actuality.log

What is the deal with Japanese women and their need to dress like they’re 20 years younger? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m complaining about grown up women in schoolgirl costumes; it’s just, what is the deal?

Or perhaps, the question ought to be: What is the deal with other women? Why don’t they dress up in those cute, short schoolgirl uniforms more often?

I’m not sure why Jack didn’t realise this earlier—narcissism perhaps?—but it just dawned on him that he might not be the easiest person in the world to live with. You see, Jack’s dad has been around for the past few days and Jack hasn’t been particularly accommodating; to say the least.

It turns out that Jack’s a neatness freak, or a control freak in general, and he wants what he wants done, the way he wants done, when he wants it done; that’s all. There ought to be no shenanigans, no clumsiness-induced spills, no random scattering of tissues, … . Under “his household,” every situation is monitored hawk-eyed, and he has a strong opinion on how “things ought to be done.” This goes right down to, for instance, how often and how thoroughly one must wash their hands, and Jack’s very vocal about it.

While this attitude may have some hope of success when dealing with few-year-olds, attempting to treat a fifty-year-old man like he’s two is an absolutely futile exercise. It’s just, Jack doesn’t realise this and goes about behaving the exact same way anyway; causing some unrest in people around. The points of contention between Jack and his dad stem from other things too, like how money ought to be donated or saved, or whether kids need to be adopted or not, or whether food must be made at home or eaten out, … but we’ll get into those another time.

For now, it’s apparent that Jack’s been living alone for so long, most of his recollections of events past are clouded by what he wants them to be. All along, he’s been assuming that the cause of past confusion have been insensitive roommates.

Perhaps the problem lay elsewhere.

meta-do (med·ə dū, n): Information about doing something.

This word is defined in a manner similar to meta-data, or information about data. Just as “Album Name,” for instance, is meta-data about an MP3 song file, “Sure honey, I’ll take out the trash” is a meta-do; it is a statement describing an act.

As in, “Who is taking out the trash? I am.”

One thing yours truly had mastered at a very early age was the art of the meta-do. After carefully homing the craft through years of avoiding work around the house (“Go clean up your room this instant young man!”), he began to slowly apply this skill to all other walks of life.

The beauty and simplicity of this concept lies in the fact that, often times, people don’t really need anything done, but would like to feel like you’re willing and able. Realising this, I often go ahead and do just that—I never miss a chance to tell people what I am going to do “for them.” And that’s it, voilà, they employ me, adore me immensely, … until I really have to do something.

But before then, it’s too late. The con-man has already weaselled his way in… to their pants.

This is another query to the women in the audience. Are you capable of discerning between the following two statements?

“I find her attractive.”

and

“I am attracted to her.”

My body is so sore as I sit down to type this, it’s not even funny.

You might have been wondering why the man behind all of this has been so silent of late. Maybe something major came up, maybe something went wrong. Well, not to fear; it’s nothing major, I’ve just been too sore to type.

You see, I wasn’t kidding when I said that I “wanted to get a personal-trainer-person in my life tomorrow; as in tomorrow.”

We’re just going to call her… Piquant. Yes, that works well; she’s strong and stinging, but in a stimulating sort of way.

I’ve spent another couple of hours with her and she’s busy pushing me trying to figure out where I stand. Briefly, my upper body flexibility is phenomenal (the best the system has ever seen!), my upper body strength is abysmal (the worst the system has ever seen?), my cardiovascular capacity and lower body strength are very good (guess who was repeatedly lifting 340 lb, with his puny legs!), my body fat-to-muscle-mass-ratio is boderline alarming (think Homer Simpson and failing “the jiggle test”).

I just walked up to her with this big bag of money and said, “I’m broken, fix me.” (Yeah, just like that.) And Piquant’s been using information she’s gathered about me to figure out how to nudge me toward my goals. Where, by “nudge,” I mean “yell crudely (only as crudely as she can given her cute voice, of course) in an attempt to shame me.” And by “goals,” I mean the capacity to carry a reasonably-sized girlfriend—to bed.

I am not an inherently violent or emotional person at all. Of late however, I’ve become edgy and I’m finding it hard not to punch a hole in a wall. I’m hurting and I hate it. There is a terribly queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it seems like my mind has concluded that random acts of aggression will solve the problem.

It’s heartbreaking when the woman you love lives under another man’s roof.

If you were to pick between being delightfully gorgeous, lewdly gawked at, mostly worshipped like a goddess but perhaps touched without your permission, and being appallingly grotesque, incessantly ignored, mostly treated unnoticed, like dirt, and obviously untouched, which would you pick?

And why?

(or, on the road to it, anyway.)

I haven’t done this in a while, so my skills are a bit rusty. And by “a bit,” I really mean “a lot.” I’ve been ridiculously preoccupied these past couple of months, and haven’t been able to get myself to sit down and string a couple of (decent) sentences together. It’s strange, this used to be so easy to do, and after this hiatus, my head is beginning to pound as I begin to write. It seems like so much work, and almost seems pointless.

Almost.

For someone who hasn’t ever had anyone close-close to talk to, a space like this to scream—even if it just masks the loneliness momentarily–provides much-needed relief. Hard as it may seem to write this evening, I’m pushing myself to do so. To sort of, you know, reacquaint myself with this space; because sometimes, I get the impression it’s all I have.

My space.

No external stimuli; be it fun, pleasure, fear, heartache… . Nothing.

Just me, my thoughts.

Stay tuned.

Like I’ve been trying to say, there is much going on but I have been unable to write for quite some time. I assure you I will get back to it when I get back to it. Until then however, here are a few pictures from last month’s art fair.

I know I’ve been silent lately, but there has been much going on. Trust me when I tell you that I will let you in on everything, soon.

Just trust me.

For now, guess whose picture was one amongst the twelve best (out of some few thousand) selected toward BBC’s photographer of the year contest?

Crayola informed me of this contest, and pushed me—literally—every step of the way. And it paid off!

It is nice to have someone who believes in you.

Google’s business model relies on going through your stuff and figuring out ads that are pertinent to you.

I pity them.

You know you have to buy a new belt (or tighter pants) when they’re down at your knees in public as you jog toward a bus.

You know you’ve grown up when this doesn’t embarrass you in the least, and all you do is pause, pull it back up and continue to run like nothing happened.