This post is written in a rage. Amazing what anger can do to your creativity.
So. I just watched Indonesia This Morning on Metro TV, and one of the news was about Tifatul Sembiring's handshake with Michelle Obama. Some media in Indonesia and the US make a big deal out of it, apparently. In fact, the story is deemed remarkable enough that Stephen Colbert--comedian and political satirist--made a note to mention it in his program, The Colbert Report.
Given the nature of his show, of course he took it upon himself to treat the whole handshaking business as a joke. And then he continued by quoting a passage from some article saying about how Indonesians swarmed Facebook and Twitter to criticize the Minister of Information for his hypocrisy.
I must say that I don't care about what Mr. Sembiring does. He can choose to shake or not to shake hands with women, or he can take a third wife, for all I care. As long s he doesn't mess up in his job, I couldn't care less. But I do mind with what Colbert said next. I don't remember his exact words, but it was more or less like this: "Facebook and Twitter? I always picture Indonesians banging coconuts to a log."
Needless to say, I was (and still am) incensed. What the hell was that? What the hell does he think we are? Savages? Monkeys? (Although I don't know if monkeys communicate by banging coconuts on a log, that's hardly the point, is it?) Honestly, I think it's racist and degrading and not funny at all. His studio audience shared a different opinion, obviously.
People would no doubt say "Don't you have a sense of humor? It's just a joke!" No, I don't have a sense of humor when it's my national identity that is trampled upon. Americans--obsessed with political correctness--are very sensitive when it comes to making jokes about African-Americans and Jews. But is it alright to make fun of everybody else?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Football-crazed 7/11/2010 03:19:00 PM
"I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women: suddenly, inexplicably, uncritically..." Nick Hornby, Fever Pitch
For me, the defining moment might've been that day when Persib passed the street near my school on parade after winning the first ever Liga Indonesia. Or maybe it was the time I watched in awe as Brazil trashed Italy in that penalty shoot-outs that guaranteed their fourth World Cup title. Or during that time I saw Steve McManaman dribble his way through the defending team's right flank in a Euro '96 live coverage. All I know is that somewhere along the way, I deeply fell in love with football.
In rare moments of contemplation, I wondered to myself why I enjoy football very much. Does it have something to do with availability and constant exposure to the game? I don't think so, really. Just look at my younger brother. He's not the least interested in football even though he avidly watched Captain Tsubasa when he was a kid and played regularly at school. Not to mention that he has a Manchester United maniac of a sister. When you don't get it you just don't, regardless of the "availability and constant exposure". Therefore, when a friend asked me--quite innocently--what it was that I found so irresistibly interesting about watching twenty-two people chase one dirty ball around the field, I responded with a smart "Dunno." Because I truly don't know.
My inability to eloquently express the beauty of football, I suspect, is inextricably linked with the fact that I am not what you'd call an “analytical spectator”. Some people enjoy football in logical, detached way. They'd make a song and dance about the philosophical, sociological, and psychological importance of football, peruse all sorts of tactical setup, and they'd be upset when football teams replace perfection with pragmatism.
Well, I'm not them. I'd be elated when my team win and upset--at times angry--when they lost. I'd question the manager's strategy or blame a particular player (Sorry, Fletch!) when they had a draw against the supposedly inferior team. It's that simple. My devotion to a football team comes from irrational love, not critical thinking. I love football like I love . . . noodle, say. Noodle is tasty. What's so tasty about noodle? How the heck can I explain that? I'm not a connoisseur. You just have to try it for yourself, and if you don't like it, it's simply not the food for you. The same goes for football.
Football, computer games, traveling, collecting stamps, or whatever--we all have our very own little obsession. I prefer enjoying it than trying to rationalize it, period.
For me, the defining moment might've been that day when Persib passed the street near my school on parade after winning the first ever Liga Indonesia. Or maybe it was the time I watched in awe as Brazil trashed Italy in that penalty shoot-outs that guaranteed their fourth World Cup title. Or during that time I saw Steve McManaman dribble his way through the defending team's right flank in a Euro '96 live coverage. All I know is that somewhere along the way, I deeply fell in love with football.
