Said Who?

That going to malls is such a waste of time? 

This is what I have learnt today

the social phenomenon of parents and kids on board and aircraft

A POLITICALLY INCORRECT ESSAY ON KIDS AND THEIR PARENTS

 

(So to all those sensitive readers, stop reading here)

I had a situation which many of my colleagues will be familiar with. 

Aircraft. Boarding. 

A kid comes on his own running like he's about to miss the flight, though there are 289 souls queuing to get in behind him. I stop him and tell him to wait for his parents because on his own his not going anywhere. He might have had some sort of attention disorder, or maybe he plain simply did not understand what I was talking about, he runs into aircraft in an attempt to run up and down the aisle during the boarding process -good luck pal-. So again, this time grabbing him by the head I tell him to wait by my side until his parents come on board. In a more assertive tone. He stays three seconds before he tries to run away again. I pulled him backwards by his hair, stopped the boarding process and yelled at him to stay where he is. 

MILANO

And every time I come to Italy and get lost in its streets and the strangers' chit chats it is that I understand just how Italian we are . And so I get emotional.

PROLOGUE
Cracked it, this is where locals mix; high heels, pretty handbag, expensive suits, punks, vegans and runners. And yes, if I was a millionaire, I would have a little apartment in every spot of the world that I love. And this would be one.

NAVIGLIO, Milano: A bird's eye view

In the background, the radio flickers between cheap Latin remixed music that might as well be from the 90's and the football channel. Honestly, I preferred the football, at least it was an Argentinian pretending to speak Italian and I understood him. And it was more interesting than this horrible pop mass produced music.

To my closest left-hand side:  an arcade wooden door full of graffiti. It was dark, N53. By the looks of it, you wouldn't expect anyone to actually live there. But for the 45' I've been here, it's been the busiest door of the 'hood:
*Milanese mum with pram and dog
*Middle aged -I reckon going through the mid life crisized (I am such a literal Nobel that I made up that word, it derives from crisis, means to actually be in a or recently have been in a crisis; hence crisized) recently divorced just got a BMW massive bike- stylish Italian man
*Punk Arab girl
*Indian girl
*Chinese party of three females
Either a diamond in brute this building...Or I don't know.

The street stretches along to the left. Sun umbrellas for sixteen, those that you expect to find in Montgomery Golf Club rather than here. Seems like everybody that lives on top of these cafés restaurants pizzerias goes through that mysterious graffitied door... On top of all these Italian to the core food establishments, what in my opinion, used to be palaces or mansions or big five storied houses. Classic ones. In diverse classic colours: ochre, old pink, sandy yellow just to name a few.

Kind of ninety degree or to my nine o'clock (oh oh time has made me so technical) there's an iron bridge. Nothing majestic. More like an improvisation back in the glam days.
Underneath : the canal.
On the other side of the canal (ten o'clock now) more of this old houses that host food establishments on ground floor, lovely colours on the facade and all sorts of characters on the inside.

Same same same eleven twelve one two and a half  o'clock around.

Three o'clock there's another bridge that links both sides of the maybe in a different time of the year canal (oh did I forget to mention it's dry and looks more like a Patagonian ocean bed than a canal? Full of pigeons eating rubbish) this bridge instead is concrete. I find it more charming . Three four five o'clock more food establishments. Loads of competition. So I will focus on mine coz that's where I am and what I can describe.

Here is where Milano's glam ends. In a way. Luis Vuitton, Chanel and all the haute couture mates are long ago left behind. Corso Genoa is the transition. Or maybe that starts earlier but this is where you realize that you are walking down a normal 'hood street, where normal people actually live and they are dressed up normally -despite you and I hating average normal dressers. Beautiful Elite models Vogue cover girls and world class brains from European banks and other organizations in their fancy suits and even fancier retirement plans that I do not envy at all (I do love those handbags though) are back in Milano, that Milano you have in your head around the Duomo and etc's.

