john 2

I workout five days in a week. When my all my paid work finishes at 4:30, I read for an hour after or take a walk around the area, make dinner at 5:30 or 6, take a one-hour nap, then have dinner at seven. After that, I allow myself to be drowned by asinine noise emanating from the TV, or if I could think of anything better to do, I write. At around ten when I get tired of thinking, reading, or working, I hop on to my ever dependable black trainers and walk to a nearby Gold’s and sweat it off until I’m sure I have enough. Although this part doesn’t come too easy as there are days when the call of sleep is much stronger than my desire to grow bulging biceps or massive pecs. At 11:30 or just before midnight, I retire to my bed contented with the delusion that my day is spent well.

A part of me tells me this is not all there is to life. That I must be a part of an entity bigger than myself. That I need to figure out the role of my piece in this giant puzzle. That having a mission will give meaning to my existence. Ho hum.

One of the many advantages of having a routine is that one always finds himself resorting to auto-pilot, freeing up the mind for more important cerebration. One issue, however, with routine is that its repeated rhythmic humming is so comforting that if one is not careful enough he will be left in a state of coma he might not recover from, or in the event he recovers, forever altering him, maybe even disabling some of his important functions.

And that I fear.

We all want to feel secure with the knowledge that the current state of things will not change any time soon, that what we are working on right now will remain relevant until we’re able to adjust to something new well enough.

Some will exhort, these are the more driven ones, to seize our moment in the sun. To chase the wind.

But what if my goal is paralysis, stasis, sedentariness, comfort?

Condensation and ‘Nymph()maniac’

For a year I had waited for the rainy season to return. Since Friday night the rain has not abated save for some patches lasting five to twelve minutes when the clouds just took some time resting before they poured again non-stop. It has been cloudy the whole day today. The glass wall of my office was made opaque by this condensing pesky humidity, the same humidity which for three months has overstayed its welcome. I could only imagine what’s in the other side. It reminded me of those pito-pito bold films in the 90s where directors, fearing censorship, veiled their badly done simulation of sex with perspiring glass doors.

Speaking of…

I downloaded this movie by Lars von Trier around a month ago but did not find enough momentum and commitment to spend five hours watching the two volumes so I kept on postponing watching them until an opportunity arose–I became sufficiently consumed by boredom that I was left with no option but to begin watching the movie. The movie is watchable, if you’re a certain kind of viewer. If you have high tolerance for naked bodies, erect and flaccid phalluses (a lot of them), unorthodox tastes in sex, and long-winding conversations, then this film is for you. If you have a habit of associating meanings to anything, this film offers you enough objects of whose significance will make you spend your waking days figuring out. I quit figuring out after a while.

This film will not, I repeat, will not titillate.


But it’s a nice film, not the kind that you would let freshman English students watch, but good enough to give you a glimpse of the other side of the glass wall made translucent by that condensing humidity.

Thank God it’s cooler now.