In rare moments of contemplation, I wondered to myself why I enjoy football very much. Does it have something to do with availability and constant exposure to the game? I don't think so, really. Just look at my younger brother. He's not the least interested in football even though he avidly watched Captain Tsubasa when he was a kid and played regularly at school. Not to mention that he has a Manchester United maniac of a sister. When you don't get it you just don't, regardless of the "availability and constant exposure". Therefore, when a friend asked me--quite innocently--what it was that I found so irresistibly interesting about watching twenty-two people chase one dirty ball around the field, I responded with a smart "Dunno." Because I truly don't know.
My inability to eloquently express the beauty of football, I suspect, is inextricably linked with the fact that I am not what you'd call an “analytical spectator”. Some people enjoy football in logical, detached way. They'd make a song and dance about the philosophical, sociological, and psychological importance of football, peruse all sorts of tactical setup, and they'd be upset when football teams replace perfection with pragmatism.
Well, I'm not them. I'd be elated when my team win and upset--at times angry--when they lost. I'd question the manager's strategy or blame a particular player (Sorry, Fletch!) when they had a draw against the supposedly inferior team. It's that simple. My devotion to a football team comes from irrational love, not critical thinking. I love football like I love . . . noodle, say. Noodle is tasty. What's so tasty about noodle? How the heck can I explain that? I'm not a connoisseur. You just have to try it for yourself, and if you don't like it, it's simply not the food for you. The same goes for football.
Football, computer games, traveling, collecting stamps, or whatever--we all have our very own little obsession. I prefer enjoying it than trying to rationalize it, period.
Labels:
rambling
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Idea of Nonexistence 5/20/2010 10:06:00 PM
A fate worse than death. That's what a human who uses a Death Note--writing people's name on it and thus killing them--is subjected to. Light Yagami, an overzealous lover of justice turns mass murderer, undoubtedly earns that. But the anticlimactic ending got me very disappointed. Because for all his ruthless killing, in the end Light Yagami simply ceases to exist. That's what "a fate worse than death" is all about.
Upon death, your brain stops sending and receiving impulses to and from its nerves, your heart stops pumping blood, etch. Death equals irreversible systemic organ failure. Many systems of belief, though, consider death not as the ultimate end but simply a gateway to another state of being. And beyond this, retribution lays.
The idea is that no good deeds go unrewarded and no bad deeds go unpunished. Hence, heaven and hell, good karma and bad karma.
Interestingly, nonexistence does have its place in this sort of concept. Just like many of us, Ancient Egyptians believed in the afterlife and judgment. It is said that a person's heart would be weighed against a single feather representing Ma'at--the concept of truth and order--by the god Anubis. If one's heart were pure, not weighed down by the guilt or sins of his actions in life, it would be lighter than the feather and he would be welcomed to the Ancient Egyptians' version of heaven (a big farmland, actually). On the contrary, if one's heart were heavier than the feather, it would be eaten by Ammit, a demon part crocodile, part lion, and part hippopotamus. Since heart was the center of reason and emotion, Ancient Egyptians believed that someone without a heart essentially ceased to exist--which was the worst possible fate they could imagine.
Let me say this: I think nonexistence is not a fate worse than death, and it is surely not a good enough retribution for a mass murderer who doesn't even repent for his crime. Oh sure, it might sound frightening now when you think about it while you're living. Imagining that your whole being is wiped out completely and that, fifty, a hundred, a thousand years from now, nobody would now that you ever existed. But nonexistence is terrifying only if it is perceived as just another state of existence, which doesn't make sense.
Okay, let's imagine that you're non-existent. If you're non-existent, it means you have no body, no conscience, no feeling. You are nothing. (Even using the word "you" is superfluous, but let's just keep it for the sake of the argument.) Simply put, you will not be around when you "experience" being non-existent. And how can someone who doesn't even exist feel happy or unhappy? The answer is: they can't.
Nonexistence is a fate worse than death? I don't think so. You should've thought of something better than that, Ooba-sensei.
Upon death, your brain stops sending and receiving impulses to and from its nerves, your heart stops pumping blood, etch. Death equals irreversible systemic organ failure. Many systems of belief, though, consider death not as the ultimate end but simply a gateway to another state of being. And beyond this, retribution lays.
The idea is that no good deeds go unrewarded and no bad deeds go unpunished. Hence, heaven and hell, good karma and bad karma.
