Dots and dashes

There's something about punctuation. I read a lot and most--almost all--these books have perfect punctuations. They are all punctuated, italicised, aligned and presented in the proper manner. I guess my eyes are used to properly proofread text. And that it why, I state in my defence, I'm so finicky about punctutation.

A page of print with incorrect punctuation, spellings or any kind of error seems to drive me crazy. My hands itch to grab it, edit it and throw it back from whence it sprang! And this is kind of inconvenient, especially when people ask me my opinion on anything they've written. This doesn't happen a lot but we generally swap stories in my creative writing class and you can imagine how disconcerting it must be for a budding--er--creative writer to be criticised on how many dots ideally go into an elipse--three--and how multiple exclamation marks are a huge no-no for writing. So, I am forced to keep my diplomatic silence and struggle to look beyong the mundane--the world of proper punctuation--and into the deeper plane, that of the actual matter written.

I guess I'm one of those rare indivuiduals who are not irritated overmuch with the Grammar and Spelling checker on Microsoft Word. Of course, I agree with most people regarding how irritating the message "Fragment. Consider revising." can be. I mean, sometimes you want it to be a bleeding fragment. But oh... I love auto-corrects which turn double hyphens into emdashes and single hypens into endashes. And replace-alls are so wonderful!

I'm sure I've just revealed what a lunatic I am from the above. I mean, who obsesses over puntuations? Who really gives a damn what the hell an emdash is? But again, I defend myself that everyone has a pet obsession and this is mine. Who doesn't? Let me see a show of hands? Wasn't there a guy who obsessed over his coins? Silas something? And what about... hmm... oh, yes! What about dogs who can't sleep or even lie down without circling the ground a couple of times? Never mind that the first was fictitious and the latter is an animal. It illustrates my point well enough. I'm not neurotic or kooky just because I believe that all your i's should be dotted and your t's crossed...literally!

If you're still not convinced, fine! I am a kook. But at least I'm a well-edited kook! Now how many people can claim that? Mwahahaha!

Time...

We humans have created a lot of traps for ourselves and we seem to revel in being caught in them. One of these traps is time. Man is the only animal which is obsessed with keeping track of and measuring time. All our lives are built around one kind of time table or the other. We have scedules that we feel we must meet or the world will come to an end.

Do we do this because we need to feel special or important? Man is at constant war with nature, no matter what ecologist and environmentalists try. It's not so much a struggle for space as it is for power. Man knows that nature is thousands of times more powerful than he is. He may be able to maim and conquer it today, but the inexorable hand of time will prove yet again that man is just a part of a whole that is still supremely controlled by nature.

Which comes back to time. By trying to control the little slice of time, man is able to delude himself that he has some control over the world at that point. But isn't this is just an illusion? No matter what, man's influence is only temporary, in the big picture. Sure, we've changed the face of the earth, but for how long? How soon is man going to kill himself off or end all life on earth? But no matter what man does, the earth itself will not change. Life will go on even after man is long gone and not even a memory of him remains. Nature will revive life even if the earth is just a toxic dump when man is through with it. At least cockroaches or some such resilient creature will remain.

But while man lives, I guss these illusions are necessary. After I'm done writing this, I'm going to look at my watch and make sure I have enough time to get ready to go out. I am going to be enslaved by the need to mark time as much as anyone else. That today is saturday and tomorrow is sunday is going to matter as much as ever.

"Except for perhaps a few dozen people on earth each person reads the same words differently. And the joke get bigger because each day the same person reads the same words differently.
And the joke gets even bigger as the mind’s needs and hormones changes the meanings of these same words in the same person from minute to minute and second to second.

And the Supreme Comedy can only rocket to another level when you ask me what these words mean when I have nothing to do with the way the meanings of words change from person to person let alone minute to minute.

And the Supreme Comedy rockets yet to another hilarious level when dictionaries then go on to tell us, with the utmost authority, that the same words can have different meanings, in different ways but not on different days."
-Source Unknown

Reader's block...

