable. Now I've started writing for a separate website/magazine I'm also enjoying the potential for a bigger audience, but I'm not quite happy yet. There's a lot more left to do.
A hidden desire I've always had is that of acting. I've always gazed with admiration at the actors in film. Any and all kinds of films simply enchant me. I want to be there on screen. I want to have the badass catch-phrases and the side-busting one-liners and all the other hyphenated film-related jabber. However I'm stumped because I can't stand the idea of acting for theatre which is a necessary stepping stone for most acting platforms. It's all down to my need for instant gratification and general apathy for really getting down and working until the last possible minute. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I can't learn lines for a play overnight like I'm able to learn things for an exam. I also don't have anywhere near the right credentials to improvise any sort of script like I can do during a gig if I forget what I'm supposed to play. It just doesn't happen.
In the end I just want one of those Hollywood success stories. I just don't want to deal with all the hard work it takes to get there. I want to be a global star, as childish as that seems. I now know that as a child I never really wanted to become an actor/singer/writer/entertainer; I just wanted to be famous. I craved attention as an only child and I still do however I want attention when I want it, not all the time. I'm also selective about the attention I crave. I'm a walking conundrum in the sense that I don't want all kinds of attention, just the attention I want. Get it?
On that note, good night/morning the interwebz
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Do you fear god?
How many times have we heard this question? Or have we heard or seen it stated as an "I fear god!" or the "Fear of god!"? However, have we actually ever really thought about it? I found myself pondering this notion as an atheist and wondering what the real implications of this fear are to someone who doesn't believe in the bearded deity.
I came to the conclusion that I do genuinely fear god. Of course I don't believe in god as an all-knowing, all-seeing, Sauron-type figure; but I do know that there are plenty who do. This frightens me. Don't get me wrong, neither am I going to shit on anyone's beliefs nor am I to criticise anyone for having them. I know that respect is a two-way street and I'm not going to be the first one to ruin whatever respect there lies between believers and non-believers.
It's staggering to think of all the atrocities that have happened throughout history in the name of one god or another. Be it the Crusades or the Thirty Years' War. I don't even have to go to such extremes actually, I can just try to fathom the sheer number of murders happening daily and globally that are being blamed on a voice that the murderer has heard that he claimed was god telling him to kill.
Also, just to make things crystal clear, I don't agree with the other end of the spectrum either, where you get militant atheists like Richard Dawkins pretty much slating anyone who dares defy him. In a way, isn't he making himself out to be a god? I never liked the sour bugger.
Personally I've heard of and experienced little unimaginables myself in the name of religion which have made me into the cynic I am today. From being severely punished by nuns for innocently asking - as a 5 year old, might I add - whether we know for sure if the Bible wasn't written by a group of friends; to a person I care about greatly who - despite being a devout Catholic himself - was incredibly emotionally damaged by being called a sinner at 13 for having homosexual urges and speaking to a priest in confidence about them.
It is shameful that these things are still allowed today in our modern world full of progress. I dare anyone of sound mind to watch the documentary "Jesus Camp" and not seethe. I am terrified of the capabilities of any human beings who make themselves out to be gods or who do incredibly inhumane things which are justified in the name of god.
I am just so fearful of god.
Good morning, the interwebz.
I came to the conclusion that I do genuinely fear god. Of course I don't believe in god as an all-knowing, all-seeing, Sauron-type figure; but I do know that there are plenty who do. This frightens me. Don't get me wrong, neither am I going to shit on anyone's beliefs nor am I to criticise anyone for having them. I know that respect is a two-way street and I'm not going to be the first one to ruin whatever respect there lies between believers and non-believers.
It's staggering to think of all the atrocities that have happened throughout history in the name of one god or another. Be it the Crusades or the Thirty Years' War. I don't even have to go to such extremes actually, I can just try to fathom the sheer number of murders happening daily and globally that are being blamed on a voice that the murderer has heard that he claimed was god telling him to kill.
Also, just to make things crystal clear, I don't agree with the other end of the spectrum either, where you get militant atheists like Richard Dawkins pretty much slating anyone who dares defy him. In a way, isn't he making himself out to be a god? I never liked the sour bugger.