I am here. Facing the south bank (that's just a random guess but since there's Southbank in London and Brisbane why not in Milano?)  of the once a canal and looking at the étrange mix of neighbours come in and out, lost tourists passing by, locals choosing the happy hour of the day (FYI happy hour here extends from 5pm til like closing time. Happiest hour ever, prosecco included), zipping Pinot's and Prosecco and enjoying an €8 all you can eat -al fresco, metal tables, plastic china&silver for Italian home made food... Sin if you ask me- and all you can drink (in glass glass) :)
I hope they they switch the radio back to football. This industrial pop rap is killing me. So is tiramisu. Or turn it off, some locale close by plays music from like the fifties, totally vintage and I love it.

Dogs are social.
People are social. They talk to each other from one side of the canal to the other, maybe they yell, coz they all do it at the same time too, so at times it can be quite loud. But it's Italy. Never loud enough though, if you can still eavesdrop on the conversation passers by are having...
They ride bikes of all kinds and colours. Same as their hairs and shoes. Wanna be's from the city walk hopping from pond to pond popping their heels in the stones that maybe at once the emperor himself walked by.
And after sun goes down runners come out.

Runners seem to be males. As if running was forbidden for milanese woman, who are only allowed to walk prams or ride funky bikes commuting style (how are they so hot then? Dunno)

Food is delicious. Salads pasta pies Cake... Doesn't get much better than this

PS
At my two and a half , if you just look at it in a 'panning kind of look' it looks like some alpine locality. Maybe, just maybe , 'coz we are not so far .


IT GOES ON IN THE METRO

The occasional musicians from some country no local likes, the limping one, the seller, the gypsy and all the usual suspects come and go by asking for money. I like the accordion player. But don't like to feed the masses. It's hard to tell though when someone needs it or needs it -as I do a beer- you know what I mean? I always think of my bro the musician and tend to tip'em . What goes around comes around. It might not be the best reason but at least is a reason.

What I love about locals here is that they wear glasses, they read, and they hide behind the books as if a books could stop them from hearing the accordion or the limping fake leg or the crying sick baby. Super-powerful books that Italians read, whatever. And once again this homey feeling. Can someone that's so much apart in time and space be so much the same? How do the genes work? How does this info travel?

Maybe because they're from the north maybe because God actually creates and we mix: Can't help but loving it here with all it's incongruousness: they queue on one side of escalator and on the other they climb as if we were in UK!

 

Where streets have no name

YET EVERY TREE is botanically signalled

Angkor Wat (Hindu? Buddhist? What are you, what am I?)
Trimmed as neat as a soldier's head. It commands you to relook at yourself, within this environment, to reevaluate yourself upon such an expression, such symmetry, such decadence ... such perfection. Even before you are done with the amazement, you are ordered to question life in ways have never done before.

What lies upon your eyes, the grounds in which you stand, the buildings that have been telling stories for thousands of years and never finish falling apart. No. You haven't been in a place like this before. Or will you ever do again, rest assured.

Sun can be killer. When it is, think what it was like for those erecting and maintaing this with zero robotic technology. All of a sudden your soul feels heavy (with guilt if you are a good catholic girl) or with whichever heaviness you choose to put upon your shoulders. The sun becomes colder than the arctic circle.

Many other little temples
The many other minor temples visited before Angkor Wat, each in a different way, are all screams of magnificent majesty. Only humans believing themselves gods could have, not only foreseen, but carried away such constructions. A clear reflection of what they thought they were.

Bayon(?) 
Bayon looks back at you from e v e r y   s i n  g l e   c o r n e r . Happy to receive you, stern and so imposing.


Confusing on the first level, intriguing on the second, again this questioning phenomena, doubts, imagination: it's all triggered at once in this playground for the mind. And a feeling -still wondering which one it is- cooks up slowly in your stomach. What is it? Will someone ever know ? Will I ever be able to let go form this?

And Angkor Thom (literally, in Khmer, The Great City) Is it the Monastery or is it the Jungle? Eclectic poem, decadent ruin, ruined while trying to ruin the jungle. Jungle keeps winning. Roots taller than people (and though yeah, it doesn't take much to be taller than me, they are taller than many other people). Roots adapting to every building set on stone and blood, bricks give up. Roots grow up. The sky is always there to reach for. Always a bit higher. There go the trees. Higher than high.

Incessantly elevating their bodies and souls to those heavens that belong to Gods that we don't know but that still look after us, minuscule beings, under their shade. Take a deep breath. Relax. Take a while and inhale it, absorb it all . These gods, these trees, they know we need a place to stop and let things sink  in, and here is where that happens.