I'm sure anyone who's tried to write regularly has stumbled upon the painful and mysterious phenomenon of the writer's block. The thoughts would probably fill the mind to the bursting but the minute the pen touches the paper/the fingers touch the keys, the mind goes blank. The words just won't flow.

Well, I'm not gonna talk about that. I mean, who cares. As long as I'm not afflicted with it, who gives a flying damn? Self-centered, you say? True... too true...

But what I do suffer from is a rare affliction. In fact, I think I might have invented it. Many years from now, it shall become a famous incurable even somewhat fatal disease named after me... Jan Sydrome. Wow! The thought fills me with an odd kinda elation. Immortalised through a disease. How many people can claim that in this day and age?

Anyway, back to the actual details of this mysterious affliction. I'm, anyone who knows me will tell you, a serious bookworm. A maniacal bookworm too. While I'm sure that there are people who read much more than I did, do or ever will, I nevertheless read a lot. Lately, however, my reading has come to a complete halt. I pick up a book, read a few lines and wham! I cant concentrate. At first I thought it was just the books I was choosing.

But to my horror, I discovered that nothing - I repeat nothing - could snap me out of that rut. I tried everything--all my favourite authors. Douglas Adams, Jordan, Gabaldon, Rowling, Nora Roberts. I tried some obscure vampire book I had lying around. I tried a much unread copy of Great Expectations, but nope. No deal.

But there is hope for me. By the mercy of the all that is good, I happened to be gifted a copy of Wodehouse's Full Moon -- A Blandings Story for new year. And yes! This seems to be the right cure for J.S. (Jan Syndrome :D) I'm now into the whole crack-pot life of Blandins Castle with the usual bunch of youngsters in love running around, plotting parents, not to mention miscellaneous crackpot noblemen and their maniacal pigs. Ah! I was in heaven!

Hats off, Pelham!

Ah, the pain...

I have discoverd a great, yawning hole in my life. A hole that cannot be filled with anything. Except perhaps with pain. In fact, it is filled with pain. So maybe it's not such a yawning hole after all. Strike that first sentence. Which would mean, strike out the whole thing.

I have discovered a great pain in my heart. In my soul. It is created, I believe, by the discovery of my inability for greatness. Ah, yes. I can see the reader sigh in sympathy (perhaps I should refer to myself as "this writer" or "this blogger" [nah, always thought that sounded too pompus {though I wouldnt mind a little pompousness (but then only great people deserve pomposness... and I'm not. [Enough with the brackets!])}]) Phew.... where was I? Oh, right. The pain. I have discovered that I can never and will never achieve greatness in my life, cos let's face it, my life doesn't suck.

I mean, all the famous people have had some great tragedy in their life or the other. The great poets... Keats, Shelley, Shakespeare. I'm sure everyone who's ever made it to greatness had some sorrow in life or the other that inspired their greatness. And me, I'm usually a disgustingly cheerful person. I'm happy with life in general. Sure, I have a hot temper. Sure, I like to bitch about people as much as the next person. But please. I'm not languishing over some unrequited love. I'm not mourning my poverty. I'm not concerned about the loss of innocence in the world. I'm not even fricking angry with the Government. At least, not enough. Where do I draw inspiration from? From whence will those noble or elevated thoughts flow? What is to become of me? Of my family and the future generations who will lack an illustrious ancestor.

'Tis a sad, sad situation. I'm never gonna make it big. Fame is not for me. Booooo hooooo! I'm going to live out my whole life in ignominy and annonymity.

Ah, who cares?

Life's good.

So, ha! Take your fame world, and stuff it! I have enough pain about the absense of pain in my life to fill in a blog entry and enough people who don't know me to read it. So, there. After all, fame is but a fickle mistress.... fleeting and temporary. Ignominy would be a much more loyal servant, I'm sure!

