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.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
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.
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