Patch Adams was on the telly box on Friday the thirteenth. A tale of hope for black Friday. Pretty apt if you ask me. Another one of life’s ironies at a quirky moment since it was running through my mind that very day about medical school and my life and the whole chunk that has been bothering me at the front and back of my mind.
Well, it was and still is one of my favourite old time movies for what it stands for, and the hopes and inspiration it is to me personally. No doubt it was probably dramatized by Hollywood by a large extent for profits sake, but nevertheless, the principles and ideals behind it are still very much valid in the world of reality. It was also one of the few movies that my daddy would quote in my faltering moments of self doubt, not just because it was an insightful movie worthy for motivation, but because it was based on the biography of a man whose revelations made ideals come to life.
Catching the show in all its lousy reception had no lesser impact on me when it was first watched. On the contrary, it is rather amusing how it is always played at a time where a reminder is needed most, and at its best, there is always something new to take home when the credit rolling begins. Somehow, it somehow manages to almost always spark off a fresh perspective on an old notion and set it in motion. My only conflict with it? If only medical school was as easy as the movie character made it out to be.
This time around, the show brought home and hinted at the concept of greatness. All this time, whenever the word “greatness” pops up, the brain wave that goes off will be that it must be a somebody, a huge somebody for the matter, of much affluence and influence, who could move mountains, metaphorically so to speak. A somebody, and not a nobody. Right now, really am the latter than the former. Feels like it. However, the movie reminded me different.
Greatness is not in the position that you have be in. It can be anywhere, anytime, what you make it out to be for there is no real definition to it. Touching people’s lives just by being in touch with that someone is not greatness, and yet in its own roundabout way, it is. Every person that walks through the door is a patient, and yet every single one of them can be a doctor too, for the healing that can be brought to another being. That was a staggering message that hit like a freight train at the speed of light, though think the more apt description of the feeling would be more like that of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
The beauty of greatness comes about when one person can pass on one’s bit of kindness, received and bestowed by someone, onto another, inadvertently doing, what one hopes for, what many hope for, change and make the world a better place. Somewhat akin to the renown butterfly effect, and yet at the same time, not quite.The beauty of greatness certainly is an enigma unto itself that no words can quite explicitly explain.
Inspirationally impelled and momentarily spurred on once more, yet again, to try. After all, Rome was not built in a day.
The sky is the limit, so reach for the stars. If you fall, at least, maybe, just maybe, you might fall onto a little fluffy white cloud, if you are lucky that is. If not, be very prepared for an eternity of brokenness.
The only thing left for speculation, is how long it would last, before it dies out; all over again.
With the weekend, comes the picnic basket shares again. It is pretty amazing when your housemommy texts you and shows up at your doorstep the next minute to share her kitchen efforts, and pretty much outdoes herself each time. She is certainly one resourceful woman who knows how to make Sunday a day of surprises with her little faithful oak brown basket.
The lunch menu of the day: a tantalizing mix lightly roasted chicken filets topped with pruscuitto ham and grilled cheese, with yellow and green zucchini slices sprinkled with fresh parmesan cheese on the side; a mixed vegetable salad of chopped onions, sliced radishes, lettuce, cubed tomatoes, parsley and one little green olive; with fresh from the oven orehnjača slices, or otherwise known as walnut roll slices, for dessert. Not to forget, the beverage of the day, a little bottle of fanta orange.
The dinner menu of the day: a simple delight of panfried chicken bits with chopped tomatoes, red and yellow paprikas and onions; blitva, which is a little like spinach so guess it can be considered the local version of spinach, with potato chunks, garlic and olive oil; and two bags full of cherries, one red and another that is called rose cherry according to my housemommy; along with a couple of peaches, though unfortunately she chose to throw one as she saw it was a tad dented on the side and thought it bad and better off in the bin.
