Fill your own path

 "Fill your path with interesting people, make outrageous memories, and let the universe do the rest! "

26, Single, Satisfied!

I'm a healthy 26 year old female, with a steady paying job, no needy partner or whining kids, and a functioning appetite for this intriguing world .Not to mention that my breasts only need a bra because it's considered good social practice. It sounds to me like I’m in a pretty decent place.

Now, I'm not the only 26 year old who matches this pleasant profile, there are millions and maybe even some reading this who comply, yet young men & women continue to complain profusely about their shameful single status. And I can almost understand why, when the only counter argument with which they have to compare their “lousy” situation, is the superficial and sensationalised picture of a single town that has been so poorly painted by the very men and women who are in reality, painfully miserable in it.

You see, the whole “its fun being single, getting drunk, kissing randoms" mantra has the nutritional content to keep you barely satisfied for approximately 30 days. Thereafter, the empty void that begins to haunt your purposeless being grows increasingly bigger, whilst your hunger for fulfilment turns to the only pitiful solution that you think you know....Love.

A dangerous epiphany this, as your brain, which is now functioning lower than a marshmallow, will then convince itself that it has found the answer, and do whatever it takes to achieve it. What it fails to realise, however, is that it has conjured up this preposterous plan without consulting the imminent embarrassment that can be expected as a result.  

Let me explain:

You start by searching for this humiliating delusion in the most inopportune places. Turning to what’s nearest to you first, you take a perfectly good male-female friendship and piss all over it. This is done by engaging in the unspoken non “friendship zone” behaviour such as blaming every accidental kiss on acute intoxication. Once you’re finished here, you pull your pants back up, and move onto the fundamental error of the unfortunate hair and wardrobe choices, which at this stage, contribute to irreversible reputation damage. Then, once you’re done coining the worst version of yourself, your final fate lies in the oblivious practice of social suicide, whereby you almost always land up misconstruing a mere simple exchange between the opposite sex for a cue to hire a wedding planner.

See where I’m going with this dear friends? It’s not pretty to be single and desperate. This is why I choose to be single and satisfied. And it boggles my tiny inexperienced mind, why more youth don’t share in the same exhilaration. I’m not saying if you’re already hitched, that you shouldn’t be, but if you’re not, my god, grow a pair, avoid the disgraceful behaviour above and embrace it!

Ladies, for the love of chocolate covered almonds, stop worrying about finding a kitchen to plug in your blender, and men, enjoy just having one mother! The greatest gift bestowed upon us is time!

Have you ever tried to fathom the nebulous term “forever”? Not a simple concept, as the mind is somewhat plagued by an ineffable need for closure and absolution. For this reason, in my opinion, everything appears an unnecessary race to the finish line, resulting in the illusion that time goes quickly, when in essence, time is infinite.

You’ve got more than enough on the clock at your disposal to find your well-deserved happiness. (You even have spare time to throw in a messy divorce leaving you that much wiser and your pockets heavy with revenge.) In fact, most cases have proved that the longer you put off the happy ending, the higher your chance of making a success at it. But you already knew that!

The pressing issue here, is the dismal dissatisfaction with solitude. Have we socially advanced big fish perhaps become too distracted with distracting ourselves, that we no longer know how to be alone? Are these too often mindless distractions becoming a replacement for introspection? Consequently leaving us emotionally ill equipped with the mental armour needed to make it in the so called blissful ending. I ask myself this with a pleading heart.

If I’ve realised anything, it’s that youth is short!  Don’t spend it looking for love. Look for truth, perspective and peace instead. Absorb each and every moment of pleasure and pain.  Love will get you, and when it does, you’ll be ready, blender and all!

If I had a wish

If I had one wish, I would use it for us. For you and me. I would wish for us to taste each and every flavour of the gift we have been given. See all of it's colours, better yet, touch them.

I would wish for us to share in boundless bliss, joy and laughter; making each smile count and every moment a living memory.

I would hand out hope like ice-cream on a hot day; show you your beautiful, full- spirited soul and let you see it in others.

I would wish for endless sympathy, empathy and love to be the binding grain of our mutual and interconnected existence.

I would pray for passion to consume us and surrender to free us.

I would wish for us, for you and me.