All expressions are exaggerations, I promise I'm not exaggerating. The centipede was big as my hand, and my tears were real, as real as every day gone by here.

It's dark when I arrive and the ride is fairly short. I can't see as much as I wish. But I feel it enough. Vibrant, with a character that can't wait to show off. Seems like it will have some style too. 

The sun rises right in front of me. I sample a variety of local and exotic fruits: each one of them deserves to be savoured.

The dust of the street and the smog off the exhausts,
The lactic acid of the pineapple and the sweetness of the mango,
The freshly baked to french perfection baguettes and the amok, lok lak and other spices,
The style... NOthing else than remains of French Influence
...It all comes together in one big sticky darkish  cloud, don your light blue mask, blend in:

Welcome to Phnom Penh

Contradictions, horror, poverty, beggars, endless tuk tuk offers (scientifically proven about 472 in 3h).

I name the next bit of my thoughts DISAGREE, because you might.

I don't dine in 5 star hotels/restaurants (not all the time), I dine in USD5 beer included shacks with plastic chairs and riverfront view, only 'coz life happens in the riverfront.

At some of them the risk is that miserable poverty will walk into you. Choking you if you dare take that ready to go spoonful. I walk through this misery every day, trying to ignore as gently and peacefully as their existence. But truth is such misery, such poverty is never gentle or peaceful, not even to the strongest soul or the most stubborn mind. Not psychologically.

There they are, staring at you, them, their potential costumer's meal. Here they are, staring at mine. And yes, I am weak and vulnerable. I can't help feeling awful. Even though I have earned it. I can't feeling blessed, for the chances I had and they didn't.

I invite him in . 'Can you read? (the menu - and I hope he didn't take it bad), choose something, keep me company if you want, because I'm not getting a book from you'. And it was fine with him. And his little -what I thought: sister-

I was beginning to feel better until he started telling me his story, how one day the Khmer Rouge Regime came in, split the family and never saw anyone again. And how when it was over he had nowhere to go, no education, not a thing.

'But how old are you?' I inquired, trying to hide my disbelief. To me, before he told me the story, he was 15 years old.
'31' he shot back at me, 'and you?'
Only after choking I was able to reply my own age. How sad is it that he just looks like a 13 16 year old because he just never grew up! Not enough food. Dear me, dear you, dear all of US! And me carrying these few KG extra.... He could do with'em.

 Then, he went on with the story, a friendly restaurant owner allowed him to sell books inside his establishment, to leave a bag with a set of clean clothes, to take a shower each morning before school and wash up the other set of clothes. 

Until here we are, one evening like any other, talking as if friends. He's desperate to get another 40USD to pay the monthly school fee because he doesn't wanna let go the whole year for not being able to pay the last month. I salute him.

Oh man, you can see in his eyes how hard he tries, but even more, how much harder life tries on him. And just like him so many other "kids" (that probably are 20 years older than what they look, because they starved  so many years).

And as well as I know that comparisons apply only to bitter people (and the only bitterness in me is the sense of humour) I can't help comparing. Thinking parallelisms with my own people. There is misery, there are forgotten places. And also there is fomented poverty and happy poor people. Poor form the soul, that prefer a social plan than a decent job. That prefer free money (for drugs and alcohol, and who am I to judge?) than a decent job.  Even if they wanted to go to school, back home, it'd be free. I rest my case by saying that most people in Villa 31 -THE shanty town– have a satellite tv. Here in Cambodia: little money but a clean spirit.
"English? Is the future, I learn at school"

And that's the dark side of the city and not the annoying tuk tuk drivers. It's the misery, the desperation, the insistence. At the same time, they are respectable human beings who treat you as such and expect nothing less but the same.

The bright side?
There is no violence.
There is no fear.
There is no paranoia.
There is optimism.
There is a moral to be learnt.

That's priceless.
Sorry, what was I complaining about last time we met?

Beautiful Lil' India

He smokes bidis, she covers her head.

There is a library, and people actually still use it. 

There is a colonial look, a great vibe and a romantic feeling. Utopia.

Until there were they, westerners, with shopping bags, presents. -Forgiven, because of the Christmas Season, and because who am I to judge anyway...-

Monsoon. Grey. Apocalyptic. High Clouds. Breeze. Sticky air.

