Let’s have an abridged story, past, current and hereafter, about my water polo endeavor:
April,2010: Joined December,2010: Gearing up for IVP. January 4, 2010: IVP.
I surmise that 8 months of thrice-weekly vigorous swimming is a decent investment in raising personal physical standards, factoring in my 5-year hiatus from water related ventures, except for that one time I took part in a substandard biathlon when I was 15 and discovered at the venue that warming up was proficient at depleting my reservoirs of stamina. Compounding the issue was my body, which wasn’t really within the proximity of a streamlined, svelte figure that was capable of pissing all over the face of trivial physical forces such as “drag” or “resistance”.
Without further ado, it took at least 3 generations before I could pass the baton to my friend who by then, was a wizened and grizzled veteran of the brutal and inhumane working environment in Singapore. I reckon him finishing the race was a reward in itself, and the follow up drinking bender to commemorate the noteworthiness of our achievement in championing the human spirit was deeply satisfying.
At the coaxing from a friend, I have been perusing The Notebook in the form of a novel. People swear by the movie as a efficient method for guys to prove to women that their tear glands are not hidden behind a barrier constructed with reinforced concrete and moisturiser absorbers and for ladies, the kind of romance that bypasses all barriers, emotional and rational, to strike right at the core of your compassion and sympathy, therefore rescinding your ability to ward off concerned inquisitions by opportunistic males (alright I just looked up and there’s a man on crying on the TV. Guess who is absorbing the sight of a blubbering man? That’s right, a vagina bearer). So far, I’ve thumbed through 90 pages and at page 90 my mind was deviating towards methods of concealing my valuables as I edged towards the tranquility of snoozing.
Alright, my tendency towards being periphrastic and paralipsis is rather insatiable, but that’s the fun of it (looked up again and now TWO men are dripping moisture from their eyes. Ancient China must have been one hell of a place to anyone prone to heart wrenches). Creativity with images, primarily photographs, doesn’t take as much effort because the visual does all the talk, but with text and letters, it’s akin to applying make up or concocting a new shampoo formula: Single components assembled together for something greater, and everything used has to have relevance or else it’s perceived to be redundant. That said, I’m not downplaying the importance of imagery. Convenience is essential in times of a lack of time, and methods that relieve the mind from having to piece together individual units into a cohesive graphic reign superior.
Which is why I’m not waiting for the new year to resume investing in a brain deposit. It’s that time of the year where I reengage the masses with not just ideas that provoke your noggin but with radical notions intended to rattle the foundation of your perceptions!
Breaking news with no correlation: I am prone to malarkey.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others
i love thailand. i love the people. i love the food. i love the cheap goods. i love the weather and how for 10 days i get darker. i love the big malls and i love the traffic, because i can sleep for an hour in a jam and wake up knowing i’m left with another hour of sleep.
3 months into the new year. I guess time doesn’t really care if you’re having fun or hell. It’s an unstoppable force, controlling and contorting the distance to another year, and another year, and another year, and another year, till we’re all wizened by it and reminiscing about what was and what could have been.