I’m in the mood for clichés tonight; how would you mend a broken heart. Damn it sounds cheesy just typing it out. But being heart broken can be more than having a member of the opposite gender walking out of you for some droopy-eyed junkie who wears camouflage pants to buy his daily milk. It really is anything that brings about a wave of disappointment, sometimes even brining a person to the point of disillusion. Maybe the last couple of days could have been filled with sunshine and lollipops, but being the typical me, I was only aware of the air of pessimism which basically rendered me vulnerable to be heart broken.
I constantly need to have something before me to look forward to. This carrot of hope keeps me going, and makes sense to my world. However, this carrot also opens the flood gates to disappointment which has a habit of hitting me with in backlash. For the last weekend, it was the heartbreak of watching Rovers being creamed by Newcastle. 14 shots on goal versus their 3, and they scored three goals and we continued our goal drought this season. The pain of disappointment feels like having your heart slowly squeezed by a bench clamp while being showered with pins all at the same time. We are playing Manure this weekend, and we don’t seem to have a hope in the world, yet I have ten bucks on rovers to kick some ass. Bring on the heartache, I can see the calling.
Maybe I need something else in my life to look forward to. Sometime that promises more than heartbreaks. I don’t exactly know what that will be and I seriously doubt relationships will fit the bill. I’ll be packing my backpack and head for Sydney next Thursday. I have no idea what I’ll find there, and maybe the only way to defend against heartbreaks is not have the carrot dangling in the first place. I hope it’ll work.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Sandcastles in the air
Sometimes without any conscious effort, I would just slip into a daydream. Building sandcastles in the air is a really cool pastime; it kills time; allows you to escape, if just for a moment from reality; and it gives you the pleasure of a short-lived thrill otherwise found in bursting the air pockets of bubble wrap.
It takes creativity to fabricate a daydream that is involving enough for you to dwell upon; well, at least that is what I like to think as a weak excuse for my subliminal endeavors. On certain Thursdays for instance, a certain jingle will ring in my head. It is the jingle for PowerBall, with the lyrics, ‘life can be a dream, shaboo’. It is not surprising that I will typically be holding a PowerBall QuickPick ticket as the jingle plays between my ears. One would call spending twelve dollars a futile attempt to purchase hope, while I call it money well spent to buy myself a daydream. The difference being, I don't spend the money in hope to win ten million big ones, but I spend the money to buy myself a moment where I could indulge myself within the imaginary walls of an alternate reality.
Questions of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what would you do ifs’ race across my mind, and I have to confess that I take a lot of pleasure solving these seemingly fruitless riddles. If I had ten million dollars, I would invest one third of it in property, perhaps in New Zealand, or maybe one of those new apartments in Docklands. I’ll place two million with my parents perhaps for their retirement fund and the rest will be nicely distributed in stocks, shares and unit trusts yielding a decent return equivalent of a clerk’s monthly pay. I would perhaps strut into merrill lynch with a cigar and ask for the best personal financial consultant and expect service standards meant for royalty. See, daydreaming is a pleasurable pastime. The pressure to solve self-created problems presents its own challenge and can create a rather unique hedonic experience; much like how dogs chase their own tail.
It is amazing how spending too much time sitting in the office can do to one’s head. Maybe I should get out of here, walk across the street, to the newsagent, and buy a powerball ticket.
It takes creativity to fabricate a daydream that is involving enough for you to dwell upon; well, at least that is what I like to think as a weak excuse for my subliminal endeavors. On certain Thursdays for instance, a certain jingle will ring in my head. It is the jingle for PowerBall, with the lyrics, ‘life can be a dream, shaboo’. It is not surprising that I will typically be holding a PowerBall QuickPick ticket as the jingle plays between my ears. One would call spending twelve dollars a futile attempt to purchase hope, while I call it money well spent to buy myself a daydream. The difference being, I don't spend the money in hope to win ten million big ones, but I spend the money to buy myself a moment where I could indulge myself within the imaginary walls of an alternate reality.
Questions of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what would you do ifs’ race across my mind, and I have to confess that I take a lot of pleasure solving these seemingly fruitless riddles. If I had ten million dollars, I would invest one third of it in property, perhaps in New Zealand, or maybe one of those new apartments in Docklands. I’ll place two million with my parents perhaps for their retirement fund and the rest will be nicely distributed in stocks, shares and unit trusts yielding a decent return equivalent of a clerk’s monthly pay. I would perhaps strut into merrill lynch with a cigar and ask for the best personal financial consultant and expect service standards meant for royalty. See, daydreaming is a pleasurable pastime. The pressure to solve self-created problems presents its own challenge and can create a rather unique hedonic experience; much like how dogs chase their own tail.
It is amazing how spending too much time sitting in the office can do to one’s head. Maybe I should get out of here, walk across the street, to the newsagent, and buy a powerball ticket.
Friday, September 09, 2005
thoughts
Mental disengagement. This is one of the constructs I’m studying in my research. It seems almost like some noble talent for one to take a closer step towards Nevada, yet there is a connotation of giving up as defined by the literature. When I am in the mood to dissect every philosophical notion known to men, my head swells with too much thought and it makes me go crazy.
What constitutes the self-image? Which self of Johari’s window best depicts me? What self is the self perceived by my peers? Which self would they prefer? Which is the ideal? Which is the self that I should select to mask my agony?
Sometimes I just want to sit alone and find peace; stripped from the paradoxical attributes of ecstasy knowing that it is only a holy grill that one must suffer to find. In the sporadic moments of joy is when I find myself stripped from the concerns of these notions. It is a moment where one doesn’t second guess another and over analyse and accept gratitude in its purest form. Yet, I will find myself slipping into a paranoia state where conspiracy theories surface like slow shadowy vapour on hot bitumen. Why has trust from my peers escaped me? How do I earn it back? What does this trust really constitute? Why must I suffer in a portrait which was painted by my own palette?
