My City

It's a blazing afternoon in this sweat-clad habitat of pipes, metal, and concrete, lots of concrete. What I don't understand is the banal recognition of it all and an apathetic amazement towards its wonder, and at its horror. Gaze upon now, all ye mighty, and tremble...

The drunks who wander through and the yuppie that passes by are but mere glimpes of the forms this city is capable of. Unforgiving and yet rewarding. It breathes, yes - it breathes. You can see on top of manholes, when it's cold, and above drainage ditches when it's hot. It hangs in the air and wafts its way, tainting innocence without remorse, to the protected indoor vacinities of the buildings. Sometimes, it can talk - the loud honking of vehicles and snd shouts from angry business people on their mobile phones. The message is unclear, but it's there - just listen. Ahh, the buildings have history, but it's nothing compared to the trees that stand unscathed. The corruption of modernity and post-modernity left them alone in their solace as others were decimated and violated.

The wharf is an achievement. Dock-in and dock-out. It may not seem amazing, at first, but ignore the rubbish and its murky smell. History is what the tourists pay for. It's a steady rhythm of ripples. The deeper you go the more silent it is, and where there is silence a sanctuary can be found. How can this be? You are alone with your thoughts without any distractions. You can view it as being a 'defeaning silence' or you can be introspective and discover things about you, both pleasant and unpleasant.

It's weird how often the traditional values mix with new ideas. So let it be while the young ones stroll by. The women in suits must polish their armour for another tomorrow and be glad for it, because they know what most men don't: decisions are made and should not be clouded with what should have been. It is the now. It is here. This is Sydney. It's my city.

What can you do when the magic is gone?

The rush filled her with an elation. An excitement never before experienced. Euphoria.

The cold wind outside might have swept away the fear. The drunken waft of the crowd's breath comforted her when the lights dimmed. A change of atmosphere was good. Her capricious mood suited a summer night like this. It warranted a belief in these next few moments to be a defining turning point in her life. Unofficial biographers will study them and say that on a two-bit stage, like this, a legend was made. Carving her way through the business with pure malice and spite, because it's what the machine wants - no, needs. A triumphant voice among the many and hailed as a pioneer for the failures. The failures deserved to be recognised. Without them, the ultimate winners could never be decided.

With delusions of grandeur on her side, she took to the stage.

There was no curtain call or encore. But their claps were loud and even a few stood up. That teacher in that movie got it right: We live because of some things (science/medicine/technology), but we don't always live for them. We live for highs like this.
After the show she gingerly made her way backstage and took off her make-up. She scratched her head while looking at her reflection in the mirror.
'Yeah, I was great tonight,' she thought 'I'm on top of the world, and this is the view millions of others before me aim towards...'

But deep in her heart of hearts she realised with perfect clarity: no. The magic for her would only last as long as others saw her that way.


Buried in one's memories, there are no treasures of the past. Just small, ephemeral and subjective experiences. But just because it's small does not mean it's insignificant. And it's on this basis that some humans put their hopes on. So hold on to it. It's yours and nobody can take it away from you.
When the stringent dominations around you become overwhelming, don't let it go; your hopes, the ones you carry everywhere with you, and the magic that comes along with it.

PRESENTZ!

A lot of presents/gifts are given during Christmas. Hell, I should know: I work in retail. A gift can be defined as "a thing given" (Australian Oxford Dictionary). But to know what something is, you have to know what it is not. Ahh, dualism; where would humans be without you?

A bit depressing, I know, but hey, know this: Countless others before you have died, facing their mortality, as you and I are currently doing, but it didn't stop them from doing great things.


Once upon a time, there lived an old farmer with two daughters. His wife was a comely lass who was taught to cook well, listen carefully to what men ask of her and never to do anything too stupid. The farmer worked hard at the fields and felt very lucky to have such a wife. His daughters, however, were something else altogether.
The older girl was named Sky. She had an assertive personality and took what she desired.
The younger girl, by four years, was named Gaia. She liked staying grounded and lived the realities of being a poor farm girl.

