finger work

through unravelling a tangled web of yarn, and dozing into a drift of passing thoughts i recall the happiness of manual hand held labour. the movement of the fingers, the delicacy of touch, the pleasure of endurance.

what happens to those forgotten in history of great mediocrity. those fallen victim to modest humility and earnest banality. short of the written word, the oiled painting, the coaled etching. no blockbuster no ballbuster. what about that. the unknown the dearth of the nigh.

men at work. build me a house baby, build my life around yours. a bottomless pool, trees of golden apples, double doors, opaque windows, a wrap around balcony more to see you with. invite me into your workshop. i can carry the wood, you can chop it from my hands. watch out for my fingers. i will knit you scarves of wire. scratching deep at your neck the blood is only a metaphor for how i feel about you. you get it i think. it's ok, we don't have to get each other. let's just work hand in hand together until the moon rises. that is my dream in your toiled hands.

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

the abusurdity of profession

Maintaining the ability to profess is not deemed professional in a profession where profits are not professed. This obsession with the profession is just about as absurd as the word. I've lost faith in the corporation, I've lost faith in the organization. I've lost faith in the institution and I've lost faith in the edifice that houses them all. We care for thee, we are a charity. We want your money, we are a charity. We want to help, we are a charity. We give back to the world, we are a charity. I cannot see where the charity stands in different place than the corporation. The same one-liner, the same buzz words, the same money driven, status hungry professionals professing their proliferate love for the public sector profits. It's not business casual here, it's fancy dress Friday everyday, because we bend over backwards for those we love and back over forwards for those who don't fall in love with us. Love me, be excited with me, I love you is enough reason for you to sell yourself.


Image Credit: scrapatorium.

jennifer on my mind

At three, the mind will do strange things. At four it shall rest. Then again at five, the demons shall arise and who else but Jennifer Aniston on my mind. I can't help but question the string of failed romantic quests. From McGlone, to Mohr, to Rudd, to Gibbens, to Wahlberg, to Gyllenhaal, to Carey, to Stiller, to Owen, to Ruffalo, to Vaughn, to Wilson, on to Affleck, then Zahn, Eckhart, Butler, Bateman and finally off to Sandler. One might suppose that after ten failed romatic adventures the future is no less better and pretty grim for our chummy friend. But hope is not lost upon her, and nor shall it ever be, as her life is dictated by that the hope of romance. The belief that indeed practice does make perfect, or is it maybe that practice, and practice, and practice and practice, will engender a new form of perfection: that of the unreachable and truly intangible perfection of illusionary love. Our hopes and dreams forcefully inserted into him, and our expectations never realised and our desire for perfection in him is only a reflection of our striving of perfection in ourselves. Indeed what we thought was wrong with him over and over again is what is fundamentally wrong with us. For your love is only an image of you and it can be quite ugly sometimes.


Image Credit: scrapatorium.

vagina in pop

It's come to my attention that the vagina has become the new symbol for sexy women in pop. For some this may come as a shock as it was just last season that the ass was on display in the pop windows. It seems as though we've covered all the bases and have gradually moved to the most redeeming quality of young women today: their vaginas. This unyielding display and gyration of the vagina is not deemed a set back for these pop idols. Instead the vagina becomes the new bra to be burnt as a claim to being a female. Liberated from the phallus that asked us ever so indecently to spread open our legs and allow them into a secret world, lined with crimson velvet and enveloping ones senses. When yes means no, and sex means nothing. The pop world thrives on titillation: empowerment through exploitation. Money, money, money, always sunny! In the rich man's world!

Image Credit: scrapatorium.

blagging the night away

So at the end of a hard day of survival, hunting for personal space and gathering meagre thoughts, the blog emerges. From one far corner of the world to another. This one more secluded and less lavish edge of the universe. Whatever, nook, whatever cranny, alcove or orifice, one wants to stand up and make a public statement to the universe ''Yes! I am (hue)man. I am a real. Here is my url''. And why not? Why not share the world of me to the world of yous? Surely the sheer amount of bloggers blogging competing for the best bloggies in the blogosphere is enough to conclude that blogs are the way forward... so on with the blogshit!

Image Credit: scrapatorium.