I hate my plasma

This evening, I was driving home from dance class when it occurred to me that I had passed at least two people who were standing bare foot in the wet street, holding poorly written cardboard signs, pleading for help.  Homeless beggars would be the most common term to label a sight, but in truth it’s just another name categorically assigned to a social reality, devoid of desperate confrontation. I thought to myself “I just bought a frikken plasma, and there’s a kid standing in the cold rain praying on any human compassion that he can possibly hope to find.  

I felt the need to question the nonchalance and reluctance of the passing drivers.  Of course you can’t feed the world, and there’s a hungry vagrant at almost every traffic light.  But it’s not the practicality behind this logic that distresses me, it’s the blatant resistance to another person’s pain that is deemed an acceptable act of living. Of course, we validate this norm by blaming the miss handled funds and unstable economics of the country; however that does not excuse the utter disregard and inhumane intolerance for another person’s suffering.

Is the human chord that ingenuine? Are we programmed to care only when the situation requires such charity? At a fundraiser, a church event, or after a natural disaster that’s wiped out hundreds of helpless families? What about the person standing at the robot right next to your home. Does this person not have a heart felt story?  He may not have the money to market his pain through public awareness campaigns, or a photographer on standby to take his picture when he is at his lowest, but I can assure you, this man is riddled with the gut wrenching agony of having to face every daunting hour of every dark day. Instead of empathising with the destitute nobody, we judge instead.  Even worse, we learn to completely ignore the filthy silhouette that passes our car window, whilst we continue to fist pump to 5fm’s top twenty.

I ask myself if we have too much. Because I can’t for the life of me believe that a brother born from the same creator wouldn’t want to help another brother in dire need. It’s the human condition, we all exist in it.  We all know hunger, thirst, warmth and shelter. Maslow wasn’t a rocket scientist, merely a fundamentalist. I am therefore of opinion that our privileged birth rights are accountable for the conditioning of an inherent sense of materialistic worth.  We know not a world where our own substance and existence is not a manifestation of the “things” we have.  Who are we without these fleeting objects?  With no knowledge of what’s it’s like to be powerless, naked and starved of basic fulfilment, we cannot possibly fathom the raw and fragile survival of one without.

Herein lies the only reasoning that I can conclude to make sense of our shameless lack of sympathy.  The culprit that is taught and learned. I hate my plasma and everything it stands for.  People say we are only human, but if you look closely, we are fast becoming less human than we realise.  

Right before my eyes

"Right before my eyes, I saw the whole world lose control. The whole world lost control before my eyes.  I fell through the floor,  I couldn't take it anymore, I can't take this anymore,  It breaks my mind" Lyrics by Cage the Elephant

An exploration of the strength that is sometimes needed to exist or not exist in the spiralling sphere of  uncontainable chaos.

I bet you think this post is about you

I must start by advising that some readers may find this post particularly insensitive or offensive.  This is not my intention.

A recent observation has introduced me to another side of vanity. I have found that the word and its meaning have in fact adopted a new and orchestrated phenomenon that has quickly started to obsess the masses.  It’s as though the word itself continues to expand its own self-indulging influence.  What a clever little word!

I stumbled upon this insight through the use of the very popular and sought after social networking mediums that saturate our minds, time and lately lives.  The realisation that vanity has indeed been elevated in its principal, hit me when I suddenly noticed the abundance of images, tags, check-ins, status updates and profile picture changes that occur each minute of every day.  

Of course these on-going notifications  would  be easier to stomach if the pictures perhaps told more of a story than boasting the common  pouted lip and hands on hip pose, serving the single minded purpose of telling the world “ I’m hot and jolling tonight.”  Or if the intellectually debilitating statuses offered more than an informative update on an individual’s expert sports opinion, emotional infatuation with love, or tasteless diet (a word to the bulging muscled bench monkeys, nobody gives a toss about your body fat percentage and flavourless protein shakes!).

The glaring increase in self-adoration and vanity is apparent in the users need to constantly inform the world of their whereabouts. These GPS alerts coupled with images sporting the famous zoo lander pout, are merely meals of scripted sensationalism for countless followers waiting to pass their comment or approval.

The point I’m trying to make is that these advanced tools of social connection are in fact an unknowing contribution to our detriment.  The focus has been shifted from the nurturing of the inner self, to rather the external perception that we portray to the virtual world.  People are consistently pre-occupied with dressing their social mediums, in turn, deflating the value of substantial interaction, and rather emphasising the so called importance of aesthetically pleasing, ephemeral, and limited human encounters. The consequence of which, manifesting a generation of posers who worry more about the visual messages they are sending, rather than concentrating on their live and living networks.  The time and energy exuded in perfecting their public portrait, is therefore understandable. More alarming, is that some will even go as far as to falsify their public displays, so as to live up to what now has become a platform of expectation.