In a way, guess this is, sort of, the way my housemommy tries to make up for all the raucous that has going about. Aside from trying to make sure that am properly fed and showing she cares, guess it is also her way of protecting me of sorts from the streets since it has not been quite so convenient to step out, just in case.
Having said that, armed with a decent pair of earphones blasting the music favourites from the trusty old laptop, and a silvery fork and knife, it would so seem, that this little one lives to see, yet again, another day.
Sometimes my thoughts wander off on a tangent, turn around the most bizarre of corners, and arrive at the strangest of places, even to the point where the existence of females is questioned in my rambling speculation. Ever wondered what is the point of the existence of females?
In all honesty, when there is the existence of transvestites who can walk the walk and down a walkway better than any regular girl as if it was a fashion runway; and talk the talk by holding their end of a flirtation better while reeling their catches in; and basically blow your mind off and go “damn” with the Jessica Alba like type bodies, you really wonder since evidently the men can and are doing it better.
Could the world survive without females? Well, to put it in some semblance of logic, even if warped, if the Amazonian world could make it work; technically, there is no reason why the Tarzanian race would not be able to do the same. After all, more than half the time, females are told, and expected, to leave the thinking to the men to figure out. With that train of thought in line, then, why not?
A girlfriend mentioned about wanting to smash a gigantic statue of a penis and glorifying a sculpture of breasts so as to make a statement about the female’s aptitude and capabilities, as well as make a point as to crush the double standards placed by a society that still seems to be living in the days and rules of the Neanderthals. One would think there would be a little more equality considering the fact that it is, after all, the twenty first century.
Point in cheek, an Amazonian world existed and still does in some cultures, but a Tarzanian one did and does not. In this no good lousy dog eat dog civilization, what does that say for survival of the fittest?
It can be said, to an extent, that males know nothing about pain. It has been scientifically proven in studies that females have a higher level of tolerance for pain in comparison to the males. That is probably why nature made females the carrying vessels of nine months torture, not to mention the monthly agony that plagues countless females.
My fascination with females knows no bounds. There is always something new to learn and be amazed by. No doubt the unpredictability drives me crazy, but guess that is a small price to pay for my muse. Truthfully, the things a female can do and will do in desperate and dire circumstances garner my respect and awe, short of kiss the ground one walks on.
Having said that, this chubby dodo salutes… girl power.
Many a time in life, one has some sort of standards and expectations placed upon one by another. More often than not, such expectations are placed there by oneself. For some, hopes placed by others are seemingly worse. In truth, one is actually one’s worst enemy.
The positioned benchmark is often one so unbelievably unattainable, it causes one to wonder why one even bothers to try. Conversely on hindsight, if one does not make an attempt to try, one will not know how far one can go, nor how high one can reach. Between the failure of falling when one does not meet the standards on the scale, and the failure to try, which failure is more tolerable? Frankly, that seems to be an extremely tough choice.
Whenever a target is not met, the label of “failure” is inadvertently tagged to the forehead of a person. The funniest and worst part, is that there will be times that even after one matches up to the yardstick that was set, no matter how hard one tries, it is just never good enough. The peptalk like rebuttal would be that one should never live up to the expectations of others, nor to live up by their measures but by oneself. Ironically, it is hard to live by that as there would then be no specific point of reference. Then again, maybe that just is the point.
Life is funnily peculiar that way. To need rules and regulations and set standards so as to live life by in an orderly fashion, and yet to see beyond and somewhat live without those very boundaries that were laid down in stone, of sorts, so as to be able to really “live” per se. Yet, the higher the mark, the harder the fall.
Great expectations… one’s saving grace… or one’s nastiest nightmare???
Went to do a little marketing at a colossal sized supermarket in a really out of the place, or youloo as me would tell my girlfriend in manchester, suburb, just to walk the supermarket aisles to get a little fresh air, or supermarket air rather in this case.