My Crazy-Weird Shakespeare name is: Jaquenetta the Banana Lover.
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Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

Of Men and Knives

I was sitting at a restaurant the other day and looking around, I spotted this white couple sitting at the next table eating a donut. Now, you might think there’s nothing remarkable or weird about that, but it was seriously weird cos of the way they were eating. I mean, it was a perfectly nice, round, chocolate-covered donut. Rather yummy-looking, actually. And here were these people murdering the poor thing, using a fork and a knife to mangle it. Stabbing with their steely knives as the guy sang, but then they could kill the beast this time. Or rather, the poor harmless beast was already dead.

This led me to ponder on the weird customs that some cultures have… the whole fork-and-knife thing baffles me. I mean, god (if you believe that rumour) has given most people two hands and at least ten fingers. Why not use them for one of the most important (not to mention interesting) functions of life… eating! I mean, it’s a free world, you can wash your hands before eating, if you hold with that strange concept of cleanliness, but holding weirdly shaped sticks to poke and prod at your food—stuff you’re gonna put in your mouth, for pete’s sake!—is a concept that’s beyond me! Oh, and chopsticks are also included in the list.

Ok, maybe I’m being unfair. Not that I care about being fair and all that crap, but maybe you need knives and other such aids to help you eat some things that are awkward to bite into directly. Even I use spoons for ice creams and such. But some people go to the extent of eating stuff like pizza, the abovementioned donuts and even fries with a fork and knife. I mean, come on! These are supposed to be finger food. Look into the not-so-mysterious etymology of the frickin’ phrase… you’re supposed to eat them with your fingers! To use knives and forks for them is the height of fussiness, if you ask me! Even if you don’t ask me, for that matter.

Most times, I’m puzzled by these customs. At other times, I’m just amazed. I mean, watching people eat rice with chopsticks is like a world wonder. I imagine that it must be quite frustrating, though… not being able to shove a mouthful of food into your mouth at one go.

Which reminds me of this terrible, terrible incident that happened to me some years ago. I, the foolish one, once ordered a plate of spaghetti. Being the first time I was having it spaghetti, I was really looking forward to it. I mean, it sounded foreign and delicious enough to whet both my appetite and my curiosity. So, the plate arrives. I’d seen spaghetti before, of course, but… uh! It was dripping with tomato sauce and totally slippery. And the restaurant sent me into battle armed with nothing but a fork! I battled for close to an hour before finishing the darned dish. By the time I was done, the battlefield was a mess, let me tell you. Let’s just say it was not a pretty sight. I still bear the scars of that experience, though the spaghetti and I have come to terms with each other… I promised that I would try other types of pasta thereafter and it agreed to steer clear of me.

Anyway, that’s about it on my latest rant. Meanwhile, I’m getting hungry with all this food talk. I think I’ll go eat some safe finger food.

Oh, I almost forgot my disclaimer… though I don’t know why I need one. I mean, this is my blog! Everyone who knows me knows I’m abrasive and opinionated (I expect to see several comments fervently disagreeing with me on that point) so whoever wants to object can go take a long walk off a steep cliff. So there! No disclaimer for you today, doggie.

The Horror... The Horror

Well, hello to you, you jobless nitwit loser who's reading my blog! What are you doing here?

Not the most welcoming person, am I? But ha! Why should I be? I'm a crank! Did I pretend to be cheerful? Did I profess any virtues such as kindness and patience? Did I reveal any latent loveable tendencies? Did I not state, quite clearly and firmly, that I am a witchy witch who makes a profession of scaring little children and kicking puppies at the witching hour?! Ah! How the world misunderstands words… how it has unreasonable and quite ridiculous expectations of the best… er… worst of us!

While these and other such profound thoughts run through my noble… that is… ignoble mind, I’m planning quite a nice entry, actually. But the evil side of my takes over and I seem to have poured out my innermost thoughts and resentments. What is the world coming to?

Well, see, here’s the thing. Have you even had a limb cut off? Or, à la The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, perhaps you’re a headless horseman, blundering around on your horse, breaking your non-existent nose on low-hanging branches of trees? Hmmm… what was I saying? Oh yes! Have you…experienced any of the above or other such similar phenomena? Because I have, let me tell you. Three weeks… five hundred and four hours (yes, I used the calculator application on my computer and no, I’m no genius at maths.) For that mind-bogglingly long period of time, I had no access to the 'net. None. Nil. Zero. Nada. Pujiyam. Zero (in french this time). Well, what can I say? I survived.