You may or may not see this as a concern. But from where I’m sitting, I see this vanity seeping into areas previously unaffected.  It has become more than just a little self-affirmation, and has developed into an attitude that cultivates traits of superiority, arrogance and obsession.  I am afraid for the men and women that we are raising.  What chance do they have of being humble, when surrounded by a surge of pretention? I ask myself this, for I see, what I have called growing vanity, as a probing force of slow and subtle destruction.  The one who loves himself outwardly instead of inwardly cannot possess a genuine love for others. Instead, this person inhibits an obtuse insecurity and oblivious disregard for moments of truth and value.

Perhaps I am being a pessimist, but if I look back on our social progression over the years, or rather degression, I am forced to acknowledge the inevitable, and the worst part about the inevitable, is that there is no escaping it. I think at this point, the only thing you can do is hope that you have the smarts to exist in it.

In the ironic words of Blaise Pascal, “ Vanity is so secure in the heart of man that everyone wants to be admired: even I who write this, and you who read this.”

Lust



" Lust will break you heart. Rather skip this step and opt for Love or Hate instead"



Murphy's Law- Fate or Failure?

I believe the term Murphy’s Law is usually awarded by a string of firing profanities.  The negative emotion, on which this law preys, is one that can turn you the darkest shade of red whilst awakening the bellowing beast within you.  My personal encounter with the law has often left me in an utter state of contempt that manifests a deepened disappointment beyond my puny control.

Alanis Morrisette once said “life has a funny way of helping you out”.  The ironic thing however, is that we always think it’s out to get us.  Failure, unfortunately, has become an infallible concept which we unknowingly welcome.

The law of Murphy, more often than not, instils an unrestricted sense of failure that provokes our inherent nature to accept self-blame.  “If only I had gone the day before, I would have been there to see it, him or her”. How often have you heard yourself say this? And how often have you hated and blamed yourself for it! An example that’s only a drop in the sparkling blue ocean compared to all the other morbid pity we’ve invited to wallow.  This pathetic self-loathing comes to serve as a well varnished platform  for circumventing the inconsiderate agenda of fate.  Fate? -  A controversial notion reserved for optimistic lyricists and annoying pseudo tree huggers?

I would be inclined to almost always agree with a statement like this; however an aberration from the norm can sometimes be healthy.  As fate would have it, I have somewhat warmed to the suspicious conception.  I would like to think that despite the frequent woes and inconveniences that life delivers, there’s an empathetic force that unquestionably sides with the voice of reason of which we are not always privy. At times, of course, a satisfying pacifier known as hindsight may grace you with inspiring revelations, and, when this is sadly not the case, all you’re left with is a bit of good ol faith.

Therefore, I propose we ditch the law of Murphy, and rather institute a bill of belief! A belief that the universe is not always the bad guy; that there’s a hope that lingers in a form perhaps unfamiliar to human comprehension.

So the next time you think that Murphy has tried to have his way with you, consider yourself rather, a victim of the bill of belief, and shout  at the top of your lungs “ Shew that was close!! “  

Fine line between fact & fantasy

Fantasy is not real…Fact! However I find myself of late arguing whether or not this is indeed the case.

My traditional opinion on the subject of flying broom sticks and obnoxious wizard hats is one engrained with deep scepticism. Perhaps this derives from a childhood afflicted with a cold reality served upfront.  Don’t get me wrong, I had the one eyed dolls with oversized heads and skimmed the pictured pages of Enid Blyton. But this never compensated for my unquenchable thirst for the real deal. My lack of interest in the popular KTV channel and cartoon skits was a prognosis all on its own . I was simply unimpressed by the delusion of the disney dimwits who could get ridden flat over by a moving vehicle and still stand to tell the tale, by just a shake of the head. Perhaps it was those buzzing birdies who would circle the injured characters that sparked my inexplicable intolerance today for the feathered species.

My thoughts on the matter, reach out to the innocent minors who have to bear the brunt of this blatant lie. They are obliviously nurtured into generations who are embezzled by a youth that offered an unsubstantiated promise of immortality.  The result? A misled multitude of gross invincibility thriving in a world of concentrated fantasy.