In any case, apparently, there was to be some big match off with god knows what country, that even the highways were saturated with pirate cars, producing the same boisterous raucous. There was even a food delivery container truck, no, not kidding about the container truck because it had some picture of a ham on it, that joined in the deafening riot. Mind you, those truck have honks of a bloody fork horn that can be heard miles away with your ears closed, so much for trying to escape from the symphony of the horns and have a little peace and quiet.
If you have read of the honky tonk cacophony caused by these bandits, trust me, you ain’t hear nothing yet.
On my way back into town, you could practically hear yelling and screaming in the streets, as if someone or many someones in this case, was shouting bloody murder. Then as my feet took a corner, pandemonium broke out on the streets. No prizes for guessing who won.
It started out pretty usual at first, the cheering and honking. Only difference was that you practically hear the entire street, very literally from one end to the other, all cheering. It was pretty much like a series of miniature stadiums having the same game going on simultaneously. A few footsteps later, there was a thunderous bang behind me. For a moment, really thought it was a gunshot gone wrong a street down and wondered if a riot was going to break out because police cars are, almost, always actually stationed around.
Before one can even gather back one’s scattered wits and thoughts, an entire concerto of cannon blasts blew up in the background in a much harmonized canon, literally. It was like the fourth of july happening, although the only problem was that it is too early for a celebration of Independence day, and there were no dazzling firework displays to compensate for the crazy din. Raving lunatics were either jumping about doing the rain dance, or running in and out alternately in their balconies. Explains why it has been pouring like cats and dogs although it is supposedly presumed to be spring on the calendar. They have been dancing a little too much, and too hard. In short, balconies were like miniature rings of circus acts.
No thanks to them, the trusty old migraine decided to pay its customary visit. Tried to sleep it off, but that did not quite work out considering the earsplitting, brain exploding racket came in waves like a tsunami on vengeance at the Miami coasts. Given, the behaviour is somewhat patriotic and ought to be an admired quality; nonetheless, a few decibels less in consideration for the other people who live on the same street really would not hurt; and you wonder why this dodo does not like soccer. Being stuck and steeped in a place of football culture where the passion for it, literally, rages has not influenced me, what so ever, to learn to like it, let alone love it. If anything, it has only cultivated an increasing linear graph of dread.
Wherever my feet take me, all my eyes see, are bandits on the roads, and danger on the streets. Sneaky thieves who rob the town of all its tranquility.
Woe is me, for being at a place where the pirates of the Mediterranean are all abound.
Reckon it must be the stress getting to me, especially when you find that you get plagued by the strangest cravings ever. Anything from a medium rare beef filet mignon, tenderloin preferably, to dark chocolate, to blood. Never been one to be hungry, therefore it would technically be impossible to eat a horse since the saying associates the both of them. In view of that, would like to see someone attempt to do that with the Herculean horse as shown. Despite the fact that am not disturbed by the human necessity of hunger, the itchymouth has been relatively active in chewing around the clock.
It does not help that am sitting on my ass a good whole day most days while trying to nail my books. Makes me sluggish and like a total piece of whale blubber, alongside the constant fatigue that leeches on my back. Talk about having a fat day. Bummer. Days like these make me wish that the vacuum cleaner was multifunctional and backs up as a liposuction machine.
To that particular you who calls me a fat ass, whom a close boy friend calls a mole for a reason, that being your inadequate and inferior eyesight despite telling me you have twenty twenty vision and can quality to be a pilot; you better not say a word or there will be a whole lot of moledom wished upon you, amongst other girlfriends who would smack you silly for even daring to think those hideously asinine words. And to quote a girlfriend, “no amount of cuteness" is going to save you.
In all honesty, the fat kid in me is just dying to chug a gigantic bar of chocolate and stuff myself silly. Admittedly, it is a pathetic attempt to comfort and assuage the examination phobia. Heaven forbid that it would get the better of me, although it cannot be denied that it could be a possible reality.
Fear could potentially cause me to convulse into a state of hyperventilation.
Hyperventilation could possibly cause serious damage to my physical condition; killing me, slowly, surely, bit by bit.
