actuality.log

(As you’re painfully aware, I’ve been unable to do this for a long time. I am not going to delve into the details, but let’s just say that I’ve been busy, and I was trying to match up to some arbitrary standard that I just can’t reach in this frame of mind. I apologise to any readers who are expecting thought-provoking, skillfully-worded content—this is not that at all.)

I am most definitely not what you would call religious, though I’d like to believe that I am being watched over by a higher power. Not one to take part in ritualistic-formalities (and trust me, there is a ton of that amongst my people), I just mutter my little thank-yous on occasion, and go about my day. I don’t really pray, or frequent temples, or… you know, do the whole organised-religion thing very well. But lately (alright, yesterday), I had the urge to just lie prostrate on the floor for the longest time… begging… for everything in my sorry life to fix itself.

Yes, I know what you’re mumbling: “Great way to fix things, jackass.”

Shut up.

I don’t want to have the kinds of conversations I am having recently. I don’t want to have the sorts of thoughts and urges that’ve cropped up. I don’t want to deal with mounds of tension and stress without a hint of relief. I don’t want the nightmares, and I most definitely don’t want the convulsions.

I am generically quite good to the world, what the fuck is its problem with me?

(There is nothing yours truly enjoys more than taking a random personal observation, warping it way out of proportion and generalising it to all (wo)mankind.)

It’s no secret that women perpetually yearn for men to “communicate more.” Actually, let me rephrase that. (It’s almost no problem if they just yearned for it wistfully, and sighed softly to themselves in disappointment. But no) Women don’t just yearn for men to communicate more, they often demand it. You know, the incessant phone calls (about why there aren’t enough phone calls!), the constant need to express how lacking their man is when it comes to expression, the need to discuss over and over topics that have already been beaten to death… that sort of thing.

Perhaps they don’t realise that men are entirely capable of expression, just without so much emphasis on the god damned talking. Men are clearly more physical, and vastly prefer touchy-feely means of showing (and being shown) how we (you) feel. That is all ladies, it is not like he doesn’t want to express something to you, he just tires easily when having to go on and on translating to a tongue you’ll understand. In case you haven’t realised, for every time you’ve thought “Oh my god, it’s 3 A.M and I have a meeting tomorrow. Why am I still wasting so much time having <insert pleasurable activity here>?” he’s gone, “Oh my god, why am I still talking to her? We’ve gone so many hours yapping without <insert pleasurable activity here>.”

So there you have it; the simple truth. If you’re so concerned about not conversing, start communicating in a tongue he can understand. Remember that he’s the sorts who probably shaves one leg when alone, to feel like he’s rubbing against a woman’s when he sleeps.

(Because I have so much time to work on my core strengths…) I’ve decided to work on a new web site to showcase the work of some talented Indian photographers. These designs are preliminary, but what do you think? Which do you like better? Why?

I intend for things to eventually feel like this site.

I know I’ve been lax about updating the journal, but I have to let you know that my last week was the worst I’ve had in years. Naïvely, I’d assumed that since I was older (and more responsible?), I wouldn’t ever have to spend a night working in the lab again.

I came home perhaps three nights last week. Perhaps.

As tired and spent as I am, I write this entry with a surprising feeling of accomplishment. During the course of the year, I’ve managed to learn (begin learning) something I’ve always wanted to, and was brave enough to give a talk on it too!

Perhaps normal-sounding entries will resume shortly. Perhaps.

It’s halloween season, and apparently, dressing up[1] as a whore seems to be a wildly popular choice.

Not like I’m complaining.

[1] Down?

Let’s pause for a second, so we can all catch our breaths and recall what I was saying earlier, shall we?

Usually, in circumstances such as the one I was describing, I would have gotten wildly angry with everything (including her) the instant I casually glanced at the group; and left the premises soon thereafter to avoid further perturbation. But today was different, and therein lies the epiphany: Remain calm and look around, everything is not how it first seems; there is so much beauty that will go unnoticed otherwise.

And now that we’re all on the same page again, let’s resume our story.

For what seemed like an eternity thereafter, she was looking straight past the guy she was sitting with (as he was busy ignoring her) and staring intently into my eyes as her luscious lips broke out into the most exquisite of smiles. I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing, but I distinctly recall that my meal was soon forgotten as I lost myself in her gaze. I was slowly jolted back to my senses as I watched her cover up her top under a beige jacket she’d just returned with from the coat-rack; I realised that they were ready to leave.

And then, the most unbelievable thing happened.