Albeit imagination is a healthy adoption and an aid of escapism, I believe it is the dosage that needs monitored administration. Cynical? Maybe. The cartoon reference above is merely a childish metaphor for the bigger picture. It is the levels at which the fantasy is applied in everyday life that is concerning. It creeps into the most basic of nuances; from personal perception to social integration. If one had to evaluate the deceptions that they have allowed themselves to entertain over the years, both consciously and subconsciously, the revelations would explain an unparalleled divorce from the truth.

We cannot be fooled by the power of suppression, as it is this human ability that falsely guides us. Unfortunately, the only way to avoid the soul searching realms of ignostic Buddhist retreats and monasteries is to continue living this way.  The fantasy has become the only reality we know, and any aversion would erupt the being into a state of disarray. This is why I have come to believe that there is fine line between fact and fantasy; a line that only a small population have the curiosity and capability to cross.

Deal with it

" The only way to forget is to remember"  Stephen Cope

It's a long way to the top if you wana Rock & Roll

So I always feel it necessary to put a few words together after a blistering event of copious intoxication. I feel I must prove that beyond the inebriation, still works the jungle of neurons and wires that is my brain.

You see, the desire to party like a rockstar, stems not only from lack of total self control, but also the deceptive abundance of attractive invites. There will forever be a reason to go out in public and pull a blundering Lindsay Lohan. If its not a birthday, or a sports gathering, it's an emotional platform on which to simply vent your destabilising internal intolerances.

Saturday evening, for example. I will refrain from using names in order to respect anonymity. It started with an intimate gathering at the local trendy bar for a friends birthday (this being my reason for choosing wine over water, ofcourse). My skin was still unbruised, my makeup on my face, and my hair an obedient straightness that would make a ghd rage with jealousy.

The night started off with a bit of harmless banter and a few warm chuckles. This was the part of the evening where we still maintained an adult level of intellect by exchanging opinions on current affairs and well written articles. After a few caramel tequilas and the first of my much regretted jagers, the discussions soon became a slurred mumble of the following recongised words: Need another drink? What time we going to Rocca? Can I borrow your lip gloss? And yeah we should totally do that tomorrow (huh, never gona happen).

Albeit the slow decline began at this enticing watering hole, the rapid increase fast accelerated once we got our stamp of shame at the entrance of Rocca bar. Just the name itself spells, your'e a dirty rockstar who's about to expose your festering layers of ultimate infamy! If I remember correctly, or incorrectly rather, I dont think I even had another drink once proceeding to the club of self- inflicted pain. The reason being, was that I thought it a much better idea to substitute a tall of glass of  poison for a smaller glass of liquid suicide. I can still taste the jagermeiser!

After countless shooters, and meaningless small talk with hovering randoms, I felt my state of consciousness begin to acknowledge the reality of absolutely no return. My shoes started to come off, along with my make- up, my hair started to weave itself into an Amy Winehouse beehive, and my dance moves resembled a swaying horses tail that bopped 2 beats behind the music. At this point I had lost the birthday girl as well as my other friends, and found myself starting to cry. Of course the reason for these squirting tears were unknown to both myself and surrounding acquaintances. But what added to the mystery of my melancholy, was my uncanny ability to cry whilst still dancing to the monotonous doef doef. As for as I was concerned, there were only tears, a little sweat, but no blood, thereby rendering the act of surrender not yet applicable.

Once I had come to the conclusion that I in fact could not find the birthday girl, who at this point was in a state of blissful trance I'm sure, god bless her relentless commitment to the disco ball! I decided It was time I hailed an unroadworthy cab and put myself to bed. The ride with the total stranger was probably my most dubious point of the evening. I remembered he smiled alot, but in a creepy way! Upon arrival at my apartment gate, I realised that I had "accidentally" spent all my green stuff. I began to search vigorously through my purse, sticking my fingers in pockets that didnt exist, splitting the cheaply sewn seams, to find still not a dime. The driver, who did not seem quite as amused by this as I was, agreed to take me back to the club to find a friend would pick up the tab. The poor nominated fella who had the honour of helping, did so at 3 x the cab bill.