But what I nearly didn’t survive was the shock of opening my email inbox. I mean, I had expected a fair and respectable accumulation of email. But no, never in a million years two hundred and seventy-bloody-two mails! Yes, I can see the look of mild interest or major boredom turn into that of surprise, astonishment and flabbergast-ment(??), even. But you don’t know the worst of it. (No, you don’t. You don’t because I haven’t revealed it yet. So don’t pretend!) Out of that mess emerged TWO personal mails addressed particularly to yours truly. I mean… the rest were my useless subscriptions to various cartoon strips, word-a-day, joke-a-day and book-discussion groups.

And this set me to thinking… I must’ve been really desperate for some reading material three weeks ago in order to do this to myself and subscribe to these newsletters and stuff! The only bit I like of that was the cartoon strips… my favourite little brat and cat… Calvin and Hobbes and Garfield. They gave me a few laughs.

Well, to cut an even longer story short, I just archived the whole bunch (and if you don’t know what archiving is… poor soul! Get a gmail account…) without reading. What else was I to do?

Hmm…so that’s the story of a really sad and pathetic series of unfortunate events in my life.

Now, begone! Leave! Shoo! Get lost! Git outta here!

LOL... Calvin... a guy after my own heart!

La la la...hmm hmm, tee dee...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

No, that’s not the rain. It is, in fact, a dripping shower. It just struck me that I have some sadistic tendencies. Where did that come from?, you say?. Well, lemme tell you…

I would be the first to admit the inadequacy of my vocal talents. That is to say, a diplomat would probably say my voice is…interesting. And everyone knows how diplomatic diplomats are. (Hey! So that’s why they’re called that, huh! They’re diplomatic…hence they’re called…diplomats [or is it the other way around?] Brilliant! Who came up with it?!) And then add that to my penchant for singing in the shower. Well. You get what I’m trying to get at, I see.

And no, it’s not just me. Lots of people sing in the shower, regardless of the torment their voices cause to their fellow creatures outside the hallowed walls of the bathroom. And I wonder… what inspires them to break into song in the bathroom?

Is it the echo? Bathrooms usually echo, you know. Try talking on the phone to someone who is in the loo. Ok, strike that thought out. Yeesh. Anyway… So maybe, by some freakish twist of fate, the singer’s yodeling echoes back and sounds like a sweet melody drifting down from heaven.

Or… is it some residual primitive-caveman-type instinct for singing in the rain? That could be it. They even made a movie about it, didn’t they? So, maybe in a rain-like setting, i.e., the shower, our less civilized and rather primitive, baser instincts take over… and we break into song! I mean, I can really imagine one of my half-chimp forebears coming out of his cave one morning and stumbling across a water-fall and taking his first ever shower. In his great joy, (for he has discovered the great wonder of showers even if not the comforts of indoor plumbing and hot water) he must have started doing some imitation of singing, which then promptly buried itself if his sub-conscious, only to emerge several millennia later with the re-discovery of the luxury of the shower, and yes, this time with indoor plumbing and hot-water! Wow! That sounds like quite a theory… and I’ve even made a load of dingo’s kidney sound like something scientific!

And then there’s the whole issue of the choice of song/tune. Some days, I find myself humming/screeching/yelling/yodeling my favourite tune. Which is quite natural, I assume. But then, there are other days when I suddenly stop mid-way through the shower and realize that I’m actually singing some embarrassing little radio or ad jingle. Which won’t get off my head and horrors of horrors! I’m humming the bleddy thing all through the day, and in college too! And it’s quite embarrassing, lemme tell you, even if you’re only humming it in your head and you know that there’s no one around to hear it but you.

Well, I give up. The reason for both singing and the songs we choose elude me! It is a puzzle that scientists will be baffled by both now and a millennium hence, I am sure.