Quote against time

"Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much of life. So aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something."


Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)

London can have a good laugh now and then

In a loo, somewhere

No photoshop

Last two pictures of Malaysia in my camera

Bite-size bits

Bits and pieces

Righting the wrong and quoting the misquote

There's a thread on Facebook and all over the Internet that goes: "Shakespeare said: I always feel happy. You know why? Because I don't expect anything from anyone; expectations always hurt. Life is short, so love your life. Be happy and keep smiling. Just live for yourself and always remember: Before you speak... Listen. Before you write... Think. Before you spend... Earn. Before you pray... Forgive. Before you hurt... Feel. Before you hate... Love. Before you quit... Try. Before you die... Live."

There's no way the Bard could have said, or written, this. Nowhere are those words to be found in, say, the Riverside Shakespeare. Please people, don't be fooled. Shakespeare may certainly have passed a similar message in many of his plays and poems, but I really care too much for his works to let them be stripped off their insight or masqueraded into a worldwide-webbed farce. Robert Herrick has certainly meant this in "To the virgins to make much of time" (1648), following Horace in his Odes (1, 11), but remember that their message, similar to the Bard's, is always way more subtle than the one above, and stems from a willingness not to preach, but to warn and to share experience, insight, knowledge, and an innate passion for life. There is, in their words, as ever, more than meets the eye. I understand that many yearn for this kind of messages of hope or philosophies, but hey, render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto Shakespeare the things that are Shakespeare's.

Let's hope I don't sound like an old, cantankerous man. Carpe diem everyone, but don't forget quam minimum credula postero. As always, words are important.

Another bit of everything

Citation

"Être écrivain, c'est être seul." [To be a writer is to be alone.]

Jean d'Ormesson, romancier, journaliste, Immortel (1925-)

A bit of everything

 

Quote (don't give it to me, it's been quite a while)

"The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives."


Albert Schweitzer, philosopher, physician and musician (1875-1965)

Hi guys, here's a newer version of the chronology, with added sites and updated links. Yet again, if you can chip in, amend, update, fell free to comment and/or yell your discontent. Chronology of the Oldest Sites, Ruins, Temples, Structures Etc. in the World

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night

Hi guys,

Today, I'm starting a whole new series. I'll be adding up as I go along and meet gems. So I guess that the quantity that I will add depends on the progression rate of humankind. By 'progression' I really meant 'regression', and if you ask me, a good few people would agree with me. Let's cross out 'good', right?

What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles, and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night

I have always been dumbfounded by the very short-term memory of men who dry their hands after making pee-pee – that is, they have completely forgotten to wash their hands in the first place, as if toilets were the cleanest places in our modern world.

We really fail to recognise the gen(i)us of the homo automobilis who not only swerves onto the same lane of an incoming pedestrian, but accelerates.

Surpassing him in stupidity might undeniably be the pre-pubescent brat or the pre-adolescent pimple-ish jejune fille who is wearing outrageous make-up that would deter even the most ruttish mandrill baboon and who unashamedly allows her phone to play that latest Lady Gaga ringtone full blast in a cinema and then picks up the phone to resume the savvy narration of the latest piece of gossip her friend could lay her hand on.

Another palatable delicacy is served by the mosquito who basely awaits the cover of night to lash out at any patch of skin we might have foolishly left uncovered. Which triggers the question: “What could be more nerve-racking than a mosquito hovering an inch above your ear?” To which I would answer: “It would be knowing that there is a mosquito hovering an inch above your ear but no longer hearing it buzz” – which means either landing on the said patch of skin (I defy anyone to deny having then slapped his or her face with forceful rage) or the desertion because of the absence of said patch of skin. The incommoding itchiness and rash one commonly experiences a few minutes later sadly points out to the former.

People who light a cigarette right under a “No Smoking” sign make me go bananas. They cannot only read, they also cannot feign casualness convincingly. The rogues smirk. I could shove the aforementioned cigarette up their nostril.

If someone could come up with a simple, one-step guide on how to walk in a crowd, I would do whatever is in my power to have him or her canonised. People usually roam the malls just like they visit a museum: mildly interested as they are by the exhibits, they might approach the caption in a genuine effort to know what's going on inside that frame but lo! they suddenly step back, abruptly change direction or stop and stare in every direction like a chicken that has just found a knife, clearly disorientated by the amount of reading the naive curator expects them to do. Needless to say that they usually disrupt the flow of the perambulation, i.e. bump into you and give you the same look as a rabbit caught in the headlights' glare. They usually reassure themselves by rushing off to the nearest highlight available, i.e. the grand opening sale at the new Gap outlet.