Usually I would take one way to go, another way to come back, not to miss anything. But so absorbed are my eyes by just the one side of the road that I might actually come back the same way to stare at the other side of the road. And it will happen guilt free. (Oh yeah, don't we good catholic -at least in theory and paper- girls know how to feel guilty about it all?)

As I approach the neighbourhood, I feel the looks. Try to ignore is all and the best I can do: keep walking, don't look back.  Stares, flowers, masalas, incense, mangos, 24carat gold, spices, colours, lizards; they all coexist in a chaotic harmony that can only happen in Little India. There would be no harmony if it wasn't for this overly populated by men chaos. I am the only woman I can see in the streets for a long time. I am used to this.

My obsessive compulsive addiction for incense has great chances of receiving a decent fix today.  This place is home for different smokes and aromas. Might actually have to try one of each. My blood boils with excitement.

Next to the electronics' store it smells fresh grassy green, coconuty, minty. Next to the BMW parked outside a store of all wooden deities ever imagined pepper itches my nose.

Chinese platform little black shoes. They have a ribbon on top. Open toes. I am blessing the absence of rats in the streets the moment I almost step into a dead pigeon. Aick. Drops the size of who knows what start falling from heaven.

And how welcome they are. They make the air softer, lighter. 

Meanwhile I share a table at the hawkers food establishment with a group of what seems four Indian workers. They look at me eat my food -veggie curry- with my hands and they can't help giggling like little girls. I know my fingers, no matter how much I lick them (is that allowed by this protocol?) will be yellow until well into the night if tomorrow. Suck it, I don't care, it tastes delicious. 

Little India

Singapore

Sept.2012

MELANCHOLY À MONTRÉAL

l o s t

LOST

in translation

in the metro

in the public toilet selection of buttons

lost in TOKYO!

 

R O M A

Barely outside a five star hotel (wouldn't you imagine a clean place?) which is not even in proper Rome and I already understand why they say (they?  who are they? They are the ones that know about every certain matter. 99.9% of the times, no one involved in the conversation actually knows them. Love it) that Buenos Aires looks like Paris and smells like Rome. After thirty or so years, I must admit, they were right. 

But that was not the beginning. So I will start from the very beginning. After all, isn't Rome one of the beginnings of everything? To me, it is. 

Upon boarding the aircraft, seeing my guests of the day makes my day. A good vibe in the air -and no, it wasn't because of my usual sparkling mood.  Old. young, middle age crisisers, women, babies ... everybody all the way to catering men upon landing in Rome are beautifully sexy (saying babies makes it seem sick, I apologize, babies are just oddly beautiful, like they are not normal babies with those purple tones and wrinkles all over).

NOTE: catering people are usually not the prettiest selection of human beings.  Definitely not sexy. This beauty phenomena only occurred in Vienna where even garbage man was so handsome and in East Europe where you don't know whether to focus on architecture or people!

So Italians, Europeans but not so much. My European concept includes English, French, Germans and other Nordic nations. No intention of offending anyone but Italians are a lot more Latin than the rest of Europeans: they have sun and winter is not S O cold. Everything, all, from infrastructure, vehicles to all the rest of the etc's is a lot more shabby, less technologically daring, and no, there are no surprising treats. It's like all has been seen, smelt, heard somewhere or at some point before. All is very used. Third hand feel to it. 

Still, and despite all that, how cute is the POLIZIA, their uniforms, the sirens. Ah... big big sigh.

For a while, during the train ride, I felt I was in some sort of porteño neighbourhood. A familiar and cozy air that I can't really describe so I will not even try. I felt I am no stranger in that ghetto. There are lots of clothes hanging everywhere, people sleeping under the bridge! THAT was a surprise. 

Graffiti blanketed the side of the roads. And this gives me a hint of what is well known: Romans (Italians I should say) are into demonstrations, expressions, colours. Passively, or not so much, they are loud. They  d o  n o t   g o  unnoticed. 

Some buildings really lack in style and I wonder why. This is Italy after all, land where every word is beautiful. But they make up in decadent colourfulness. Those style-less buildings, so alive with their balconies full of either clothes or plants, they commingle with old day pompous palazzos -nowadays I bet they are overpopulated villas. Their glory, long time dead. 