The others left for a bit to grab their warmer clothes, and I, drawn to her gaze not much unlike a moth to a flame slowly got up and teetered toward her, smiling softly as I stammered, “Uhh… hello, I’m Jack, I couldn’t help but …”

I’m going out to dinner tomorrow; and I’m not going alone.

I was trying to snag myself a copy of Fedora Core 6 earlier today and I ran into this:

Oh, the irony of it all!

I understand that the Fedora Core people trust CentOS over their own OS, but to trust it over Red Hat? Couldn’t they afford the licensing?

I had an epiphany of sorts earlier today.

Because of the kind of lifestyle I lead (Read: “Being a loner…”), I often end up doing a lot of things on my own. These include anything from going out unaccompanied to dinner or the movies, to more extravagant things like solitary trips across the globe. While I often make it seem like this is the sort of life I actively chose for myself, anyone paying more than perfunctory attention will recognise that I am not always thrilled by the state of affairs; and that I am struggling without a handle on how to rectify the situation.

The problem for me, personally, rears its ugly head in a most unsavoury sort of way: unbridled infuriation. Let me try to explain what I mean by that. You see, while I’m out “enjoying” a quiet, delectable meal in a fancy place, I can’t help but look around and see all the happy-happy groups having a rip-roaring evening, or the couples sharing their intimate moments. While anyone who is comfortable with where they are in their lives would smile along delightedly at the merriment of it all, you have others—the cold, bitter others who feel denied the very basics of existence—who just get angrier and angrier on the inside. Their blood begins to boil at the slightest of things—the way she tosses her hair as she turns toward him—and before long, they’re not just bitter or angry anymore, they’re inconsolably wretched.

It doesn’t take a super-genius to figure out which camp yours truly belongs to. For as far back as I can remember (3 months ago?), my only response to such a situation has been, as I said earlier, unbridled infuriation. I begin to hate everything. I hate the situation, I hate my life, I hate the people who are having fun… everything. This gets so bad that I soon forget all that I do have, and how pleasant the current experience really is.

But wait, weren’t we talking about an epiphany of some sort?

I am thrilled to report that I noticed a subtle—but rather significant, at least to me—shift in my behaviour earlier today. Given that I had a ton of (mindless) work to do, which was probably going to keep me up through the night, I decided to tank up on the essentials: sugar, cheese and caffeine. As I was chowing down greedily on something sinfully-good, a small group—two couples, to be exact—chanced to occupy the table across from me. I won’t be describing the others for they don’t matter, nor did I even see them, but one amongst this group was a ravishingly intense woman wearing a tie-dye kurta top (Here’s a link for those who know not what I speak of.) which beautifully accentuated her delicate curves and an earthy, chunky necklace that underlined her slender neck. Yes, she was technically part of this group, but it was almost as if she really wasn’t there at all. The others were ignoring her for what seemed like the entire time, and her captivating eyes were roaming bored around the room as she was nibbling on her meal.

Bored, until her gaze met mine.

I really wasn’t kidding (571 kB Ogg Vorbis File; Particularly interesting around 35 s) when I said that my new nearest neighbour is very loud… in bed.

In case you were doubting me, or something.

It’s funny how “specialists” get paid a ton of money to disseminate a lot of information amongst the general public; most of it being patently false, if not just incorrect. Case in point, I was reading an article yesterday that was entitled “The top 10 reasons men don’t commit.” Yes, it was in one of those women’s magazines—you know, the kinds that surveys its readers on how kinky they are in bed?—and why I was reading one is a story for another day.

Anyway, during the course of the article, the author went on and on about different, very specific things; such as how he wants to “have time for his buddies,” or what impetus could he possibly have to “buy the cow if he could get her milk for free?” And, while I am not going to argue that either of these are blatantly false, I’m fairly certain that she—and I stress that it’s a she who wrote this—missed the central issue here entirely.

And here it is:

Men don’t commit because they’re holding out for something better.

That is all. Listen to me, re-read that sentence over and over until you get it. It’s not about a man needing “more time to do his own thing,” or him being “unaware of your biological clock;” it’s about him constantly living under the hope (fantasy, more likely) that there is someone else right around the the corner who’ll rock his world in many more ways than you do.

He doesn’t see himself as being non-committal, he sees himself as waiting to commit… to her.

And you know why? It’s because men are stupid. They fail to recognise one of the basic tenets of reality: If you’ve found someone who lovingly dotes upon you, excitedly listens to you and participates in things that you care about (and you enjoy reciprocating), teaches and learns from you in delightful ways, … you’ve got to learn to let the little things slide. Put that romance novel down and realise that there is no perfect-perfect person who’ll be “all that you dream her up to be,” without any flaws whatsoever hiding in the closet.