Interestingly, nonexistence does have its place in this sort of concept. Just like many of us, Ancient Egyptians believed in the afterlife and judgment. It is said that a person's heart would be weighed against a single feather representing Ma'at--the concept of truth and order--by the god Anubis. If one's heart were pure, not weighed down by the guilt or sins of his actions in life, it would be lighter than the feather and he would be welcomed to the Ancient Egyptians' version of heaven (a big farmland, actually). On the contrary, if one's heart were heavier than the feather, it would be eaten by Ammit, a demon part crocodile, part lion, and part hippopotamus. Since heart was the center of reason and emotion, Ancient Egyptians believed that someone without a heart essentially ceased to exist--which was the worst possible fate they could imagine.
Let me say this: I think nonexistence is not a fate worse than death, and it is surely not a good enough retribution for a mass murderer who doesn't even repent for his crime. Oh sure, it might sound frightening now when you think about it while you're living. Imagining that your whole being is wiped out completely and that, fifty, a hundred, a thousand years from now, nobody would now that you ever existed. But nonexistence is terrifying only if it is perceived as just another state of existence, which doesn't make sense.
Okay, let's imagine that you're non-existent. If you're non-existent, it means you have no body, no conscience, no feeling. You are nothing. (Even using the word "you" is superfluous, but let's just keep it for the sake of the argument.) Simply put, you will not be around when you "experience" being non-existent. And how can someone who doesn't even exist feel happy or unhappy? The answer is: they can't.
Nonexistence is a fate worse than death? I don't think so. You should've thought of something better than that, Ooba-sensei.
Labels:
insight
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Pinball (Haruki Murakami) 2/11/2010 10:20:00 PM
Reading Haruki Murakami's works is like seeing through the mist. At times you can't see anything at all, even though you have a hunch that something wonderful is out there. Other times the mist parts just enough to allow you a view of what's beyond--although you can never be really sure what it is, everything's so blur and all. Pinball--Murakami-sensei's second novel--is of the latter category.
The novel is about pinball. At least half of it is. The novel consists of two voices, first person's and third person's. Interestingly, the two stories run parallel to each other. It means that, despite taking place around the same time, these stories never come to a point where they intersect. (Flashback aside, that is.)
"I" spent his days by working for his translation company, fooling around with a pair of identical twins, and walking round the golf course. At one point he had an inexplicable urge to locate a particular Pinball machine, a three-flipper "Spaceship", with which he had had a brief period of "honeymoon". On the other hand a friend and fellow three-flipper Spaceship player, Nezumi (Rat in English) continued living uneventfully in his hometown, having an indefinable relationship with a woman, hanging out alone at J's Bar, and basically doing nothing.
You might be wondering, What the hell is it all about? What's the point in a story about people looking for a Pinball machine? I know better than to ask such question. I squint harder through the obscurity and vaguely see something within the seemingly trivial story. Suspended animation, that's what it's all about, even though--I hasten to add, again--I might be wrong.
I particularly love these lines from the book: "Pinball machines...won't lead you anywhere.... Replay, replay, replay.... So persistently you'd swear a game of pinball aspired to perpetuity. We ourselves will never know much of perpetuity. But we can get a faint inkling of what it's like. The object of pinball lies not in self-expression, but in self-revolt. Not in the expansion of the ego, but in its compression. Not in extractive analysis, but in inclusive subsumption."
You don't need a Pinball machine in order for that to happen, really. Sometimes you go on living without thinking, just going through the motions, that before you know it, you have lose yourself. That's what I call suspended animation. You're constantly doing something, but you're not really doing anything. (Still, I must confess, it's good to lose your self now and then. Playing video games--or pinball, for that matter--is a good way to achieve such sense of detachment.)
Sooner or later, some of us would have to decide whether to get out or to stick to it. The book ends with a breakthrough of some sort from both camps. "I" said goodbye to the three-flipper Spaceship and the twin girls, and Nezumi willed himself to leave his hometown because he "gotta go". For the time being, though, I'm still living in limbo, in the world of pinball.
Note: Try listening to Radiohead's "How to Disappear Completely" while reading Pinball. They make perfect match, I reckon.
The novel is about pinball. At least half of it is. The novel consists of two voices, first person's and third person's. Interestingly, the two stories run parallel to each other. It means that, despite taking place around the same time, these stories never come to a point where they intersect. (Flashback aside, that is.)