T H A T my dear reader,  was my intro to ROME. 

Finally I emerge: monuments, fountains, churches, forests, marble and all that Piazza del Popolo means to me, you and everybody that takes a first step in there. 

And remember that all of a sudden I realized why they say that Buenos Aires smells like Rome? Well, even sharper, more abrupt was my realization that Rome is Rome and has kept her category during thousands of years for a reason. Zero Vanity. OR 100% vanity?  The grandness , magnitude, prodigiousness (you know what I mean, right?) of what I was about to see sank in. And as loud, chatty, expressive, sentimental and demonstrative as I can be (you can take the Italian out of Italy but not Italy out of the Italian, or was that for the English only?) I am 

speechless. 

PEKÍN

Beijing. Year 2012. 

Population: approx. 19.612million human beings (and not many living dogs)

And which are the odds of taking the same train to  go at 07:30h and to come back at 11:30h as any other randon couple with a baby in a carrycot? 

1 in 19.612million? (Statistics is not my cup of tea) Anyway, lucky me! 

When I saw them on way there I thought of smiling at them but then an odd feeling took over me and I didn't:

I got all paranoid about the baby being dead, or a stolen baby or maybe just a massive block of heroine covered and made up to look as a baby.

That's how I remembered an ordinary couple of chinese people with an ordinarily dressed up baby. Because I studied them as If I'd be asked to IDEntify them later on. Odd. I told you. 

Anyways . Ordinary Chinese. Exotic to us westerners. They look at us like we look at them probably. And even though they are pretty much everywhere (have you been somewhere without Chinese people or Chinatown? I don't think I have) we -or I- still react to them as if ... As if what? Don't know. But I react to them. 

Most the time I think I am normal towards them, but when I see a father running behind his kid learning to walk with a camera and find myself thinking "ah they are like us, they take a million graceless pictures of a baby learning to walk" , that's when I realize I am not normal towards them or I don't think they are the same same . Same same but different. 

Dear Beijing, I prefer to call you pekin. And I hope both you don't mind and you apologize me .

I have missed you more than I thought. Coming back, breathing the chilled polluted air you feed us, being as harassed by the bicycles in the street as by the looks of strangers... Your aromas, your sounds, your Asian idiosyncrasies , yet so superior -though maybe in a more decadent way- than so many other so called Asian capitals. 

Pekin, you've seen me growing into a champion when it comes to sucking the spaghetti out of the lettuce and peanuts soup with the chop sticks , noise & splash included , just like any fellow Chinese . 

Pekin pekin , I sight upon the thought of you . I hold my breath upon your public toilets . I am always hungry of your teachings. My heart is always open to you.

JObs Did The job

Is there steve?

Thank You!

I had this friend, (he became my soul mate, love of a lifetime), who was the first one to argue with me that there is no such thing as boy-girl simple friends, there is always something "deeper". Do you agree, do you not? The hen or the egg? I'm not going down that road today.

I am going down another road that this friend took me through:
There is always some sort of chemistry, physical attraction. Even when you think this person isn't damned good looking, your inner self, liked it at a first quick unconscious glance. And that's how and when it all start(ed)s.
And, I would lie if I denied it. What first appealed me, was physical attraction.
That's how Myself and Mac got started.

It's a love for ambition, perfection, the A team, flawless, stylish and SO much more. It's an intimate relationship. Me and my Mac, we spend nights together, share the bed, doing all sorts of things. And when we don't hang out, I miss her, her light, her warmth.  She's a part of me now.
I love Mac.
So much I love Mac I would have felt weird. Until I read this article ; it says that a neurological study was conducted and people interacting with Apple prods have the same brain chemical reaction as people in mass or some sort of religious experience. Weird? Outstanding branding? The best marketing ever? Or simple products out of this world? You pray, I praise Mac.

And it was. At first, I liked it that it was a whole computer inside a colorful TV. I had no clue what a computer is used for, but it just looked so pretty I wanted one.

Later on, screen graphs were so much cooler than blueish unstylish (if that word ever exists) unfriendly unaesthetic Windows ones.
When I became a little bit aware, my love developed into the firsts signs of what my psychiatrist -if I still attended her sessions- would call an obsession. 