She doesn’t exist.

The men who get this, happily commit and cherish the woman they have in their arms. The ones who don’t, well, they just end up bitter and all alone.

Your woman’s penchant for country music doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?

(I can still imagine many a man reading this and going, “Pffft, I fail to see the upside to this settling thing you speak of.”)

I’m writing this to let the world know I am alive. I know you all care very much.

Yes I’m occupied, but not so occupied that it’s preventing me from writing here; so here’s the deal.

I don’t know whether women are trained by watching too much porn or whatever, but my new nearest neighbour is very loud. And by very loud, I mean she’s very loud in bed. Perhaps her man is really this hung stallion or whatever, but I’m willing to wager that she’s just a lot more expressive than she needs to be. Either way, the only free time that I have to pen my thoughts is when I’m home for a few hours after a hard day’s work.

And I really can’t there either, for I am distracted. In a good way.

As lonely or desperate as they may sound, wet dreams are remarkably enthralling and gratifying experiences. Or so I am told.

On a related note, it is evident that having to consciously set aside time on your scheduling system for physical intimacy is an indication that things have gone horribly wrong.

On a related note, I was pleasantly surprised recently when a random act of kindness toward an elderly gentleman resulted in this:

We built a small cottage next to our home here in Flagler Beach not quite a year ago. It was built for our relatives and friends. Should you find your way into this neck of the woods, we’d be happy to house you—and a friend—quite comfortably in the cottage. The cottage is in almost new condition and quite comfortable. We’d need a few days notice should you some day want to visit down here in Florida.

Would you be my “friend?”

This sort of argument crops up all the time:

A student in a western system of education decides what they want to really study, whereas we in India are asked to cram any and everything to give us (so called) “more rounded” knowledge. Ultimately, the syllabi are so vast that we just get superficial knowledge of everything, and hardly learn much.

While this is perhaps essentially true, I just have a tiny bit to add as one who now has a little experience as an educator.

An educational system which allows everyone to choose exactly what they want—even from the earliest stages—results not only in a vast assortment in the sorts of things people know, but also the depth to which they are knowledgeable. Just because you give choice doesn’t mean people are always motivated enough to go very deep. Unlike a more structured, rigid system, a more flexible one doesn’t attempt to force or correct this, for it doesn’t see a problem. The onus is now on the individual to accomplish.

Oh, and something dawned upon me recently. While it may appear as though having to know a lot of things from different areas—even including a lot of memorisation[1]—is a bad thing; it is not. Often times, to solve complex problems, you need to draw on information from varying sources, and you need to know a lot before you can assimilate them into something cogent. A system which doesn’t force this on people will not produce as many kids who are “more rounded;” not offering them the skills they need to achieve this.

What I am probably saying here is that the educational system plays a big role no doubt, but individual motivation and inclination play just as big a part. (Which means things can go both ways either way.)

[1] Note: Memorisation; not rote memorisation. Rote memorisation is bad either way you look at it.

As a young child of maybe two or three, I distinctly recall having many burning questions. One of these—pertinent to our discussion today—went, “But how does the mommy’s body know to wait before she is married to get pregnant?” Of course, people skirted around the issue and I didn’t receive a real answer until a few years later, but the point I’m trying to make here is that even at a tiny age, I was beginning to discern between something that was biological and primal—getting pregnant—and something that was essentially human-concocted—marriage.

After spending years carefully pondering over so many things like this, I’m usually forced to acknowledge that actuality is really nothing more than a refined variant of some inkling I possessed years before. This case was no different, and I retain to this day a clear-cut notion of what is basic and what is tacked-on by society.

But I digress.

What I initially planned to do this evening was to ruffle a few feathers by going against the flow and speaking out in favour of arranged marriages. Now, this sort of union is very common in my part of the world, and since most people believe they will resent the choices made for them by their elders, they tend to feel constricted by the thought or even repulsed by the idea. Either way, they begin to hate the process a priori.

I will not do that. But for what I will do however, you will have to wait a tad.

My brother hasn’t been home in a few days.
He’s been living at a friend’s place.
“I’m helping him cope with his loss,” he says,
“of a little sister who was with him always.”

She was barely sixteen. She took her own life.

No matter how much I crib, I have to admit I’m pretty darn lucky. There is something to be said for being born a male in a male-dominated world. There is something to be said for being born in a generation where technology doesn’t scare me—but it doesn’t engulf and dumb me either. There is something to be said for being born in a culture where I’m allowed to find my own mate, but can also crawl back home with my tail between my legs and have one summoned for me.

There is a lot to be said for not having the media get to me.