"I" spent his days by working for his translation company, fooling around with a pair of identical twins, and walking round the golf course. At one point he had an inexplicable urge to locate a particular Pinball machine, a three-flipper "Spaceship", with which he had had a brief period of "honeymoon". On the other hand a friend and fellow three-flipper Spaceship player, Nezumi (Rat in English) continued living uneventfully in his hometown, having an indefinable relationship with a woman, hanging out alone at J's Bar, and basically doing nothing.
You might be wondering, What the hell is it all about? What's the point in a story about people looking for a Pinball machine? I know better than to ask such question. I squint harder through the obscurity and vaguely see something within the seemingly trivial story. Suspended animation, that's what it's all about, even though--I hasten to add, again--I might be wrong.
I particularly love these lines from the book: "Pinball machines...won't lead you anywhere.... Replay, replay, replay.... So persistently you'd swear a game of pinball aspired to perpetuity. We ourselves will never know much of perpetuity. But we can get a faint inkling of what it's like. The object of pinball lies not in self-expression, but in self-revolt. Not in the expansion of the ego, but in its compression. Not in extractive analysis, but in inclusive subsumption."
You don't need a Pinball machine in order for that to happen, really. Sometimes you go on living without thinking, just going through the motions, that before you know it, you have lose yourself. That's what I call suspended animation. You're constantly doing something, but you're not really doing anything. (Still, I must confess, it's good to lose your self now and then. Playing video games--or pinball, for that matter--is a good way to achieve such sense of detachment.)
Sooner or later, some of us would have to decide whether to get out or to stick to it. The book ends with a breakthrough of some sort from both camps. "I" said goodbye to the three-flipper Spaceship and the twin girls, and Nezumi willed himself to leave his hometown because he "gotta go". For the time being, though, I'm still living in limbo, in the world of pinball.
Note: Try listening to Radiohead's "How to Disappear Completely" while reading Pinball. They make perfect match, I reckon.
Labels:
review
Thursday, December 24, 2009
CRACK!!! 12/24/2009 06:49:00 PM
my computer monitor
CRACKS! at night
as its plasticizer
takes flight
CRACKS! at night
as its plasticizer
takes flight
Labels:
poem
Thursday, December 10, 2009
South of the Border, West of the Sun (Haruki Murakami) 12/10/2009 11:01:00 PM
This book has been compared to the movie Casablanca. Maybe it's because both involve a man and a woman who love each other but cannot be together (or choose not to be together) in the end. South of the Border, West of the Sun isn't a story of love, though; it is a story of life.
The thirty-seven year old Hajime had quite a pleasant life. He had a wife who loved him and two daughters whom he adored, not to mention two successful jazz bars. A happy family and a fulfilling career. This quiet life, however, changed when he met the beautiful Shimamoto-san.
Hajime and Shimamoto (one given name and one surname; I know it sounds strange, but Murakami-sensei didn't actually give full name to all his characters in this book) were childhood friends. Shimamoto had always been an important person to Hajime, even though he had never met her for twenty-five years. Meeting her again just made him realize how he needed her, to the point that he was ready to leave everything behind just to be with her. So, he was devastated upon finding out one morning that she had left. There's no way to ever find her because she refused to tell him in details about her past and present life. That last time, she disappeared from his sight for good.
Their relationship, I believe, is important not in itself but rather because of what it represents. It represents something lost that you wish wasn't but, were things to be repeated once more, would still be lost anyway. Hajime often wondered what would've happened if he had mustered the will to come over to Shimamoto's house even after they went to different junior highs. But he knew that that wouldn't have been the case; his thirteen year old self would not bother to go to a girl's home two train stops away. (And even though it hurt him to hurt his high school girlfriend, Izumi, he knew that he would've cheated on her with her cousin all over again.)
While we're at it, I should mention the title. "South of the Border" refers to the Nat King Cole's song Hajime and Shimamoto used to listen to as kids. They didn't really understand what the song was all about, so they used to think that there was something amazingly wonderful south of the border. Alas, it's only Mexico. As for west of the sun, it has something to do with Siberian farmer going mental, walking on and on to the west until he collapses to the ground and dies. So, the title possibly implies the concept of hope versus despair.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? You love and be loved, you hurt and being hurt; you hope and you lose hope; you acquire something, you're missing something. The question is: can you deal with it? Or would you rather die?
