Yes, I know. Everyone hates hypocrisy. Still, there seems to be no dearth of hypocrites all around us! That’s just..hypocritical.
What is this radar that can detect insincerity in others but not in ourselves? Makes me worry that I might be a bigot or a hypocrite without knowing it.
“It is not our abilities, but our choices that make us who we are.”
–Albus Dumbledore to an almost-twelve-years-old Harry Potter.
Every day of our lives, almost every minute, we are faced with choices. Should I get up right now or can I manage to stay in bed for five more minutes? Wear the red shirt or the green one to work? Eat an apple for breakfast or have cornflakes? Take the umbrella with me or not? Should I ask her out for coffee today or wait for a more opportune moment? Tell mom I hate the blouse she bought me or let her think I love it? Shift to another city and a better pay or stay here with family?
These may range from merely trivial to absolutely life changing, but at the moment of decision-making, they are all equally momentous.
Makes one wonder what would happen if we didn’t have to choose at all. If we’d just know what to do–just one way to do things, and no other. No decision making involved. Do your thing and don’t worry about what to make for dinner tonight.
Would that make us supermen or automatons?
April is apparently ‘poetry month’, and I am a closet poet. I suppose it’s the sort of event/ celebration/ motivation/ muse that every poet-cum-postaday-blogger aspires for. I, however, have been suffering from a paralyzing case of poet’s block. Unable to pen down a single couplet of free verse, let alone a rhyme.
It is frustrating, it is annoying, it is a case of stubbornness of the subconscious. That is to say, my subconscious refuses to do anything that is required of her, especially at the time she is required to do it. She may complete the job the minute the deadline has passed. Or, in some cases when perhaps she is feeling charitable, about 15 minutes before that. Have you heard the phrase ‘at the eleventh hour’? My high school principal loved to tell us to refrain from leaving things ‘for the eleventh hour’. In my case, or more precisely my subconscious’, it is literally the quarter-to-midnight-th hour. In rare but much appreciated instances, half-past-eleventh hour. I kid you not.
So every day I sit with my laptop on–where else?–the bed, and wait for inspiration to knock. In vain. Because, let’s face it, it’s not April 30th yet!
horror film opening shot (Photo credit: glsƒngrs)
I’ve heard trees whispering, singing, sighing, laughing. In books trees are forever groaning, creaking, twisting; old trees in older forests. But I hadn’t ever heard them do that in real life, until today.
While heralding the coming of a thunderstorm, a tree was creaking. No, it was squeaking, exactly the way huge, old, unoiled, scary doors do in horror movies. Probably it was a very old tree. I think he was telling his grandson how he survived the Great Lightening Storm of ’06 (“that’s 1806 to you, boy!”).
Maybe old trees creak only in thunderstorms?
“You pierce my soul. I’m half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I’m too late. […] For you alone I think and plan.”
–Captain Wentworth, in the best-loved love-letter of all time in Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion’.
Do you ever feel that you’re an anachronism? That you’d rather have been born in a time and place where romance was simpler and yet more complex than now? I get that whenever I watch or read period romances. Like I’ve been doing for the past few days. I started with ‘The Lizzie Bennet Diaries’, moved on to ‘Lost in Austen‘, then watched all the four episodes of BBC’s adaptation of ‘North and South’, got worm-holed (my friend V’s expression, I hope you don’t mind me borrowing, V!) into watching my favorite scenes of ‘Emma’ (Jonny Lee Miller playing the gorgeously correct Mr. Knightly), and rounded up by watching Ciaran Hind in ‘Persuasion’. And WOW! I just can’t ever get enough of historical romances in general and Jane Austen in particular.
Amanda Price, I totally empathize with you!
Lost in Austen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As happy as happy could be.
What a baffling phrase/idiom/cliche. Who knows how happy can Happy be?
I know someone called ‘Happy’ who hates this expression with all his being. No wonder, with a name like that. School was hard on him; with everybody expecting him to be happy all the time. “Fell and hurt your knees? Don’t cry, even your name is Happy!”; “Sky is falling? But you are Happy!”.
“Happy as Happy can be?”, he’d ask me, “how does anybody know how happy I can be, or have the capacity of being?”
I wonder how this expression came into being, and whether he suffered any ill-effects from all the curses my friend Happy has sent his way.
I’m in a pain-induced haze. No, no pain killers. Just this nagging, blinding, tearing, searing feeling that’s making me type out this random post. My eyes burn and weigh.. a.. well, they weigh ten times what they’re supposed to. Wow, I can’t even decide if I want this post to be funny or intense or arbitrary. Who decides what is arbitrary anyway? One woman’s arbitrary is another’s authority.