When the morning came round, I greeted it eyes shut, with hate, disgust and a sand dune in my mouth. I vowed to never again accept an invitation to celebrate an event, but to in future send an intentful card and sincerest apologies for my absence in advance. The lesson learned? I await the subject of next week mondays blog ha!

So my observation is this, a rockstar does not only refer to a  musical talent. The inherent qualities of a rockstar,of which i'm still working on, prove to be a person who subjects themselves to on-going remorse through blatant intoxication, doesnt bruise or scar easily-(internally and externally), and knowing that the orignal plans for transport home will fail dismally, always leaves a little green for the cab!

Like this post if your'e a rockstar ( This is where i shrink with humiliation because people have not read this and 6 months down the line there is still no Like ha)

P.s Due to the level of ambiguity on which this night rests, some of the above is subject to questionable accuracy.

Moonstruck

I came across an extract from the film Moonstruck. The basis of the story line reveals that Loretta, the lead female falls in love with the brother of her fiancé, Ronnie. An imperfect and inconvenient circumstance that forces Ronnie to question not what should be, but rather what is....

After reading this, I realised that even in cynicism you can find beauty! Appreciate the fabric from which these words are sewn, and believe in a reality that exists right before you.

Ronnie's plead with Loretta:

The past and the future is a joke to me now
I see that they ain't here. I see that the only thing that is here is you
Loretta. I love you
Not like they told you love is
Love doesn't make things nice
It ruins everything
It breaks your heart
It makes things a mess
We aren't here to make things perfect
The Snow flakes are perfect, not us. The stars are perfect
We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts
to love the wrong people and die
The storybooks are bullshit!

Do not fear the abandonment of your delusion. For this neglection can be your one liberation to a deserving existence.

Fake it to make it!

I'm a firm believer in authenticity. A human being is only as real as they want to be, yet we continue to parade our exterior as though we are all starring in the same low budget film reading from the same poorly written script.

I think it quite an interesting reality that people feel obligated to abide by the nauseating pleasantries that continue to circulate society on a daily basis. The exhausting expectation of needing to say things like " it was nice to meet you too, and don't worry i'll get this one! " If i could be so blunt as to translate, what you're really wanting to say is " I'd rather make small talk with a mountain lizard than come across the likes of you again , and if i have to pretend to want to pay for this average social outing (which you suggested would be fun) one more time, I'm going to have to start turning tricks to pay the bills."

A few other translations include:

"Would you like one of my Dorito's "-  I beg of you to acknowledge your impending weight problem and refrain from sticking those unmanicured fingers into my chip bag.  Buy your own chips!

"That top looks great on you" - I don't have the energy to educate this moron!

"Thanks for supper, that was delicious"- that chicken was so dry I could choke on pieces of my throat

"Keep the change"- I have GOT to start keeping smaller notes on me!

"It's not you, it's ME" - It's all you psycho biatch, next stop restraining order! "

"How are you" - Let me just get that out the way so that I can start talking about myself.

"Aah your baby is so cute" -Shit darn, I aint never smoking through pregnancy!

"We must do coffee"- Guess i can't shop here anymore!

It is indeed these so-called pleasantries that continue to idealise the rules and regulations of off chance social encounters. Unfortunaltey, it just so happens that we have infact done this to ourselves. Regrettably, there is no turning back for our miserable attempts to save a bit face and make nice with complete strangers! Myself, yourself and the person sitting next to you are 100% guilty of entertaining the above mentioned translations, and any deviation, results in unprecented shock and social interventions.

It would therefore appear that our fragile capacities can only accomdate so much honesty. Too much of it, and we are reminded of the cold truth: Invincibilty is reserved only for war heros & Chuck Norris.  It is simply more pleasing to rather flash that phony smile, lie through your yellow teeth and rely on the on- going bollocks that has served you this far.

So the question is, is honesty really the best policy? In an ideal world, yes, but in this one, you've got to shake hands with the devil, look up to the left, and fake it if you wana make it! Just ask any woman ha!

Sad bunch we are!

My fractured filtering system

Have you ever stopped to think about what your life would be like if you were blessed with a well-oiled filtering system? We'll, due to my often ill- regarded actions, I have been forced to make contact with this notion.