The thoughts that envelope my mental state can sometimes be dangerous things.
What constitutes the self-image? Which self of Johari’s window best depicts me? What self is the self perceived by my peers? Which self would they prefer? Which is the ideal? Which is the self that I should select to mask my agony?
Sometimes I just want to sit alone and find peace; stripped from the paradoxical attributes of ecstasy knowing that it is only a holy grill that one must suffer to find. In the sporadic moments of joy is when I find myself stripped from the concerns of these notions. It is a moment where one doesn’t second guess another and over analyse and accept gratitude in its purest form. Yet, I will find myself slipping into a paranoia state where conspiracy theories surface like slow shadowy vapour on hot bitumen. Why has trust from my peers escaped me? How do I earn it back? What does this trust really constitute? Why must I suffer in a portrait which was painted by my own palette?
The thoughts that envelope my mental state can sometimes be dangerous things.
Friday, September 02, 2005
another day past
How can a day not start off well when you get a surprise phone call all the way from UK from someone you were least expecting. I met this lady from London on my last backpacking trip to Thailand and she dropped me a line when it was 3am over there. It was really sweet of her to give me a surprise, but I do accredit her sudden desire to call me on my mobile, from her mobile, to the fact that she was somewhat drunk. Nonetheless, it is always a pleasure to be greeted by a London accent.
Amazingly, I was productive today. I only slept for 20mins in the office compared to the usual 45. Think I have just proven to the Spaniards that you don’t need an hour to call it siesta. I sorted out the marking, arranged my proposal for funding and prepared my supervisory meeting for tomorrow. It is funny how the joy of satisfaction can be so short-lived given the fact that I have only a few more hours before the new day starts again with a brand new set of work awaiting to be cleared. It seems almost unfair that in order to get work done, one has to go through the entire agony of procrastination leading to drudgery before sensing the short-lived pleasure. It feels almost like sex from the male perspective.
Amazingly, I was productive today. I only slept for 20mins in the office compared to the usual 45. Think I have just proven to the Spaniards that you don’t need an hour to call it siesta. I sorted out the marking, arranged my proposal for funding and prepared my supervisory meeting for tomorrow. It is funny how the joy of satisfaction can be so short-lived given the fact that I have only a few more hours before the new day starts again with a brand new set of work awaiting to be cleared. It seems almost unfair that in order to get work done, one has to go through the entire agony of procrastination leading to drudgery before sensing the short-lived pleasure. It feels almost like sex from the male perspective.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
creme brulee
I made crème brulee this week. As I am sitting here at almost two in the morning, I am running out of things to talk about in this entry that I figure that probably the most exciting thing I may share to my imaginary audience is that I made crème brulee this week.
I asked my chief friend that I am not keen to learn how to make deserts to make the ladies wow, but I want something that will make them swoon. Crème brulee it was. I actually tried it with someone over dinner, and the effects was somewhat disappointing; I did get the praises which was sufficient to appease the male ego, but there weren’t fireworks and magic in the air you find in old black and white romantic movies. Maybe I was expecting too much, it was after all cream and eggs, not really aphrodisiac.
Having high expectations appear to the theme of my life. Finding contentment for me is like chasing a dangling carrot; it appears futile yet it drives me towards achieving an unachievable perfection. The tension in my neck is a good indication that I’m not being very smart about setting the goals in my life, yet I do not know any other way to lead my life. They call me a type A stress freak and I am pretty happy with the label as long as the tension headaches didn’t come with it. I constantly tell myself to set lower levels of expectation and be surprised by life’s little surprises, but the deliberate effort to set lower expectation levels in itself, defeats the entire purpose. It is like telling myself to think about not thinking in order to give my mind a rest. This paradoxical notion is as merciful as tying a ribbon on a dog’s tail.
It is late now, think I should hit the pillow. Maybe next week I’ll stress about making a chocolate soufflé. If life is like desert, I am a vanilla panacotta; really I have no idea what that metaphor means, but it makes me sound philosophically smart with a touch of Italian flair. Think I can be happy with that.
I asked my chief friend that I am not keen to learn how to make deserts to make the ladies wow, but I want something that will make them swoon. Crème brulee it was. I actually tried it with someone over dinner, and the effects was somewhat disappointing; I did get the praises which was sufficient to appease the male ego, but there weren’t fireworks and magic in the air you find in old black and white romantic movies. Maybe I was expecting too much, it was after all cream and eggs, not really aphrodisiac.
Having high expectations appear to the theme of my life. Finding contentment for me is like chasing a dangling carrot; it appears futile yet it drives me towards achieving an unachievable perfection. The tension in my neck is a good indication that I’m not being very smart about setting the goals in my life, yet I do not know any other way to lead my life. They call me a type A stress freak and I am pretty happy with the label as long as the tension headaches didn’t come with it. I constantly tell myself to set lower levels of expectation and be surprised by life’s little surprises, but the deliberate effort to set lower expectation levels in itself, defeats the entire purpose. It is like telling myself to think about not thinking in order to give my mind a rest. This paradoxical notion is as merciful as tying a ribbon on a dog’s tail.
It is late now, think I should hit the pillow. Maybe next week I’ll stress about making a chocolate soufflé. If life is like desert, I am a vanilla panacotta; really I have no idea what that metaphor means, but it makes me sound philosophically smart with a touch of Italian flair. Think I can be happy with that.
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