The thirty-seven year old Hajime had quite a pleasant life. He had a wife who loved him and two daughters whom he adored, not to mention two successful jazz bars. A happy family and a fulfilling career. This quiet life, however, changed when he met the beautiful Shimamoto-san.
Hajime and Shimamoto (one given name and one surname; I know it sounds strange, but Murakami-sensei didn't actually give full name to all his characters in this book) were childhood friends. Shimamoto had always been an important person to Hajime, even though he had never met her for twenty-five years. Meeting her again just made him realize how he needed her, to the point that he was ready to leave everything behind just to be with her. So, he was devastated upon finding out one morning that she had left. There's no way to ever find her because she refused to tell him in details about her past and present life. That last time, she disappeared from his sight for good.
Their relationship, I believe, is important not in itself but rather because of what it represents. It represents something lost that you wish wasn't but, were things to be repeated once more, would still be lost anyway. Hajime often wondered what would've happened if he had mustered the will to come over to Shimamoto's house even after they went to different junior highs. But he knew that that wouldn't have been the case; his thirteen year old self would not bother to go to a girl's home two train stops away. (And even though it hurt him to hurt his high school girlfriend, Izumi, he knew that he would've cheated on her with her cousin all over again.)
While we're at it, I should mention the title. "South of the Border" refers to the Nat King Cole's song Hajime and Shimamoto used to listen to as kids. They didn't really understand what the song was all about, so they used to think that there was something amazingly wonderful south of the border. Alas, it's only Mexico. As for west of the sun, it has something to do with Siberian farmer going mental, walking on and on to the west until he collapses to the ground and dies. So, the title possibly implies the concept of hope versus despair.
That's what life is all about, isn't it? You love and be loved, you hurt and being hurt; you hope and you lose hope; you acquire something, you're missing something. The question is: can you deal with it? Or would you rather die?
Labels:
review
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Propagandist Strikes Back 11/29/2009 11:04:00 PM
Nowadays people are in the habit of attending self-awareness, motivational, spirituality, and entrepreneurial "seminars". You know, events where renown experts talk about how to achieve connection with your inner-self, how to become a successful entrepreneur, how to become more motivated, that kind of thing.
I'm not--surprise, surprise--at all impressed with any of them. I make a point of never attending one. I don't quite remember if that's always the case, but I have a vague recollection about an occurrence when my suspicion towards such programs started.
My college alumni's association have this annual (or is it six-monthly?) "self-awareness" program for students and young graduates. It's very popular and quite a few of people from my department participated in it (some even took part more than once). Curious about what the fuss was all about, I asked a former participant about it. I didn't expect much, just the general outline of the program, what they were doing and the likes. You know what she said? She said, "We're not allowed to discuss it with outsiders."
You know what she reminded me of? A citizen of some Communist country that refused to divulge information about the workings of her lovely home nation. Especially considering that she didn't sign any confidentiality agreement of some sort. And to think that I wasn't nearly as skeptical as I am now!
Basically, the whole thing smelled too much like propaganda and indoctrination to me. Maybe they are. Some motivators openly admit that their program is all about instilling suggestion into people's heads. The honesty doesn't make those programs less dubious, though.
Granted, the trainers/motivators/life-coaches are probably sincere, well-intentioned people. Some of the things they say really make sense, and they're merely helping people out. What's so wrong about it? Nothing, except that their methods are against my personal convictions.
One, you learn life's lessons when you're ready to learn it. You can pay much money to partake in such programs and gain nothing out of it, simply because you're not ready to learn it yet. If you get it you get it, if you don't then you don't.
Two, nothing good can come out of indoctrination. If nothing else, it takes conscious control out of you. You do things not because you choose to, but because you're programmed to do it. (Some programs required their participants to spend several days out of town. By replacing a subject from his/her familiar territory, the implantation of new ideas to a person's subconscious mind could be performed more effectively. It's scientific, you can check that.)
All the fancy stuff being said, it all comes down to this. Shouting out corny slogans like "Supah!" just isn't my style.
I'm not--surprise, surprise--at all impressed with any of them. I make a point of never attending one. I don't quite remember if that's always the case, but I have a vague recollection about an occurrence when my suspicion towards such programs started.
