[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
If I forget you, O Entebbe,Now, I know it leans slightly towards the blasphemous for me to steal a psalmist's work and remix it and not give due credit. I don't do it for Bob Marley, I won't do it to David. Psalms 137:5,6. Such intense love for a geograhpical spot, nearly as tough as Bob Marley's Trenchtown.
let my right hand forget its skill!
Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth,
if I do not remember you.
Where I'm staying these days, a neighbourhood of furry puppies and tense goats. I love it. Quiet, good for me. And if you walk for seven minutes down that road over there, you'll see the fishermen cleaning their nets. And birds that hit the calm water and pull out an uncalm fish. And if you spit at the waves, they say, someone will get a hiccup on the Tanzanian side of the lake.
It's really hard not to get inspired when you live here. Now, if only the rent weren't so high ...
O Entebbe. If I don't detach the head that dishonours my city, may mine be detached.
You people, I'm looking for a writing gig. While I won't stop coding any time soon, I want to stop referring to myself as a programmer. I want to call myself a writer who also programs computers.
So, if you can give me a writing gig, give me. You know, magazine, underground revolutionary pamphlet, newspaper, anthology, et cetera. I'm just a bit tired of sitting on the urge to write more-formally. And if you end up paying me for it, that's even better. ;o) My only condition is that nobody take liberty with my grammar. No unilateral changes to my shit. I know, I use the comma too much, but, why, do, you, segregate, against, me? It's genetic! (I'm serious.) And also allow me a pseudonym.
(The only downside is that my old work can no longer be denied. You see, I always hate my old work.)
If you, like me, want to dance, and you, unlike me, do dance, here is Kat DeLuna's Animal for you. And also Michael Bublé's Sway. And when you get tired, do any OneRepublic. If anybody asks you why you did it, say you did it on my say so.
It's never over on this blog until I've done at least one rant. Five, four, three, two, one—
I saw some depressing pictures of anorexic girls. They had starved themselves away, because, you know, thin is cute. They were really, really dangerously thin. Almost as thin as myself. I've always known that nobody is immune to the effect of propaganda. We are all influenced by messages, and that's fine. I don't blame the girls. Fuck (fashion and chic) mags.
They tell women, “This is what beautiful is, not what you are.” If women know just how much chic mags support the chauvinist argument, they would be illegal by now. We sit in the corner, guys, and watch women rush to mediocrity, to averageness. And they are taunted by photoshopped pictures of the ugly of ten years ago (and, incidentally, also the ugly of ten years hence), and told to converge to it. Lose your identity! Give yourself to the Great Uniform! Look like this!
Well, the words may not be so similar to slogans from the Cultural Revolution, but it's the same concept. And so, many sacrifice this durable believe-in-yourself kind of beauty, to buy a “beauty” that will be an ugliness in ten years (if it lasts that long). I find self-confidence arousing; I don't know about you.
Maybe I'm just angry about the fact that, if the mags have success, there will be way too many very thin people, and I'll no longer stand out. I'll no longer be conspicuous. And there is this girl whose talking turns into a kind of Haiku poetry when I listen to her. She once said:
Your body like a flowerBut the most-important message today is that nearly no physical features survived to this moment in human history that were not deemed beautiful. I guess, then, even the insecurity the mags exploit is deemed beautiful by some people? It survived, you know ...
Stalk. Thin and
and long and delicate.
The dreads the petals, the
thorn is where? It
pricks also? Lol, you behave!