And one day, I did it. I opened my heart. I let it in. And it transformed my life. It changed the way of interacting in life, with life, through life. And it all happened with a Mac in between my hands, her heat in my lap, the screen faithfully taking my confessions, loyally keeping my secrets.  The keys replying to my touch in that soft voice . Agh, a love of a lifetime. Perfect partner. Can multitask, make you dance, make you smile, provide mental input, lighten up -literally speaking- your nights, sooth your days and moods. . . Just by looking at her, touching her silky body. Just-So-Perfect.

Another friend of mine, I did. I had a flirt thing. But now we are friends and even do MacThreesomes sometimes ... so this friend once explained me so that I could understand, in simple girlish enough for girls that only blog and email terms, just how powerful it is, other than perfect minimalist yet classic beauty that I hold in my hands: PC = Boing777, MAC=SpaceRocket. Since then , I love it infinite times more.

Nowadays, I'd rather be a bump with a Mac (there's WI-Fi everywhere) than have a PC. That's just how far it's gone. Helpless. But, as I always say: why do things half way when you can go even further than a 100%? I think Steve thought the same way. And it shows. Proud of him!  He did change the world. A N D , AANNNDDD he was a green minded person. That's a plus. AAAAAAaaaaaaannnnnd, yeah, maybe he changed it in an odd way, but he made it better and prettier, and even better sounding place. So cheers mate!

You know what happened? How this issue started? If Mac is my life love then iPhone is like our kid, Dancing Flake. I loved it so much I gave it to my sister and got myself another one. Just for the celebration of iPhone. 'Coz it's so much more than a phone, or a music player, or a mini computer, or a mini portable library, or an instant international post office, or a game centre all in one: Sudoku, solitary, hangman (? this one to guess the words), calculator, agenda, and ask for it, and you got it.

And then one day, I was dancing dancing dancing, and my iPhone convulsed, jumped off my back pants' pocket and died, crashed against the floor. I couldn't believe it.

I cant' get over it. I just can't. No break up has ever hurt as much as loosing my iPhone, the dancing flake ll, that was it's name... Agh! Deep breath. Life is not the same. Life is dull, communications don't shine, not to mention that they are slower than the turtle Manuelita, views just ain't represented the right way.

For us , simple materialist mortals, that find religious value in an electronic device of such perfect characteristics, there is no life after Apple, there is agony.  Life without it is  i n c o m p l e t e. 

Lustmanity

     My stillness

     Red wine my dress

     You craving a zip

     Stares collide.

     Covering the air

     Lust.

     Explosion.

     My red lipstick

     Painting you now

     Drunken by the

     Flavor of desire

     Ecstasy

     We dance

     In trance

     To the melody

     Of wrongness

     Celebrating

     Human behaviour

     Simple pleasures

     Sinful souls

P.

DXB

Dec.'08

The Moon has been misinterpreted

 

 

She owns the night
She lives among the stars
She enlightens the lovers

 

They see her dance
They see her smile
They see her shine

 

No arms reach to hug her
The sun never warms her
Her smile, lake of lonely tears.

 

Saving Jade

We'd never seen such waves, and we wouldn't miss them for anything in the world. As soon as we finished the morning joint -that would be our last joint ever- we dove in. The waves were so far but the currents helped us there very quickly. Man, were they big?! Once on the spot I got afraid, they were massive. After the first one broke on top of us, I started swimming back to the shore. At least trying. I yelled at Mark to do the same, but when I looked back his head was the size of a pin and a kilometer away, at least.

Another wave threatened from behind. I tried to surf it, but it scrambled me all over. I swam up as fast as I could to catch a breath, but the next wave's roar was deafening, even from under the water. And so they went by, a nonstop breaking waves procession. The bottom was too deep and the current too strong. The surface a thousand kilometers atop, the waves were too big and too often. Terrifying indeed. I struggled and paddled until I was too tired and gave in to the underwater universe.

I don't know how it happened. When I realized I felt something, I was bouncing against the shore's softer sand. I was awed. I was alive. My joy lasted a split second: where's Mark? I was too afraid to look at reality. Just pelicans, palm trees our beach hut and the most gigantic Pacific waves I would ever see. No human life. I yelled like a mad woman, cried and wished the sea had swallowed me too.