My college alumni's association have this annual (or is it six-monthly?) "self-awareness" program for students and young graduates. It's very popular and quite a few of people from my department participated in it (some even took part more than once). Curious about what the fuss was all about, I asked a former participant about it. I didn't expect much, just the general outline of the program, what they were doing and the likes. You know what she said? She said, "We're not allowed to discuss it with outsiders."
You know what she reminded me of? A citizen of some Communist country that refused to divulge information about the workings of her lovely home nation. Especially considering that she didn't sign any confidentiality agreement of some sort. And to think that I wasn't nearly as skeptical as I am now!
Basically, the whole thing smelled too much like propaganda and indoctrination to me. Maybe they are. Some motivators openly admit that their program is all about instilling suggestion into people's heads. The honesty doesn't make those programs less dubious, though.
Granted, the trainers/motivators/life-coaches are probably sincere, well-intentioned people. Some of the things they say really make sense, and they're merely helping people out. What's so wrong about it? Nothing, except that their methods are against my personal convictions.
One, you learn life's lessons when you're ready to learn it. You can pay much money to partake in such programs and gain nothing out of it, simply because you're not ready to learn it yet. If you get it you get it, if you don't then you don't.
Two, nothing good can come out of indoctrination. If nothing else, it takes conscious control out of you. You do things not because you choose to, but because you're programmed to do it. (Some programs required their participants to spend several days out of town. By replacing a subject from his/her familiar territory, the implantation of new ideas to a person's subconscious mind could be performed more effectively. It's scientific, you can check that.)
All the fancy stuff being said, it all comes down to this. Shouting out corny slogans like "Supah!" just isn't my style.
Turn Off That Phone! 11/29/2009 11:04:00 PM
In 2001, when not quite so many people had cellular phones, a college friend of mine told me this. She hung out with her friends from high school. All her friends had a cell, but she didn't at that time. The point of a get-together is to catch up with each other and all, but instead of doing so, they were busy texting and almost completely ignored my friend.
Now, in 2009, the situation is worse. Cell phones are relatively cheap these days, so nearly every person has at least one cell. You also have to bear in mind the increasing number of services available on cell phone today. People are online twenty-four hours a day, checking out messages on various chat rooms and social networking sites and so on. The kind of woe my friend experienced eight years ago escalates into new heights.
I have had similar experience myself, and I didn't like it one bit. I hate it very much when someone prefers toying with his/her cell to appropriately interacting with people in his/her company. I have inkling that cell phone junkies everywhere would object to my objection, what's with personal freedom and all. But I think they're just justifying their rudeness. Everyone has the freedom to spit at somebody else's face, but that's just plain rude, so one who does not wish to offend someone else wouldn't do it.
The thing is that the way we treat someone reflects our respect for that person. Ignoring the person before you and choosing to interact with somebody else via text message or whatever shows just how much respect you have for that person, which is none at all. That includes talking to a person and doing something with your cell. You think you would do that if it's the president you're talking to? You wouldn't, right?
And because I'm such a spiteful person, my take on the subject of people glued to their cell phone is this: they deserve respect as much as their respect for others, period.
Now, in 2009, the situation is worse. Cell phones are relatively cheap these days, so nearly every person has at least one cell. You also have to bear in mind the increasing number of services available on cell phone today. People are online twenty-four hours a day, checking out messages on various chat rooms and social networking sites and so on. The kind of woe my friend experienced eight years ago escalates into new heights.
I have had similar experience myself, and I didn't like it one bit. I hate it very much when someone prefers toying with his/her cell to appropriately interacting with people in his/her company. I have inkling that cell phone junkies everywhere would object to my objection, what's with personal freedom and all. But I think they're just justifying their rudeness. Everyone has the freedom to spit at somebody else's face, but that's just plain rude, so one who does not wish to offend someone else wouldn't do it.
The thing is that the way we treat someone reflects our respect for that person. Ignoring the person before you and choosing to interact with somebody else via text message or whatever shows just how much respect you have for that person, which is none at all. That includes talking to a person and doing something with your cell. You think you would do that if it's the president you're talking to? You wouldn't, right?
And because I'm such a spiteful person, my take on the subject of people glued to their cell phone is this: they deserve respect as much as their respect for others, period.
Labels:
rambling
Annoying as Hell 11/29/2009 11:02:00 PM
There's a fine line between politeness and bulls***ness. I couldn't quite tell which is which. Standard questions are put forth as a polite way to get a conversation going. But I wonder if "polite" is a correct depiction, because they seem to bug me to no end.