Fear, therefore, kills me, inside; finishing me off little by little, until there is really nothing left behind.
On second thought, if fear does not get to me first, atherosclerosis will.
The streets have been filled with a deafening symphony of car honking the past couple of days. Awfully annoying as it is, there is really little else one can do except shut oneself off or stuff one's ears with cotton balls hoping for the honky tonk cacophony to stop.
When the earsplitting raucous starts, there can only be one conclusion, and no, it is not a bad day of traffic due to some lousy traffic light breaking down, but rather, football season. Yes, the all hated football season, no offence intended to the soccer fans out there.
Football season here takes the extreme end of the spectrum. Mark my words, it is only one end of the spectrum more often than not. It is the cause of rambunctious activity in every corner of the neighbourhood and city with all the alcohol, adrenaline and testosterone on the loose. In the worst of cases, it is all hell break loose. Hell, even my housemommy told me to stay in, just in case.
In milder cases, it is just screaming tyres on the streets, neverending car honking, and your neighbours either cursing and swearing for all their lungs are worth, or attempting to smash the walls down to extend my living room space whilst happily boinking away like horny jackrabbits, or what it sounds to be like, the whole bloody day. It is impossible to even use the damn bathroom without hearing the neighbours on the other side, inconceivably possibly doing the very same thing. Honestly, if the neighbours worked any harder at it, fitting in a jacuzzi hot tub into my bathroom just might become a very real possibility.
Damn the stupid walls for not being soundproof. As am typing this, am hearing a couple of thuds just behind me. Thank god it is not a continuous sonorous thumping like a jackhammer on a construction site. And no, do not think the neighbours are that interested, let alone enthusiastic in moving the furniture at two o'clock in the morning.
So whilst my poor ears are subjected to pure torture of such offensive decibels and are working on cultivating a newfound friendship with them cottonballs, there is really little that can be done till football season is over. Reminds me, got to check the telly guide for that auspicious date and probably light fireworks, if possible, to celebrate its glorious end.
Finally managed to catch a sprite of a girlfriend who has been missing in action for abit and she mentioned that she was having room service since she was out of town for a couple of courses. Was certainly dreadfully envious of her, for it has been eons ago when room service was an available privilege.
Must have spoken those words out loud, or at least, think of it a tad too blatantly because strangely enough, room service really happened, to the doorstep, yet again in the form of a housemommy and a picnic basket filled to the brim. Was really only expecting a plate, honest to goodness truth.
In it, was nothing short of a lovingly prepared variety of homemade delectable treats. The lunch menu of the day: lightly salted grilled chicken slices and baby potatoes, cucumber salad with cream dressing, a healthy dessert of mixed seasonal fruits of cherries, peaches, apricot and raspberries and last but not least, a little chocolate bar of local origin that is the equivalent to a chunky kitkat bar.
The dinner menu of the day: a little container of soup of celery, cubed carrot, peas, parsley, onion and beef bits, a small bread loaf, with a healthy serving of fresh cottage cheese, a few slices of prosciutto ham, and a local dessert of sun dried figs. Oh, and not to be forgotten, a bottle of freshly squeezed strawberry juice that was yummiliciously sweet. The thought of the effort behind the juicing of the strawberries was already a heart sweetener in itself really.
To top it off, there was also a fresh sprig of lavender she had picked herself for me to put on my pillow. She says it is good and would help with the bad sleep.
All in all, think me got the better end of the stick as compared to the girlfriend. However, her being this nice to me often sends me off on a guilt trip for not being better in kind, not to mention makes me feel like Yogi bear stealing a picnic basket. Nevertheless, really could not ask for better room service, especially when it was a delivery in the rain.
A heartfelt thanks was expressed to the kind housemommy who has extended her generous hospitality in more ways than one, on more than one occasion. However, words really fail me at this point of time as no words could or can ever really express how in totality.