Sky yearned for more. In her dreams she would be a princess adorned with big bright gems. The banquet hall would all but hush as she moved her presence from one end to the other. As quick as the dream came there would come the nightmare. Her parents would die of a disease there was no cure for, and her little sister would be separated; forced into marraige as any farmer would want for his beloved children, for the younger they are the sweeter they will taste, as they say.

It was Gaia's duty to gather water from the well and Sky's to churn butter and milk the cows. It was monotonous, labour-intensive, but it was all they had to live by. The farmer had to work hard for somebody else just to make ends meet. His own field was small, but he found a way to manage.
A large dowry was agreed upon by a nobleman when he had once passed his small shack, when his daughters were not of age. He got out of his carraige and demanded to speak with him, the owner of the small patch of land five leagues from his own chateau, and several estates under his name.
"So you work for Lieberman? I can't imagine he pays you much."
"He pays me enough, sir. We live by what we need."
"Need," the nobleman scoffed "if we all lived by what we needed then I wouldn't have that carraige, or those pure-bred horse to pull it. What needs are compared to wants are base urges of the savage. Let him have his needs, I say." Then he sighed, as if to get a weight off his shoulders.
"Farmer, I come here today to offer you a deal."
"Sir? Why me?"
"Because you are not related by blood or ancestry to my own. Such strange things we are discovering, it's all the rage that's replacing alchemy, really. Not that you'd understand." He paced back and forth, looked the farmer up and down and measured him for all his worth. What the nobleman was after was integrity. He could barely find it in this simpleton, he thought, but maybe - just maybe...
"Farmer, I can sense you do not like my scrutiny; be truthful, now."
"N-No, sir."
"Your daughters aren't liking it either, but they just can't help themselves being curious. Bring them out to me, they're hiding over there."

The farmer hesitantly brought his daughters to the nobleman. He offered a dowry, it was accepted and the daughters became dutchess of rich estates.

The doctor hurriedly rushed into the room, which was dimly lit by small candles. What he was looking for was not clear, nor to him or anybody else at that time. Some correspondence with other doctors from an hundred wheels away brought him terrible and ineffable news. With symptoms, a diagnosis may arrive, then a treatment and then a cure.
There were no symptoms, save perhaps a little dehydration. There were no other factors that could degrade a person's healthy body that fast. It couldn't be melancholy. It was not due to chemicals. Noblemen and their mistresses only dine on the decadence that's deprived of commoners. Deliverance would not come, as ailments persisted. Rapid heart beat, shallow breathing and...eyes that told the doctor all he needed to know.

The sick patients all had one last visitor in common. He strolled in and took them gently by the hands. To some of them it was obvious. Some had fought in duels before,deadly in their fashion, and knew - they just knew.
"It's time."
It wasn't just a feeling. The smell was what gave it away and when they realised, well, their eyes could just tell you.

"Gaia, how are you?"
"What do you think? You, fool!" She didn't know who she was talking to and she grew more indignant the longer her bedfellow stayed. "It's getting harder to breathe and I'm as weak as a wilting plant."
"You have it easier than others. Some are tortured. Some are struck down in their prime. Others fade away into a forgotten memory."
"What is your point?" Gaia curtly responded.
"My point is that your life is determined by me."
"And who are you?"
"Really? I say, Sky was more of an optimist when I visited her-"
"Wait! You know my sister?"
"I knew her, if that's what you mean."
Gaia did not like being toyed with and demanded of her visitor an immediate explanation.

It was the same sigh that was given to all the stubborn people, believe me, some people just accept.
"I will offer you a gift. It is yours to take. People have died for it. They have sacrificed for it. And will forever inventing ways to forestall it. But one thing people will never do is give it away like a small treat. It is fragile and easy to break. In the end, it is mine to take."
"Do not riddle me!" It cost her effort to say the words with authority. "What gift do you speak of?"
"The gift of death."

Because Happiness Isn't Always Defined by Endorphins

What if you're a sadist or engage in BDSM? Will you ever actually admit it? Polite table manners say no. The few things not subjective in this world are definite emotions; hate; desire; confusion, etc. So what's my point, really? I've just finished reading Lolita. I liked it. It's similar to The Great Gatsby: it's trying to capture moments in time, of the past (lucky for me, I have several cameras, although I can't live those moments again). Ironically, these enduring characters that try to take the past into the present are going to last for many more lifetimes to come. Why? When they inevitably fail their quests we are struck with a heartbreaking longing.
Is it because we relate? That's partly so.
Maybe it's because these characters are striving for something that the human condition implies but never directly expresses: happiness.