Personally I've heard of and experienced little unimaginables myself in the name of religion which have made me into the cynic I am today. From being severely punished by nuns for innocently asking - as a 5 year old, might I add - whether we know for sure if the Bible wasn't written by a group of friends; to a person I care about greatly who - despite being a devout Catholic himself - was incredibly emotionally damaged by being called a sinner at 13 for having homosexual urges and speaking to a priest in confidence about them.
It is shameful that these things are still allowed today in our modern world full of progress. I dare anyone of sound mind to watch the documentary "Jesus Camp" and not seethe. I am terrified of the capabilities of any human beings who make themselves out to be gods or who do incredibly inhumane things which are justified in the name of god.
I am just so fearful of god.
Good morning, the interwebz.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
You Don't Say!
I've decided to go back to my roots with this post and just make it a good old-fashioned rant. I don't really have much to say, but I'm trying to at least keep a monthly post going so here it goes.
Is there anything more annoying than someone blatantly stating the obvious? Being in the Hons Philosophy course at University and living with a semi-senile father and a mother whose thoughts tend to drift haphazardly with no real logical bearing, Christ knows I've experienced this phenomenon countless times.
Just a couple weeks ago it was stated after some deliberation during a Philosophy of Social Science lecture that during World War II, suicide rates were very high. Who would've thought it, right? It gets worse. Not only did the lecturer conclude this, but it was then further simplified by a brilliant student sitting in front. "During war, suicide rates are high." The mere thought that this 'cognitive process' could still be referred to as such is daunting, to say the least.
The main fuel for this post comes in the shape of my ageing father, however. He is internet meme gold. At least twice a day there has to be a moment of, "Fuck me, really?". Last night was a rough night which I spent coughing quite profusely. I slept half an hour all night, if that. What was the first thing my father said as he came to rouse me from my pillowed coffin? "You've been coughing all night." Oh, thank you father. I was wondering what the hell my body was doing.
This was only one isolated incident. I've heard such strokes of genius as, "If you don't heat your food, it will be cold" and "It's 2pm now, so in an hour it will be 3pm". There comes a point when it should occur to a few that thinking aloud is a chore to everyone in the vicinity. When confronted, my father just answers by saying that he's usually home all day (he's retired) so he gets lonely and he just likes to talk when he has the chance. It's cute in a way and you have to empathise to a certain degree.
Sometimes it feels like my whole life is the world's longest viral video and I'm the unsuspecting victim of an elaborate ruse to turn my brain into mulch.
On that final observation, good morning the interwebz.
Is there anything more annoying than someone blatantly stating the obvious? Being in the Hons Philosophy course at University and living with a semi-senile father and a mother whose thoughts tend to drift haphazardly with no real logical bearing, Christ knows I've experienced this phenomenon countless times.
Just a couple weeks ago it was stated after some deliberation during a Philosophy of Social Science lecture that during World War II, suicide rates were very high. Who would've thought it, right? It gets worse. Not only did the lecturer conclude this, but it was then further simplified by a brilliant student sitting in front. "During war, suicide rates are high." The mere thought that this 'cognitive process' could still be referred to as such is daunting, to say the least.
The main fuel for this post comes in the shape of my ageing father, however. He is internet meme gold. At least twice a day there has to be a moment of, "Fuck me, really?". Last night was a rough night which I spent coughing quite profusely. I slept half an hour all night, if that. What was the first thing my father said as he came to rouse me from my pillowed coffin? "You've been coughing all night." Oh, thank you father. I was wondering what the hell my body was doing.
This was only one isolated incident. I've heard such strokes of genius as, "If you don't heat your food, it will be cold" and "It's 2pm now, so in an hour it will be 3pm". There comes a point when it should occur to a few that thinking aloud is a chore to everyone in the vicinity. When confronted, my father just answers by saying that he's usually home all day (he's retired) so he gets lonely and he just likes to talk when he has the chance. It's cute in a way and you have to empathise to a certain degree.