What else can be said then? Well, maybe ought to start letting my mind go awandering off about breakfast in bed and see if that might just materialize in reality. Alright, that is really fat hope speaking, beg pardon there, but you cannot fault me for trying, right?
Truthfully, only two words come to mind. Bon appétit!!!
It did not quite travel to India, although it did travel thousands of miles over the mountains, over the trees, over the oceans and over the seas via optical fibres. Dumb assed this one had to be to accept it, albeit extremely grudgingly, in view that there was not much of a choice considering it was a copy and paste straight onto my screen.
So slave and work on it me did, only for me to shave two years off my life when things went awry when the winds decided to change and blew in a storm. It shot my network into a frenzied mess and left me with a deadline, that was not mine to begin with?!? Not to forget that for once, time zone difference is actually not in one's favour, aside from the jet lag that is physically damaging to the human body, since am in the zone that is behind in time.
All in all, aside from being stuck in an asphyxiated state of anxious perplexity and writer's frustration, not to mention hearing the f word in echoing reverberation off the four walls, it was just a big fat kick to the butt. Talk about an amplitudinous wakeup call with thunder and lightning in the background to boot.
For starters, kindness does not beget kindness. Two, it does not pay to be nice. Three, bad karma always comes aknocking but good karma never does, probably from too much voodoo doll poking and cursing that the tenfold return has exceeded this lifetime's lifespan by another three lifetimes.
While there are times that one would like to think that "what goes around comes around", that saying never seems to be applicable in such situations, not unless it were to be me on the receiving end. The buddhists would probably preach that it was my bad doings from my past life or debts that was owed that has to be repaid in this lifetime. Heaven forbid if it has to go beyond this lifetime since am not a believer of lifetimes, although admittedly do nonsensically rant on it from time to time in jest. Maybe that is punishment for using words in vain? god knows.
Therefore, much as would like for someone to do my homework and welcome that same someone with open arms to take my examination for me, shall shut up on that after having been the victim of being picked on to pick up and put together someone's pieces.
The lesson of the day... do your own damn homework!!!
A girlfriend was having a bit of a roach issue the other day and was left feeling terribly perturbed the whole day no thanks to the pesky vermin. If it were in my ability to, would have headed straight down to her place, even if it was at three in the morning to kill that fluttering nuisance with a good thwack with the trusty rolled up magazine.
Unfortunately, that could and did not quite happen. The lucky little bugger fled for its life into her closet, and so it ended up being pretty much a declaration of war at the irksome pest; a good sixty dollars worth of it if might add. Hell hath no fury like a female on a war path.
Well, it was a victorious battle and the dirty germ infested bug did get exterminated at the very end. Apparently, it just plopped dead when she opened the closet door. Probably got too greedy and fed off the sticky pad of pesticide and landed up giving itself a massive case of poisoning, and ain't going to say that am feeling sorry for it since really do not quite feel it.
Ironically, the entire roach incident did trigger off something else; a single thought. It sent me contemplating about the concept of "the roach spirit". The essence of "never say die", quite literally. Kill one today, another tomorrow, and another the day after, and yet, there would still be a multitude to slaughter. There can be no end to it, very much sadly in this case.
The moral of the story is not to say, go forth and multiply, but rather, to be like a roach. Oh yucks, hard to believe that came out from me. Better get to brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth out with soap and mouthwash.
Having said that, everytime my dependable solid roll of a newspaper whacks one into a green and brown puddle of smuck, it will be a constant reminder to me what it means to have an "undying spirit", and how that is very much applicable in life when one really feels like throwing in the towel in frustration and just call it quits.
Gross example as it may be, guess it works if it gets round to being a much needed prod at how one should get on with one's life. Fancy that, my life direction, being dictated by a roach. Someone up there must be having a whale of a time playing such a sick joke.
A little hopping around has brought up the topic of love actually. A striking case of poetic injustice perhaps, after all, what is love actually? In all truth, there is no explicit specification to that. To do so, would be completely criminal for love has been renowned to have no conclusive order.