How was I to explain his mother that we got high in Barras de Santiago, El Salvador, went for a swim and lost his son in the sea? How would I return with a dead body? No, not even the body! How did I not try to stop him? I stayed seated in the shore, let the baby waves caress my head hanging between my knees and broke into tears while I drowned in shock.

I was elsewhere, my mind at a remote stand when someone shook me, I could hear a voice. This person kept shaking me and talking. “I lost the hei tiki the maori guy gave me, he was right, it protected me. I couldn't come out to the surface when this wave took my necklace and spat me out and pushed me away from the current and brought me back, but she took my jade. The jade saved my life.” Mark's words sinked in and brought me back to life.

Living in The Eternity of the Cyber Universe

I am outraged. 

Last night I found out that everything we do say and write or happens in the net, same as Vegas, stays in the net. No way to Undo. OK.  I will forget about eight out of ten of that stuff in less than a week anyway.

But what really got me, flipped me and drove me totally insane -ok, I have a life, it wasn't as bad as it sounds, but you get my point?- is that I have a gmail account, and that comes with so many others that I didn't ask for, didn't even know they exist, don't know what they are for and last but not least and worst of all HAVE a life of their own. So when I try to mutilate those parasite accounts, I can't. 

They are a pest for which I have no pesticide. Nobody has it, or maybe Mr.Google does but won't share the recipe. This is such a violation to my rights. To everyone's rights. 

First I thought I'm just a computer dummie and can't find the link to de-activate such accounts. Then I email a friend asking for advice and releasing my tension and frustration of having been publicly sharing some info without even knowing, then I sleep and today I went on with my research to find out there is no solution and a whole lotta bunch of people in the same situation. And there are heaps of forums of people complaining about the same. 

I'm talking to you Mr. Google: 

do you think because you are a stiff ass nerd computer genius with a lot of money you can do that? 

Well, you are so damned right. Because you actually do it. 

But I hope you know what you are doing is SO WRONG!!

why don't you share THAT with the whole cyber universe Mr.G?

Since when can the net decide for me to what services do I sign up for? If they at least informed me -in a way I understood that they are informing me that I am being signed up for something that I don't like, don't want, don't even know what it's for AND HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO ACCEPT OR ACCEPT- I wouldn't be so upset because at least they had the decency of letting me know they are doing with my cyber life whatever their unhappy arses feel like. But instead they rob me of such basic rights as knowledge & decision making.

Or maybe it's a generational difference? That Mr.G cool dawg here thinks he can do whatever he feels like simply because he is the boss and I am to accept simply because I am not the boss? Naye, I don't think so. I bet a lot of older than him people feel like I do too. At least if they know how it works...

We should unite forces and not let these things happen! Fight for our rights!! I wish I could cancel my Google account but if I do so I'd loose my blog. And you, dear readers, would loose me. And we don't want that to happen. I know...Sad. In the end, it's always all about me. haha.

Shame on them all!

yogi tips for a better life

"better to slip with your feet than with your tongue"

"WheN you are iN tuNe With the uNkNoWN, the kNoWN is  p e a c e f u l "

"when the mind is backed by will, miracles happen"

"without realizing who you are, happiness cannot come to you"

"life is a gift, if you don't value your gift, nobody else will"

 ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥  " l e t   y o u r   h e a r t   g u i d e   y o u "   ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

"never utter a wrong word, think a wrong thought or wish a wrong wish"

"real happiness lies in that which never comes nor goes, but simply is"

"DON'T TAKE PRide in t a k i n g .   g i v e   a n d   y ou will BE GIVEN VIRTUES"

"there are three values: feel good, be good and do good"

"where there is l♥ve, there is n♥ questi♥n"

"obey, serve, love, EXCEL"

" u n i t e  with your  o w n   h i g h e r   s e l f  and create a  f r i e n d s h i p "

"there is a beauty in your presence. sh0w wh0 you are"

"don't sleEp counting sheEps. count blessings, then sleEp"

"when you know that all is light you are enlightened"

"may your light become a living universal light"

"we are here to love each other, serve each other and uplift each other"

"to learn, r e a d . to know,  w r i t e . to master,  t e a c h"


♥ feel free, choose one:

make it your motto

& spread the light! ♥