Rewind The Future

Sometimes life is about more than 'life'... As with most sites, simply being a part of the world led me to this. I don't claim to be or know anything except that I am a human being and I am FOR the betterment of every single individual. My version of betterment is probably flawed (most things invariably are), but at least I'm trying... Sometimes that's as much as we can do. Drop me a line. Send me your thoughts. Read. Absorb. Counter. Rant. Rave. I accept all. If this blog seems to have little rhyme or reason, I apologise in advance.
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While going through my Facebook feed I thought: one of these days I’m going to write a blog post about why the New Age movement is bullshit! I guess that day has come.

Having been someone who was both fully cognizant and willing to accept their practices (meditation, community-oriented socialism, “unplugging from the system”) with a little growth and a fresher perspective I’m starting to see their cult-like hold over the masses of overly imaginative, sensitive souls who just want to believe.

In the absence of old-hat religious devotion a new paradigm has taken place with just as many mythical, purely (that is to say un-scientifically) inexplicable concepts just as unprovable as a man who can walk on water.

Yes, I agree everybody is entitled to their beliefs. Yes, I as a writer, want to believe in an übermensch human being: one who can glide through the skies unencumbered; one who can teleport himself into other dimensions; one who can find such ultimate inner peace, his thoughts re-shape reality as he thinks. I want that sooo badly! Maybe too badly…

Because when you want something so badly, a sort of placebo effect starts to take place. During your morning meditation, your mind will start to “unlock secrets of the universe”. You will read about enlightened beings, higher-dimensional forms etc. as if it’s gospel. Meanwhile, someone believing in various scriptures or suras becomes a person too closely led by the nose, instead of able to re-purpose the Bible or Quaraan to a higher form of understanding where Yeshua or Muhammed were just two of many ascended masters following in the steps of Thoth and the original Anunaki.

Come on, really?! As I read that now I feel oh-so-gullible at my lack of foresight and my inability to see the wood for the trees. I wanted to be a higher dimensional being as of 21 December 2012. Am I? Can I re-create reality with my eyes? Am I able to hover in and out of consciousness and see both past lives and my future, amalgamated self? Am I speaking to my fifth-dimensional self right now? Come on!

We’ve just substituted one story for another, one paradigm of belief for another. Granted, this paradigm of New Ageism is more open and willing to accept people of different colours, creeds and circumstances but it’s not perfect. I’m not trying to vilify it or anything but it’s another bait-and-switch.

Humans: we NEED a deus ex machina, always!

Over and above our own flesh-and-blood bodies we want a higher self, a centripetal substance which pulls us in and houses all our best wishes to be better humans than we currently are. Is our remorse for fucking things up so blinding? I mean, sure we caused many extinctions. We’ve taken some species right up to the brink before attempting to fix our actions. We’ve covered the world with our buildings and resource-wasting areas of leisure such as golf courses. We’ve changed weather patterns with cloud seeding. We’ve done this. We’ve done that. But to then vilify all of this as a completely bust system that needs to change overnight or through some miraculously concerted effort? Forgetting cultural, aesthetic, educational, resource-based and wholly contingent obstacles? That seems sooo LaLa Land.

Half of this was brought to a boil for me after I saw a post this morning from Patch the Spirit Science dude which said “10 Reasons You Should Never Get a Job”. And then we wonder about youth unemployment rates when people are being fed this “find yourself and teach the masses” bullshit.

Nothing has ever gotten better by your retreating to an ashram or fucking making clay plates or whatever and hoping that your meagre contribution is justifying your continued existence. That is a privileged way of looking at the world. Actually go out there and volunteer. Get a job if you can’t stomach free work. Help someone better themselves by not only giving them valuable information but helping him or her acclimatise to the situation as it stands. Who can judge what tomorrow holds for a child born in the rurals given a helping hand by someone who is willing to donate 5% of his salary to a monthly scholarship fee?

I feel like the abundance of information has made a mess of us. So much of that bullshit could just be muted if people stopped and used common sense. How can you begin to think that your undermining a system which works but has major (major!) flaws helps to break down that system at all? How? To speak to a person on a level which he/she understands requires you to look at the privileges afforded to you by the very system you so sorely want to unplug from:

How all that medication you took as a child allowed you to grow big and strong and make something of yourself. How banks actually help to inspire people by giving them beneficial, financial currents so that they can one day potentially sail their own ships. Now I’m not saying it’s all good (once again) but I just don’t buy this New Age “Into the Wild” shit anymore. I just can’t. It’s counterintuitive, unproductive and breeds a generation of ashram-bound ninnies who just cannot for the life of them stop dreaming of fucking illustrious, (usually) drug-fuelled higher-dimensional transcendence.

Stop wanting to run away, dammit! We’re all here together. Help us fix it or shut the fuck up. I’m young too. I know less about transcendence than you do but I feel like having transcendental thoughts dissociates you far too much away from the current reality.

Last week I read a story on the news that a toddler was stabbed 99 times by her female cousin. That’s the sort of shit we should be working to stop. A real child in the real world suffered and died. Not some meditative impulse. Not something changed by wishes and intentions. No. Pure, realistic sadism. And you can stop it. Some of the people retreating have abilities to introduce legal reform, change medical history by introducing new psychoactive drugs to help cure sick people before they murder our toddlers. We need more cops, more social workers and more people who do and care about the world as a whole in a proactive way and not just as superficial communitarians.

