As the stars are falling...

...you have to wonder what else we might be missing.

Reiterating an irritation.

There are days when everything annoys you. Every little occurrence and thing makes you uncomfortable at best. Angry at worst. Sounds are too loud. Lights are too bright. Every single fiber in the fabric of your clothes chafe against your skin. And all other things rub you the wrong way.

Smiling faces become smirking masks. A handshake become a crushing, yet somehow disgustingly sweaty and clammy, vice-like grip. A hug transforms into a human straitjacket. Any morsel of food tastes like cardboard pulp with a splash of Styrofoam garnish. Your loving and previously beloved pet is now a leech on your life force. The best of friends change into complete twats. That favorite track you've been listening to all week now sounds banal and you can't for the life of you remember what it was about it that you found so lovely. Delete it. Regret it. Download it again.

Buttons won't button. Clicks won't connect. Programs crash at the most inopportune moments. Why is the spacebar sticking in the keyboard? Words won't fit properly into any sentence you utter. Be it through your mouth or via the tips of your fingers. Both of which seem to be detached from any reasoning part of that lump of clay you call your brain. You forget important things. Dwell on the inconsequential. Speak when you shouldn't. Remain silent when you mustn't. You lose the plot. And your favorite pen. You stub your toe and spit on your lapel/collar. Shit. A thousand times; shit!

A feeling utterly inhabits you. Becomes your very essence. A feeling of malaise moving through molasses. But don't worry. As soon as your head hits the pillow those jarring thoughts will begin to deconstruct. They gradually shift from coherent narratives and concepts into incoherent flights of fancy without you ever noticing. Slowly slipping you into the comfortable World of Dreams. I'll meet you there. We'll ride a unicorn together.

Listening to: Broken Social Scene - Meet Me In The Basement

Reading: Last Exit to Brooklyn

Watching: The Walking Dead

In spite of inspiration.

I find it mind boggling that there are these deep and perculiar people out there. Walking around in the world. These amazing individuals who have lead these lives of immense complexity. Perhaps they have had dramatic ups or downs. Contrasts that have made permanent marks in the very essence of their being. Alternately they may have existences pointing in one definite direction and have never veered from that trajectory. Not even slightly. All of them are fascinating paths to travel. No matter what the eventual outcome might be.

Maybe they are the extraordinary offspring from likewise extraordinary parents. Progenitors that have nurtured just the right attributes and interests and morals in their child, in order to create a truely beautiful individual. One that is kind and with a sharp intellect which can cut through any adversity. Conquering it. Restructuring it into a wonderful opportunity. Exceptional folk that can find even the most miniscule grain of hope in a salty sea of shit.

Or their parents completely fucked them up beyond repair. Through shitty parenting and guidance. Or lack thereof. Or abuse. Forming, fermenting and unleashing a completely selfish asshole onto the world. A reprobate who is a detriment to all those unfortunate enough to be around them. That unlucky child might turn into a violent criminal with serious psychological scars and issues. Whatever the case may be they are all interesting people. With interesting stories to tell.

My life is nowhere near as intriguing. I have had a few negative influences and some positive experiences. Some of them seemed massive to me. The scope of which I couldn't fathom. I imagined. However, if I take a step back and get some distance and put it all into perspective my life has been a pretty clear and straight line going forwards in time. Towards no particular goal or horizon. 

I have never been a person who has lived life at it's utmost extremes. No matter what part of the positive/negative-spectrum that might be. I am not one of those people. Not an inspiration to all others, who volunteers their time at a soup kitchen during Christmas Eve. Nor a menace to society, that punches a pensioners in the face and steals their coin purse in order to buy some cheap smack. Never mistaken for one of those people who has traveled to all corners of the world.  To obscure and exotic countries, eating little known national dishes while riding upside down in a hang glider in the middle of a thunderstorm. I won't ever be that deranged loon of a person who rides the most frightening roller coaster stark naked while lobbing fragmentation grenades into the awestruck crowd of innocent onlookers down below. I'll never fuck a walrus. While even though the most morally ambivalent of the examples, it is just not in the cards for me.

I've read some books, watched some movies, met some people, loved some people, hated some people, traveled a little, eaten poutine in Canada, smoked a few cigarettes (with varying contents) and here I am. And that's OK. Interestingly uninteresting is my angle and I'm sticking to it. 

What's your story?

Funny Thing.

One method for maintaining physical well-being that perplexes me is Laughter Yoga. Which is a form of yoga that employs laughter as a form of excercise. I suppose. It seems to be based off of the old adage that laughter is the best medicine, and supposedly prolongs ones life. Which may well be true.

I have serious doubts about the veracity of its claims. Firstly. Where this yoga technique falters is in the interpretation. The old saying doesn't actually express the belief that the physical act of laughing is somehow healthy in and off itself. What it is expressing, to my ears at least, is that a certain mirth and light heartedness makes you on the whole - live a better healthier life. And there are facts that back this up. Depressed people tend to take care of themselves less well than those who are not. Couple that with a sharp increase in substance abuse among people with depression and there appears to be some truth to the whole thing. Who hasn't had a drink too many from simply being a bit down in the dumps?

For people who believe in chakras and energy patterns and other unproven things they take some things surprisingly literally. I would have expected a little bit more imagination and anagoge.

If the act of laughing alone is somehow healthy, is then giggling also good for you health? Not in equal measure of course (that would be absurd) but how many percent on the total laugh-o-meter are we hitting with a simple spasmodic burst from the mouth and nose? Not to mention all the different varieties of chuckles and chortles. And what about a disrespectful snigger? Is that also a way towards a good long life? Perish the thought. Some asshole will live to be a thousand.

No. We need to stop this right away. Laughter should be reserved for manifesting joy, amusement or in some cases scorn. No more laughing without actually meaning it. What's next? Sneezing when we're not feeling...sneezy? Shaking hands although we've already met the person and are quite familiar with them? High-fiving at the funerals of loved ones? Complete madness. Almost as mad as standing around in a group and laughing hysterically for no real reason.

Musings on moisture.

The wonderous world of weather phenomenon. It's perplexing, how such things evoke thoughts and feelings in me.

Mist can be romantic and mysterious. As it creeps and lingers around trees and up against moss-covered blocks of granite I sense something otherworldly. Infiltrating and caressing. Implying a spark of life it does not possess. Like a stalker, only less likely to carry a knife.

Fog is sometimes comforting when it envelopes your house on an autumn sunday while you enjoy a cup of tea. Turning your humble abode into a safe island, plunked down in an ocean of upcoming and stressful monday morning musts.

Haze mutes the world, bluring the harsh colours and blunting the sharp edges. Making the world seem distant and soothingly at bay. Perhaps a moderate bout of cataract would be beneficial? Not only for the weed-privileges.

Few things can compare to the pleasures of imagining a simple cloud into a rambunctious little turtle driving a tractor (fueled by nothing but chocolate) on a marvelously sun-drenched spring day. That so much joy can be drawn from water vapor floating aimlessly through the air. From what is in essence just dampness taken flight. So why don't I feel the same way when it infiltrates my socks?

I even find mushroom clouds quite attractive. In their own way.