People who pass in front of everyone in a queue because they are “busy” should be kindly reminded that apes and chimpanzees – as have many species, but I picked apes and chimps as they will prove my point in a more efficacious way as they are deemed “stupid” and “irrelevant” by those same people – have a millennial sense of order and an innate discipline.

So-called uptown girls carrying a handbag the size of a two-week-holiday suitcase would only look ridiculous were it not for their high, infuriating propensity at giggling, gloating and making loud borborygmi while sipping the last dregs of a Mocha Frappuccino with their straw at a Starbucks terrace.

Poodles have been used as gun-dogs for hundreds of years – may I ask where did man go wrong, as nowadays most poodles seem to have lost both their survival instinct entirely, along with their self-esteem? Could it be because their loins are clipped bare and clad in briefs, that their paws are shod with genuine leather shoes? Where are now the barking packs of poodles roaming the Wild?

Men picking their nose whilst they think no one is looking is another feature that would have me climb up the curtains. They would indeed be excused, thinking they were going about their business unnoticed, only if the said business were taking less than five minutes, if they weren't so carefully and conscientiously inspecting their findings, i.e. the sticky content of their nasal cavities and if they did not try to discard the said sticky content in some conspicuous location near us. Rarely are those three conditions unfulfilled.

The pigeons, usually the club-footed, the one-legged, the bandy-legged, the one-eyed and the just-been-hit-by-a-bus specimens, which flock at strategic locations to wilfully – I maintain it and I'm ready to prove my point to anyone in situ – shell whatever is under them may receive the palm of the species bearing the closest resemblance to some human beings, minus the survival instinct, much alike that of the aforementioned poodle. I. Hate. Pigeons.

Distortion from Jacobo Serra on Vimeo.

Hidden

Hidden is the meaning behind the words.

Inscriptions chiseLled in the wind-beaten rocks,

Núra I erumessë yassë ilya coivië ná fantaina quildenen.

Some hidden God is bidding its time.

?&#g&*#c& w/‹‹ b& h/s, ߆†#. Pu#/∫&d sh*‹‹ b& th& cr/m&.

Soon means notHing shorter Than an Aeon when one is eterNal.

HiDDen Away in the parchments is the Revelation.

It was decrypted from clay tablets by a great mind,

ˎhturt eht edrehpic dna rorrim a htiw etorw ohW

بحيث لا شيء ولكن الباحث المثابرة تكشف عن ذلك.

... --- -- . -.-. .- .-.. .-.. .. - .-.. .. --. .... - --..-- --- - .... . .-. ... -.-. .- .-.. .-.. .. - - .-. ..- - .... .-.-.-

16-15-61-118-1744-2113-21-219/20-201-1722-31-1010-?-212-?-1140/41-(1168x2)-179-310-2342/41-128-?-111-109-?-11-1015-?-712-126-513-115-?-2041-141

SecretS lying in the Alpha or in images of Ra

Gátur og leyndardóma sem hylja fyrir okkur.

MEssages are thought to riddle the nights –

Patterns draWn by the hand of Fate Itself –

Shapes withiN shapes like Déjà-vu or déjà-su

Superimpositions Of the details none notices

But those Who stare at the Space between The pictures.

oN tHE OThER SIDE OF THE ELeMENTS

Lie the mute constellations orienting to the TRUTH.

Nota bene: Treasures are worth both the efforts put in their concealment and the magnitude of the codes that seal them. Human hearts obey the same laws.

Somebody, Somewhere.

Somebody, somewhere, is banging her toe against the foot of a table, laughing and crying at the same time.

Somebody, somewhere, is forcing himself to eat spinach because his grandma is watching him lovingly.

Somebody, somewhere, is cheating on her husband for the first, and last, time.

Somebody, somewhere, is going back home from work.

Somebody, somewhere, is starving to death.

Somebody, somewhere, is getting married.

Somebody, somewhere, is having sex because he feels lonely.

Somebody, somewhere, is vomiting because of an over-consumption of alcohol, yet again.

Somebody, somewhere, is embarking on a two-year tour around the globe.

Somebody, somewhere, is winning the lottery.

Somebody, somewhere, is losing his job.

Somebody, somewhere, is giving birth.