Sometimes it feels like my whole life is the world's longest viral video and I'm the unsuspecting victim of an elaborate ruse to turn my brain into mulch.
On that final observation, good morning the interwebz.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Modern man.
The title of this post and indeed the post itself is as drenched with irony as the floor tiles underneath your grandmother's old, rusty, refrigerator is with melted ice-water. It's ironic in the way that there's no mention of a real example of irony in the song 'Isn't It Ironic' by Alanis Morissette, as Ed Bryne pointed out in his legendary slating of the "moaning cow". It's ironic, basically.
If it wasn't for my beautifully talented partner and her immense skill in basic Microsoft Office manipulation, none of my University assignments would have ever been presented on time. When I say "basic", I genuinely mean "basic". You wouldn't believe how confused I get with the simplest of tasks. Sure I can type quite efficiently, copy, paste, highlight, underline and change font size and style; but that's pretty much it. When it comes to the nitty gritty pretty titty stuff, there's no bleeding chance I'll figure that out.
Whatever happened to good old pen and paper? If it were up to me, everything would be hand-written. Sure the people who find electronic methods easier should by all means be allowed to present their work electronically, but the option of penmanship should also be available. The first question I asked when I was given my first assignment at University was, in fact, "Can I write it myself on a piece of paper? ... With a pen?"
I also can't stand how the older generations all say it's a shame that the young 'uns don't know how to write any more and that it's all about typing nowadays. Who the fuck do you think gives us the order to type and email and print and present everything that way? We don't all do it on our own accord. I know I bloody well don't.
The reason why I'm typing this -ironically- is because I genuinely wanted to write out my frustrations on a piece of paper with a piece of pen, but then I realised I haven't posted here in a while so I felt like I should. Aren't you glad?
Good night, the interwebz.
If it wasn't for my beautifully talented partner and her immense skill in basic Microsoft Office manipulation, none of my University assignments would have ever been presented on time. When I say "basic", I genuinely mean "basic". You wouldn't believe how confused I get with the simplest of tasks. Sure I can type quite efficiently, copy, paste, highlight, underline and change font size and style; but that's pretty much it. When it comes to the nitty gritty pretty titty stuff, there's no bleeding chance I'll figure that out.
Whatever happened to good old pen and paper? If it were up to me, everything would be hand-written. Sure the people who find electronic methods easier should by all means be allowed to present their work electronically, but the option of penmanship should also be available. The first question I asked when I was given my first assignment at University was, in fact, "Can I write it myself on a piece of paper? ... With a pen?"
I also can't stand how the older generations all say it's a shame that the young 'uns don't know how to write any more and that it's all about typing nowadays. Who the fuck do you think gives us the order to type and email and print and present everything that way? We don't all do it on our own accord. I know I bloody well don't.
The reason why I'm typing this -ironically- is because I genuinely wanted to write out my frustrations on a piece of paper with a piece of pen, but then I realised I haven't posted here in a while so I felt like I should. Aren't you glad?
Good night, the interwebz.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Melancholy.
Have you ever experienced that feeling which so surpasses regular boredom? It goes through your whole body as you feel like doing nothing but staying in bed or just sitting outside smoking a solitary cigarette and brooding about why it is you feel this way.
You know you are essentially a busy person with a semi-active social life and quite a few things going for you in general, not to mention all those pleasant people we refer to as friends; yet you can't quite knock the feeling that you just don't want any of it. It is quite annoying, isn't it?
Though it isn't depression, you know you are intrinsically a happy person and this is just an odd mood, right? It will pass as you get along with your life, leave the house and meet life head-on. But does it really pass? Or is all that just a distraction from the dreaded feeling itself?
Of course the next step to this feeling is probably depression, perhaps not clinical, but still real. One of the main feelings linked to clinical depression is, in fact, this very same one. However not all dogs are white just because I own a white dog, get it?
It annoys me when people self-diagnose, and I should know how that goes because I've done it myself. It's a completely different story to wake up one day in a bad mood characterised by lethargy and actually living and relishing in the lethargy itself. Think of it this way, that mood you get once in a while where you just can't be fucked to do anything? That's what people who are clinically depressed carry around constantly.