When I was a kid, adults used to ask the same set of questions over and over again. "How old are you?" "What grade are you in?" "Where do you go to school?" These questions bored me. If they were so interested, why couldn't they just memorize the answers? I thought.
At this point in my life the questions frequently issued for my benefit would be: "Are you married?" and "Where do you go to work?" These questions are just as mundane as the ones asked when I was younger. And they irked me more, not in themselves, but because of people's reactions towards my answers.
For your information, I'm a freelance translator. I know this is not the kind of job someone with a degree in Pharmaceutical Sciences usually takes. But I honestly can't stand people who said, "Why don't you work in a job relevant to Pharmaceutics? It's such a waste." Give me a break. Could anyone please show me one person that applies absolutely one hundred percent of the things they studied as student to the work they're doing? I bet they can't find any. And if school is all about getting a job, one needs not to bother. You need wits to become a super rich person, not a school diploma. As for why I choose a job seemingly unrelated to my education, that's my business. As if they really want to know why.
I also should mention that a surprising number of people don't understand what "freelance" means. That means I have to patiently explain to them that I'm not attached to a particular organization. But the part that makes me wonder if some people truly have a brain inside of their heads is when they asked--after I explained the above to them--again, "So, where do you work?" If there's one thing I can't put up with, it is stupidity that comes along with a lack of common sense.
Other comments that make my patience grow even thinner are: "Wow, aren't you bored? Working at home and all?" and "Why don't you look for something more stable?" The respond that I wish I have the guts to spurt out is: "As if you f****** care!" Every thing has its drawback, and I didn't comment on that aspect of their job, so why can't they just shut up?
But I guess what is bothering me the most is the fact that people who respond this way are the ones who don't know anything about me. They're not my friends or anything--we just happen to know each other due to accidental circumstances: same school, same acquaintances, that sort of thing. They don't care about me and, frankly, I don't care about them either. So why don't we all stop trying to be "polite" altogether?
Note: You might've already figured out that I'm not what you call a "nice" person. I'm not. I took the "What country hates you the most?" quiz in Facebook and my result was Switzerland. My temperament is so bad that even the good old Swiss dislike me.
When I was a kid, adults used to ask the same set of questions over and over again. "How old are you?" "What grade are you in?" "Where do you go to school?" These questions bored me. If they were so interested, why couldn't they just memorize the answers? I thought.
At this point in my life the questions frequently issued for my benefit would be: "Are you married?" and "Where do you go to work?" These questions are just as mundane as the ones asked when I was younger. And they irked me more, not in themselves, but because of people's reactions towards my answers.
For your information, I'm a freelance translator. I know this is not the kind of job someone with a degree in Pharmaceutical Sciences usually takes. But I honestly can't stand people who said, "Why don't you work in a job relevant to Pharmaceutics? It's such a waste." Give me a break. Could anyone please show me one person that applies absolutely one hundred percent of the things they studied as student to the work they're doing? I bet they can't find any. And if school is all about getting a job, one needs not to bother. You need wits to become a super rich person, not a school diploma. As for why I choose a job seemingly unrelated to my education, that's my business. As if they really want to know why.
I also should mention that a surprising number of people don't understand what "freelance" means. That means I have to patiently explain to them that I'm not attached to a particular organization. But the part that makes me wonder if some people truly have a brain inside of their heads is when they asked--after I explained the above to them--again, "So, where do you work?" If there's one thing I can't put up with, it is stupidity that comes along with a lack of common sense.
Other comments that make my patience grow even thinner are: "Wow, aren't you bored? Working at home and all?" and "Why don't you look for something more stable?" The respond that I wish I have the guts to spurt out is: "As if you f****** care!" Every thing has its drawback, and I didn't comment on that aspect of their job, so why can't they just shut up?
But I guess what is bothering me the most is the fact that people who respond this way are the ones who don't know anything about me. They're not my friends or anything--we just happen to know each other due to accidental circumstances: same school, same acquaintances, that sort of thing. They don't care about me and, frankly, I don't care about them either. So why don't we all stop trying to be "polite" altogether?
Note: You might've already figured out that I'm not what you call a "nice" person. I'm not. I took the "What country hates you the most?" quiz in Facebook and my result was Switzerland. My temperament is so bad that even the good old Swiss dislike me.