A mental filtering system refers to our inherent ability to receive, process and file information. If you're anything like me, this process is more often than not, a flawed, fractured and clogged drain that would make quite cosy for a couple of hungry rodents. You see, a human's response to external data is based on hundreds and thousands of not only pre-programmed qualities, but also the history on which these programmes run. If i had to liken this to computer technology, which would probably make for a fitting metaphor in this technological obsessed society (a topic for another blog, watch this space), I could say that a good software programme relies on an efficient operating system in order to run effectively.

Enter the brain, the one organ responsible for binging on bullshit and guilty pleasures. If the brains operating system were functioning at peak, all software  (being the external data received) would run a smooth course of dancing daisys and floating balloons. But, and this is where your'e gona see this coming, this DOES JUST NOT HAPPEN! And for all those who practice a cynical, " forget the shrink" approach to psychology, what i'm gona say next may just put you on the couch. All responses to data reception, both directly and indirectly derive from each and every encounter you have ever had throughout your existence. Nothing in isolation. An intangible and esoteric concept that's hard to grasp, i know, but once you do, you may find it easier to forgive that faltered filtering system of yours which can leave you with an unquenchable thirst, unanswered questions, remorseful sent items or a screaming child.

So what my faulty operating organ is attempting to convey, ever so gracefully, is that our past paints our future. We are built on the ground from which we were planted. You cannot beat yourself up for your mistakes, because the past, which resides in the dark corners of your fractured filtering system, already knew you were going to do it anyway, it was just matter of when! Your only chance is to clean out the tank once in awhile. Make peace with it, because it's your last hope for sanity.

Oh, and pray that "they" come out with some sort of anti-virus pill that can we can just pop, coz truth be told, we're a bunch of lazy bastards who rely on the over- recycled content of an episode of Oprah or Dr Phil to do it for us! Do me a favour!

Empathy- If the shoe doesn't fit, wear it anyway

"The height of empathy is a piece of one's soul that recognises the raw substance and imperfections in another. A tender acknowledgement that penetrates through the surface. A true and rare gift. "

Life's a Scoreboard, and I'm a Slutty Cheerleader

Don't let the subject line fool you. They say a heading should entice the reader to want to take a further look. I figured the word slutty would increase the interest of the female gender, whilst the word cheerleader, the males. The context of this heading, does not refer to any sexual promiscuity (If you're disappointed now, keep reading). I draw attention rather to the overt nature of people and their tendency to expose their layers in efforts to mess with the point system. Always trying to get one up on the big guy or anyone who's willing to notice.

The distressing realisation is the lengths that the human race will go to in order to see these so called points raised higher on the scoreboard. The evidence is overwhelmingly endless & we all reek of fleeting guilt. The stench, however, seems to cultivate stronger with each passing decade and self-loathing generation.

These acts of personal elevation need not always be grave, but are blatant in the smallest things yet. Simply wrapping a cheap knock-off gift in a branded designer box, or presenting a resume that includes skills Superman couldn't sell. As cliche as it sounds, nice guys finish last! Sadly,the planets population has become a victim of a superficial, melodramatic, ostentatious paradigm that tells you to rub your pom poms in any face you can. We are therefore walking, talking prostitutes with an appetite for invited conformity and desired recognition.

It's not about who won the game, it's how the game was played. Blah blah motivate my left one. But in all seriousness, at some point it's got to be exhausting competing on a world stage with social regulations that diagnose the normal standard. Heck, i'm tired for us all, but there's no way out. All you can do, is tie your laces,  keep running in the race, and forget that the number on your back is all you are in this world.

So my senseless hope to pacify, leaves you with this contribution...Own the number instead, and dance this dance with a little dignity. Remember, the scoreboard's got nothing to do with your final tally. Eat a piece of humble pie & and stop being an annoying cheerleader!

First post-No pressure

I did it, I started a blog. How unoriginal. It's funny how something that started out as an indie pseudo channel of self expression, blew up to be just another social networking craze that every wannabe emo self- confessing techno junkie just had to do. I therefore vow to commit my blog to material of authentic nature that is indispensable & seemingly impossible to find elsewhere. No pressure. The title Dear Deece, is yes, addressed to myself. I love myself and I want you to know. That's not even funny, see how I'm failing already! The self title acts as a personal memoir to my crippled, uncertain & aspiring  journey. Although the posts are directed at the followers, the underlying message of each is in essence a note to self.

I don't profess to be a Guru of Master Intellect, nor a mentor to Rico the Clown. I reserve this space for humane encounters that inexplicably derive from the one thing we all have in common...Life & Not a Clue!