Annoying isn't it? This melancholic feeling. It's as if I lust for it though.
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
You know you are essentially a busy person with a semi-active social life and quite a few things going for you in general, not to mention all those pleasant people we refer to as friends; yet you can't quite knock the feeling that you just don't want any of it. It is quite annoying, isn't it?
Though it isn't depression, you know you are intrinsically a happy person and this is just an odd mood, right? It will pass as you get along with your life, leave the house and meet life head-on. But does it really pass? Or is all that just a distraction from the dreaded feeling itself?
Of course the next step to this feeling is probably depression, perhaps not clinical, but still real. One of the main feelings linked to clinical depression is, in fact, this very same one. However not all dogs are white just because I own a white dog, get it?
It annoys me when people self-diagnose, and I should know how that goes because I've done it myself. It's a completely different story to wake up one day in a bad mood characterised by lethargy and actually living and relishing in the lethargy itself. Think of it this way, that mood you get once in a while where you just can't be fucked to do anything? That's what people who are clinically depressed carry around constantly.
Annoying isn't it? This melancholic feeling. It's as if I lust for it though.
Good afternoon, the interwebz.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Social injustice and career choices.
I'll preface this by saying that I'm suddenly inspired by my new obsession with Boston Legal, just as I was inspired by Californication a year ago. It seems good writing tends to inspire aspiring writers quite a bit.
Social injustice has always been a spark for wannabe humanists to spring forth and speak for the disenfranchised minorities, and rightly so, however why is it that an issue tends to be brought forward with particular cases while the vast majority tend to be silenced? The particular case which is currently getting viral focus at the moment is one of a seemingly pleasant man named Roger from Cameroon.
He has been in prison for a year and is being sentenced to another couple of those pesky things simply because he sent a text message to another man saying "I'm very much in love w/u." Now I've already gone into my views on sexual orientation and gay rights in a previous blog (scroll down if you want to read it) and this isn't the point of this post. My point is, why is it that one off cases like this get our attention occasionally, while thousands upon thousands of discriminatory cases happen daily and go unnoticed?
My initial conclusion is that it is because most of them are quickly silenced so that the masses who don't bother to look for instances of injustice don't realise that they are so widespread. Where does Boston Legal come into this? The writers seem to be doing their best to bring out these weird one off cases that are obviously there to make the show interesting, fair enough, however I think there's more to it than that. I think that they are trying to point out that there are a lot of things which just don't get the attention they deserve.
What about all the silent genocide going on? The constant war in the centre of Dagestan and other little-known nations? The revolts related to the Curds and Turks and other cultural groups? The daily murder rate in large cities, such as Manhattan? The systematic rape and torture going on in Islamic states by invading forces? ... All atrocities which the well-read few have heard of and which the scarce handful are actually even bothering to do something about.
Where does career choice come into this? Sometimes I wish I was studying to be a lawyer just to be able to try to exploit the law in such a way as to make life easier for the downtrodden majority of society which are irrevocably and ironically referred to as minorities. Instead I chose philosophy, perhaps one day I may be able to write and discuss in a way with which I can change the perception of a few people.
One mind opened to the harsh reality of the lack of morality of the world is one huge success, as far as I'm concerned. I am not a self-professed messiah, I know that I am far from a good person at points; however I wish that people who can make a difference actually got up and started to make one.
Good evening, the interwebz.
Social injustice has always been a spark for wannabe humanists to spring forth and speak for the disenfranchised minorities, and rightly so, however why is it that an issue tends to be brought forward with particular cases while the vast majority tend to be silenced? The particular case which is currently getting viral focus at the moment is one of a seemingly pleasant man named Roger from Cameroon.
He has been in prison for a year and is being sentenced to another couple of those pesky things simply because he sent a text message to another man saying "I'm very much in love w/u." Now I've already gone into my views on sexual orientation and gay rights in a previous blog (scroll down if you want to read it) and this isn't the point of this post. My point is, why is it that one off cases like this get our attention occasionally, while thousands upon thousands of discriminatory cases happen daily and go unnoticed?