Labels:
rambling
Why Writers Killed Themselves 11/29/2009 10:59:00 PM
So. It is commonly believed that the relative number of writers--novelists, poets, lyricists--who committed suicide is higher compared to that of other professions. I don't know if it's true or if anyone actually did a semi-scientific investigation on that matter.
But I guess what strikes people most about writers' suicide is their lack of apparent reason. People can understand if someone is prompted to commit suicide due to severe abuse inflicted upon him/her, financial difficulties, or chronic illness. But some of these writers were young, successful, famous, quite well-off, yet they took the plunge anyway. Writers' suicide becomes some sort of unsolved mystery that is romantic as much as it is creepy.
I'd like to say that I have a theory, a hunch if you will, about it. It's not something that needs to be taken too seriously but quite intriguing to mull over.
To become a good writer, you need to be sensitive and inquisitive. A good writer is honest in his/her works. Because of that, he will scrutinize a topic thoroughly, not just the positive aspects but also its cruel, harsh facet. He will see things unnoticeable by many, and they're not always lovely. The deeper he digs into it, the darker it gets. And, like it or not, it is this understanding that creates outstanding work of art. But it is also this understanding that can tear him into pieces.
Long story short, people of a particular profession adopt a certain mental attitude. A journalist friend of mine said that a lot of her fellow journalists ended up being pessimistic, having seen so many un-praiseworthy deeds of politicians and stuff. It's only normal for writers who deal with the subject matter of human nature to get depressed. The ones who cannot cope with it well might break down and choose to end their life instead of living the miserable existence of being.
I know it's all very complicated and hard to understand, so I'll wrap it up with a personal experience.
I wanted to write about human existence, mine in particular. So I thought long and hard about it. I finally concluded that my existence means nothing, neither to God, to my family, nor my friends. The thought threw my straight away into depression. Try to reflect on the things along that line long enough on day-to-day basis like some of those writers; it would be amazing if you don't start to want to kill yourself even when you're doing so.
Note: Speaking about writers who committed suicide, there's one writer in that category whose work I really wish to read but haven't: Yukio Mishima. Nevertheless, it seems that Mishima's suicide had nothing to do with depression. He was obsessed with bushido and eternal glory, as far as I know, and his decision was probably triggered by that kind of thing.
But I guess what strikes people most about writers' suicide is their lack of apparent reason. People can understand if someone is prompted to commit suicide due to severe abuse inflicted upon him/her, financial difficulties, or chronic illness. But some of these writers were young, successful, famous, quite well-off, yet they took the plunge anyway. Writers' suicide becomes some sort of unsolved mystery that is romantic as much as it is creepy.
I'd like to say that I have a theory, a hunch if you will, about it. It's not something that needs to be taken too seriously but quite intriguing to mull over.
To become a good writer, you need to be sensitive and inquisitive. A good writer is honest in his/her works. Because of that, he will scrutinize a topic thoroughly, not just the positive aspects but also its cruel, harsh facet. He will see things unnoticeable by many, and they're not always lovely. The deeper he digs into it, the darker it gets. And, like it or not, it is this understanding that creates outstanding work of art. But it is also this understanding that can tear him into pieces.
Long story short, people of a particular profession adopt a certain mental attitude. A journalist friend of mine said that a lot of her fellow journalists ended up being pessimistic, having seen so many un-praiseworthy deeds of politicians and stuff. It's only normal for writers who deal with the subject matter of human nature to get depressed. The ones who cannot cope with it well might break down and choose to end their life instead of living the miserable existence of being.
I know it's all very complicated and hard to understand, so I'll wrap it up with a personal experience.
I wanted to write about human existence, mine in particular. So I thought long and hard about it. I finally concluded that my existence means nothing, neither to God, to my family, nor my friends. The thought threw my straight away into depression. Try to reflect on the things along that line long enough on day-to-day basis like some of those writers; it would be amazing if you don't start to want to kill yourself even when you're doing so.
Note: Speaking about writers who committed suicide, there's one writer in that category whose work I really wish to read but haven't: Yukio Mishima. Nevertheless, it seems that Mishima's suicide had nothing to do with depression. He was obsessed with bushido and eternal glory, as far as I know, and his decision was probably triggered by that kind of thing.
Labels:
insight