A girlfriend, an extremely proficient and sharp scribe in her own way, penned a brilliant composition on a modern virtual scroll, dedicating all twenty three stanzas worth of affection and adoration to her beloved for his twenty third birthday. Whether or not he has read it till date remains to be unknown. Frankly speaking, it was quite a masterpiece that could put any contemporary Shakespearian bard to shame.
Another girlfriend’s girlfriend put into writing, a beautiful lovelogy to her love to commemorate the six years, and counting, they have been together. It was a good ninety nine lines worth of little things so sweetly saccharine it could either have been delightfully charming, or sickeningly nauseating depending if it tickled one’s taste buds the wrong way. It does have the potential to reduce a girl to blubbering tears for it contained and spoke of a love so sacred, almost an exceptional fairytale, that it looks to be a case of wedding bells waiting to ring, even though that is not quite set in stone, yet.
Another girlfriend jotted and marked down her love’s devotion in the simplest few words that spoke volumes beyond its small number of two of “just because”. Evidently in her instance, action spoke louder than words, in more ways than one in a bouquet of divine champagne coloured roses, amongst other minute surprises her dearest decided to spring on her on an ordinary day, without a need for a special time or occasion. That was a true exemplification of the adage that “everyday can be, and is Valentine’s day”, quite literally.
Reading all of that could drive someone up the wall or off the cliff effortlessly like some raving lunatic, riotously ranting in despondency “i want a love that is mine” like Zhang Ziyi’s character of Sayuri in Memoirs of a Geisha. In spite of that, it is without a doubt, that there is much more to that by a long shot.
In more ways than one, much as it is hated, it cannot helped, for it just is such; love is all around, and all it takes, is just for one to search for it hard enough, and not look at it in one aspect in totality.
For me, love actually… is your housemommy showing up at your doorstep randomly with a little package of a few apples, a chocolate bar, a can of tuna and a tiny juice packet as a cheer up and get well gift, as well as a gentle, albeit not so subtle, reminder to eat when one is down with a fat sick bug. It is… your housemommy popping a gratifyingly sugary surprise of a small coke bottle, a fat juice box and a chocolate bar in your mailbox for that much needed sugar fix just before she jets off somewhere for business and cannot be around to check in on you. It also is… your housemommy dropping off a homemade packed lunch of strukli with freshly cubed cherry tomatoes and tomato paste, olives, chicken and cheese bits, topping it off with a thoughtful and sweet dessert of chocolate ice cream with freshly cut strawberries on a bright jolly Sunday when she could have just stayed in to laze and rest the weekend away having just flown back in.
For me, love actually… is your mommy dropping an online note out of the blue using your daddy’s messenger account, and saying hi, and asking if you need anything so that she could mail it over, if possible, in the most unconventional way ever dreamed possible. Mind you, though not completely computer illiterate, she is quite the technology dinosaur and a complete snail of a tortoise when it comes to using a qwerty keyboard.
For me, love actually… is your daddy sending you an online note and text, checking if you need more medication, not exactly quite the first thing anyone would like to hear. Not to mention notwithstanding it is a very much delayed response than the usual he normally gets in touch with you, because that is a surefire indication that things back have not totally gone haywire, yet. Still, there could never have been a more relieved calm at seeing "found your two boxes of xanax and seroxat, do you need more medication?".
For me, love actually… is girlfriends dropping spontaneous arbitrary texts and notes at erratic instants, revealing precious moments that they care about and miss you, irregardless; all waiting in anticipation for the long awaited dates of catch ups. Pretty girls, correction, beautiful girls, all lined up in a row.
For me, love actually… is a new teddy bear, and hopefully more things, promises inclusive, to come, waiting for collection on return.
Love actually… is a complex simplicity that cannot be expressed in mere words, or anything else for the matter, and therefore, is somehow better left unsaid.