My initial conclusion is that it is because most of them are quickly silenced so that the masses who don't bother to look for instances of injustice don't realise that they are so widespread. Where does Boston Legal come into this? The writers seem to be doing their best to bring out these weird one off cases that are obviously there to make the show interesting, fair enough, however I think there's more to it than that. I think that they are trying to point out that there are a lot of things which just don't get the attention they deserve.
What about all the silent genocide going on? The constant war in the centre of Dagestan and other little-known nations? The revolts related to the Curds and Turks and other cultural groups? The daily murder rate in large cities, such as Manhattan? The systematic rape and torture going on in Islamic states by invading forces? ... All atrocities which the well-read few have heard of and which the scarce handful are actually even bothering to do something about.
Where does career choice come into this? Sometimes I wish I was studying to be a lawyer just to be able to try to exploit the law in such a way as to make life easier for the downtrodden majority of society which are irrevocably and ironically referred to as minorities. Instead I chose philosophy, perhaps one day I may be able to write and discuss in a way with which I can change the perception of a few people.
One mind opened to the harsh reality of the lack of morality of the world is one huge success, as far as I'm concerned. I am not a self-professed messiah, I know that I am far from a good person at points; however I wish that people who can make a difference actually got up and started to make one.
Good evening, the interwebz.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Confessions of an EFL teacher.
Something about listening to Jimmy Paige and David Coverdale's album made me feel like writing again. Well that and the guilt I feel every time a student asks me how I can use English so fluently and I calmly tell them it's because I read and write knowing that the real answer should be because I try to read and I used to write.
It's funny how summer used to be a time of white noise and a standby button just spent relaxing and doing nothing after the months of school. Nowadays summer is full of commitments and work so it tends to be even more stressful than the scholastic year. By the end of the dreadful month I'm almost begging to go back to University simply to get away from all the stress that summer itself has come to represent. I whinge about the heat constantly while trying to teach teenagers English knowing that 70% of them don't give half a rat's arse about anything I'm saying other than, "Time for break!" or "We're done for today, see you tomorrow!" I use the exclamation marks because I'll be as excited for the end of their lessons as they are most of the time.
Don't get me wrong, I do like the vast majority of all my students but a small number of them are just horribly spoilt little arseholes who have been sent here so their parents can have a break from them and possibly try to conceive better offspring in the mean time. Usually, I also genuinely enjoy my job, except when I have to bow down to authority and do things which I know I will hate and so do the students. And what's up with all the goddamn paperwork? Jesus Christ every day it's a new paper to fill in myself or to get the students to fill in while wasting 15 minutes of lesson time. Granted for most of them it's a welcome break but for the few who genuinely go the extra mile to learn something, it's a nuisance.
Final note, I think it's hilarious that teachers who tend to be pretty much in the same age group as our students, are actually forbidden from being friends with our students. It is outlined in my teachers' guidelines specifically something along the lines of "Remember that the student is not your friend!" So you mean to tell me that if I have a student who is my age, who I see every day for four weeks or more, have shared laughs and serious discussions with and have actually enjoyed my time with invites me to go meet him/her on his/her last day in Malta as friends, not as student and teacher, I need to decline because I was ordered not to be his/her friend? Fuck that.
Anyway, just a little look into what's been taking over my life during the last couple of summers. I still have suggestions left over from my reader suggestion series. I'll get to them eventually. Maybe.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
It's funny how summer used to be a time of white noise and a standby button just spent relaxing and doing nothing after the months of school. Nowadays summer is full of commitments and work so it tends to be even more stressful than the scholastic year. By the end of the dreadful month I'm almost begging to go back to University simply to get away from all the stress that summer itself has come to represent. I whinge about the heat constantly while trying to teach teenagers English knowing that 70% of them don't give half a rat's arse about anything I'm saying other than, "Time for break!" or "We're done for today, see you tomorrow!" I use the exclamation marks because I'll be as excited for the end of their lessons as they are most of the time.