Anybody can say that Humbert Humbert is a sick freak, for loving nymphets. But his happiness is no better than mine if my ultimate goal was to start my own business and become successful. Sure, I might have to stab a few backs to gain corporate deals and whatnot, but hey: it's nothing personal, it's business. Is my happiness more 'honourable' that his? No, I don't see it that way. Honour is just a label. I cause less hurt in my ultimate goal, therefore it is more probable that Humbert Humbert should burn in hell because his happiness violates nymphets. What was my point again?
...
Ah, yes. Happiness. Subjective. Elusive as fuck. Nothing more, nothing less. Very short-lived, but very much much worth it...whatever "it" is.

It's My Decision

We are 'thrown' into the world. It is not of our own choosing, Heidegger says; and I agree. It's the only thing that's ever been 'forced' unto us. Think about it: we have a choice in every single one of our actions. McDonald's or KFC? Coke or Pepsi? The underlying implication here is that choice has always been ours, in the ways we think, act and speak. You chose clothes to wear today, although it might have been for school or business attire that creates a facade of professionalism, and you chose what things you need to face another day.
So, now we move onto freedom of choice. It is like a double-edged sword; hey! look at me! I can do whatever the fuck I want! Haha; but I also know I shouldn't do this or that because someone will get hurt and because society says so. But just because society deems it so, does not make it universal. With all this freedom at our disposal, it's more like a burden, isn't it? Sartre viewed it this was because he was living under German-occupied France; choose one side, the other side or suicide; you have no right to say that the Germans or French nationalists made you do it - it was never their choice: freedom is a heavy weight.





...

It's funny though, an idea like freedom isn't a burden until you start to realise it is not measured in pounds or kilos.

Never Cave In

Meanings cannot be directly interacted with, so argues Derrida. Signifiers always defer meaning or ideas, in the purest sense.
So what's the point of it all? Well, here I am trying to explain, as a middle-ground, the concept of 'différance'. But it is this middle-ground Derrida places différance. Can't we just make meanings as we go along in life or do we have to stick to the rigid constructs of society? Touché, Joker.
"They're only as good as the world allows them to be." The Dark Knight (2008)

In this blog I will try and represent different perspectives of concepts, because meanings have never been set in stone. In the end, these are just going to be my interpretations.




The idea of being an existentialist:
The scenario is a psychiatrist waiting for their patient. The psychiatrist is reading one of the books on the shelf, that was just meant to be for decoration. But whatta-you-know, it's actually useful in this case.
There's a knock at the door, the book is put down on the desk. The patient is here.

...

Patient: Look, I just think I don't fit in as well. That's why I have these problems. I'm small, insignificant. If I were to die tomorrow nobody would give a damn.
Psychiatrist: That's just being overly pessimistic. Focus on the good things you have. You have your health, you're not living in poverty and as much as you don't like your job, it's paying a lot more than the average wage earner.
Patient: Yeah, so what? What does it matter? I'm not important.
Psychiatrist: So you say. But being small doesn't equate to being insignificant. Life, as we know it, is fragile and ephemeral. But it doesn't make it any less meaningful, unimportant or insignificant.
Patient: ...I guess.
Psychiatrist: OK, let's try some mind-over-matter. As an exercise, I want you to repeat to yourself three times a day, for at least a minute "I am small, but significant and I will never cave in."

...

The patient gently closes the door and the psychiatrist breathes deeply a few times.
The book is picked up and placed back into its niche. Only two more patients to go, thinks the psychiatrist. It's been so long, the habit has been accustomed to the psychiatrist's breath, and it's repeated for over a minute, closer to two.
"I am small, but significant and I will never cave in."

Good Morning

It is 7:05AM in Sydney, Australia, and I am writing a blog post. This post is fine, it's the widgets I need to add that's the trouble i.e. RSS feeds, links, AdSense, Twitter, etc.


"If everything could ever feel this real forever.
If anything could ever be this good again..." Everlong - Foo Fighters