Somebody, somewhere, is doing the dishes, sobbing and trying to forget her black eye.

Somebody, somewhere, is being raped. She will be murdered too.

Somebody, somewhere, is baking a birthday cake for his seven-year-old daughter.

Somebody, somewhere, has been playing a video game for the past twenty-four hours.

Somebody, somewhere, is sniffing cocaine.

Somebody, somewhere, is actually speaking with the girl he has been infatuated in for the past three years.

Somebody, somewhere, is discovering his passion for the piano

Somebody, somewhere, is dreaming she is dreaming.

Somebody, somewhere, is watching a DVD with her boyfriend on a sofa, wrapped in a comforter like a burrito.

Somebody, somewhere, is going back home after twenty years of absence.

Somebody, somewhere, is making a life-changing decision.

Somebody, somewhere, is raping a woman. He will kill her too.

Somebody, somewhere, is reading the newspaper, comfortably seating on a swing, tutting.

Somebody, somewhere, is writing a poem to his dead lover.

Somebody, somewhere, is swimming with a Galapagos turtle.

Somebody, somewhere, is losing a friend because he did not apologise.

Somebody, somewhere, has just found a lost letter on the ground. That letter will never be sent.

Somebody, somewhere, is entering the Highlands of Scotland, stunned by their beauty.

Somebody, somewhere, is learning Magyar because of Sàndor Màrai.

Somebody, somewhere, is taking a blood test for HIV.

Somebody, somewhere, is taking a picture of Machu Picchu.

Somebody, somewhere, is presiding over a family dinner. They are thirteen, all holding hands.

Somebody, somewhere, is feeling the Southeasterly wind on his face, steering his ship on the Pacific ocean. He is smiling.

Somebody, somewhere, is sentenced to life imprisonment for acts of barbary.

Somebody, somewhere, is discovering a piano genius.

Somebody, somewhere, is bribing her way up the ladder.

Somebody, somewhere, is hoping to find the answer to the origin of the Universe.

Somebody, somewhere, is considering suicide as a way out.

Somebody, somewhere, is having a sane, right-on-the-dot bowel movement.

Somebody, somewhere, is hiding from Interpol.

Somebody, somewhere, is pulling a net full of glistening fish onto his outrigger canoe.

Somebody, somewhere, has just mis-sent an SMS to the wrong person.

Somebody, somewhere, is witnessing his dreams being shattered right before his eyes. He cannot do anything to prevent it.

Somebody, somewhere, is calling his oncologist with his heart pounding in his chest.

Somebody, somewhere, is eating her apple-a-day.

Somebody, somewhere, is falling in love.

Somebody, somewhere, is writing a complaint letter to KFC.

Somebody, somewhere, is lying on his bed, masturbating, thinking of his Maths teacher.

Somebody, somewhere, begins to believe in a God.

Somebody, somewhere, is ostensibly picking his nose on the bus.

Somebody, somewhere, is becoming somebody, somewhere.

Somebody, somewhere, is telling a story to her grandchildren, by the fireside.

Somebody, somewhere, is listening to Beethoven's String Quartet #14 in C sharp minor, opus 131, first movement “Adagio, ma non troppo e molto espressivo” and having goosebumps.

Somebody, somewhere, is eating spaghettis, standing alone by the kitchen sink.

Somebody, somewhere, is stealing secret information for the benefit of a nation.

Somebody, somewhere, is copiously insulting his car which has just broken down. He thinks he is going to miss his plane, but he will not, due to an unusual delay at the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

Somebody, somewhere, is contriving an explosive device.

Somebody, somewhere, is stepping into the Sistine Chapel.

Somebody, somewhere, is caring for someone.

Somebody, somewhere, is weeding her garden, rain or shine.

Somebody, somewhere, is downloading music illegally.

Somebody, somewhere, is unearthing the femur of a dinosaur.

Somebody, somewhere, is at the centre of a pentagram, calling out the demon Sephiroth.

Somebody, somewhere, is cheating at an examination. She will fail nonetheless.

Somebody, somewhere, is becoming a slave because his mother is a slave.

Somebody, somewhere, falls prey to the end-of-the-season sales in GAP.

Somebody, somewhere, is bleeding to death on the pavement, run over by a hit-and-run driver on a pedestrian crossing. The green light for cars has just turned red.

Somebody, somewhere, is crossing his fingers and eyes, entrusting his fate to hope.

Somebody, somewhere, at the exact same instant you read this line.