Don't get me wrong, I do like the vast majority of all my students but a small number of them are just horribly spoilt little arseholes who have been sent here so their parents can have a break from them and possibly try to conceive better offspring in the mean time. Usually, I also genuinely enjoy my job, except when I have to bow down to authority and do things which I know I will hate and so do the students. And what's up with all the goddamn paperwork? Jesus Christ every day it's a new paper to fill in myself or to get the students to fill in while wasting 15 minutes of lesson time. Granted for most of them it's a welcome break but for the few who genuinely go the extra mile to learn something, it's a nuisance.
Final note, I think it's hilarious that teachers who tend to be pretty much in the same age group as our students, are actually forbidden from being friends with our students. It is outlined in my teachers' guidelines specifically something along the lines of "Remember that the student is not your friend!" So you mean to tell me that if I have a student who is my age, who I see every day for four weeks or more, have shared laughs and serious discussions with and have actually enjoyed my time with invites me to go meet him/her on his/her last day in Malta as friends, not as student and teacher, I need to decline because I was ordered not to be his/her friend? Fuck that.
Anyway, just a little look into what's been taking over my life during the last couple of summers. I still have suggestions left over from my reader suggestion series. I'll get to them eventually. Maybe.
Good afternoon, the interwebz
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Homophobia
When I was a child I acknowledge that homosexuality was a thing and I knew homosexual friends of my parents and I completely acccepted the whole thing. It never even crossed my mind that it was wrong in any way. Nowadays I still don't understand why the hell it's such a bad thing.
I'm ashamed to know that Malta, my home country, can be so ignorant and far behind as to view homosexuality as anything other than just another person who happens to like the same sex. What's the big deal? Drawing on a few clichéd phrases, some say it's a choice but remind me again when you chose to be straight?
I could never understand people's preoccupation with criticising everything and everyone with malicious intent. It's the same thing with tattoos, piercings, different religions, clothes, hair colour, dietary choices, etc ... At which point does someone's life become so boring and empty that the only enjoyment they can get from it is by drowning other people's happiness and calling it wrong?
One of the stupidest things I've ever heard in terms of homophobia and whatnot is that it can be "cured". Like it's some sort of disease. Worst of all however is that it can be cured with prayer. What the fuck? Now I am in no way a religious person but even when I used to try praying to what I thought was a real entity, I still hated the idea that bigotry was a leading protagonist of belief.
As a final note I'd like to add that I'm not homosexual myself but I do have homosexual friends and, to be honest, I couldn't give a crap if they were homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, transsexual or whatever. They're people. If anything I respect homosexual people more because they had the courage to come out and look for happiness in a world that is sadly not as ready to accept them as it should be.
It's just sickening that homophobia is a thing. It reminds me that the world has a long fucking way to go. Live and let live.
Good morning, the interwebz.
I'm ashamed to know that Malta, my home country, can be so ignorant and far behind as to view homosexuality as anything other than just another person who happens to like the same sex. What's the big deal? Drawing on a few clichéd phrases, some say it's a choice but remind me again when you chose to be straight?
I could never understand people's preoccupation with criticising everything and everyone with malicious intent. It's the same thing with tattoos, piercings, different religions, clothes, hair colour, dietary choices, etc ... At which point does someone's life become so boring and empty that the only enjoyment they can get from it is by drowning other people's happiness and calling it wrong?
One of the stupidest things I've ever heard in terms of homophobia and whatnot is that it can be "cured". Like it's some sort of disease. Worst of all however is that it can be cured with prayer. What the fuck? Now I am in no way a religious person but even when I used to try praying to what I thought was a real entity, I still hated the idea that bigotry was a leading protagonist of belief.
As a final note I'd like to add that I'm not homosexual myself but I do have homosexual friends and, to be honest, I couldn't give a crap if they were homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, transsexual or whatever. They're people. If anything I respect homosexual people more because they had the courage to come out and look for happiness in a world that is sadly not as ready to accept them as it should be.
It's just sickening that homophobia is a thing. It reminds me that the world has a long fucking way to go. Live and let live.
Good morning, the interwebz.
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