For fuck’s sake… I generally don’t even like profanity in my writing but this is just too much for me now. Let’s catch a wake up, people. We’re all in this together.

This is the third story I wrote for the “We Lesser Mortals” blog. It was a ‘work in progress’ but I have no plans to finish it.

Today’s random words: tension lounging mowing downstairs

“Miles, Cathy, please get off the lounger. Aunt Franny should be coming anytime soon and I don’t want you looking sleepy when she arrives.”

We got off the lounger then, Miles and I because mom has a habit of repeating things and I just couldn’t bear having to hear her say it three or four times over.

“So what are we supposed to do then?” I asked her, “There’s not much to do on Christmas morning but to wait for the scheduled TV programmes or sit around since most business places are closed.”

“Not really though Cathy,” Miles chirped in, “it hasn’t been that way for years. There are many places of business that are open like McDonalds, the local mall and hotels. You must remember that Christmas is a holiday mostly significant for Christians. Although it may share passing significance with non-Christian holidays, it’s not taken seriously by everyone.”

“Yeah, I get that. But we can’t go to the mall because Aunt Franny is coming and I doubt there’ll be anyone worth hanging with there anyway. And I would never eat McDonalds on Christmas – that would be a travesty.”

“No, what would be a travesty is actually eating McDonalds while millions of people don’t even have the lowly bun, let alone the patties,” Miles continued.

“We’re not going to talk about politics on Christmas, Miles. No…”

“It’s not politics, it’s life…”

I walked into the kitchen then, but I could still hear him yammering on about the inequalities of the world and how that blah blah blah. I have a nasty habit of zoning out on my twin brother whenever he gets his Che Guevara impulse. We’re all potential activists as we sip our coffee and check our e-mails on our iGadgets, but none of us ever really gets anywhere with it. I know Miles will be saying these things for years to come but he’ll never visit his mythical Africa or actually engage with his views on a real level. The most difficult time he’s had is trying to locate a signal for his laptop while we were camping last year. Not a shred of genuine social consciousness in his bones. He just sometimes likes to be a smarmy know-it-all.

All Mom was doing in the kitchen was setting up the spread so that it looked like one of the photos in her Cooking with Delilah holiday cookbook series. Mom has tendencies too. I sometimes think that she fashions herself as some generic Martha Stewart, as if she and Martha are paraphrases of the same book. But dad is different. That’s why he’s outside mowing the lawn – salt-of-the-earth type, my dad; raised to appreciate each blade of grass as an organic extension of all creation. But he’s not neo-pagan about it or anything like that. If he was, he wouldn’t work for Appleton, one of Wisconsin’s premiere paper merchants.

Seeing as none of my skills were needed by anyone either inside or outside the house, I thought it best to go upstairs and sneak a quick nap, contrary to Mom’s wishes. Aunty Franny could wait. If she was bringing my annoying cousin, Collin, with her then she would have to wait because it takes sedatives and a crowbar to get me to let go of the banisters long enough to meet Collin. He’s that insufferable.

This is the second story I wrote for the “We Lesser Mortals” blog:

Today’s random phrase: Identifying Zone Sing Stunt

As I walked through the vast cavern of the hall, sensing the thick pillars in my periphery, I became aware of a faint sound emanating from outside the galleria. I couldn’t really identify what it was from the onset as I was still preoccupied with attempting to unblock my ears. I clenched and unclenched my jaw, opening it wide and moving it clumsily from side to side but still my right ear remained blocked. I told Suri that her percussion bomb would be too loud and what had she said of that? Only that it was in the nature of percussion bombs to be loud and it wouldn’t be her fault if I couldn’t run fast enough get out of the detonation zone. If my ear was going to be buggered for any longer than 48 hours there would be hell to pay.

She whistled from the darkness – somewhere to my left – perhaps sensing that I only had one good ear remaining with which to hear her.
“Ey, Sven!” she called to me sotto voce.
“Yeah, what?” I called back to her, not even trying to hide the irritation in my voice.
“Wasn’t that epic?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her then that she had probably reduced my auditory capacity to a shadow of its former self, neither had I the heart to reply to her question.
“But that REALLY was epic! You saw it, right? The way the percussion bomb went off in such perfect synchronicity with the others. Who knew that Aleksey’s creations would work so well? I should give that boy a kiss the next time I see him,” she said excitedly.
“You do that! And while you’re at it why don’t you get me a hearing aid and something nice to say sorry for fucking up my ear with your wannabe spy bukkake?!” I could sense her looking at me with that tell-tale incredulous look of hers, as if I had just told her I rode in on the back of an Easter Bunny. I for one was losing track of the real motives for this mission. My right ear had started to sting and I was asking myself difficult questions regarding how I’d cope with a future plagued with tinnitus. She hadn’t yet reacted in any perceptible way to what I’d just said and I guessed she was waiting for us to reach the light before she told me something.

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Midway through 2012, while I was doing my joint Honours and becoming more and more disillusioned with academia, I felt that I needed an outlet whereby I could exercise my writing muscles. I embarked on a new blog project called “We Lesser Mortals”. The blog itself was hosted on Tumblr and it contained the motive for its existence. I basically wanted to use a random word generator to write 1000 words a day. What ended up happening is that I only did it three times before the novelty of writing a cogent story based on four randomly generated words started getting stale. Also, I skipped five days between the second post and the third and the lack of momentum defeated me. However, as with many writers, I find that simply having written those three thousand words should entail that I let those words see the light of day. As with the other series that I wrote for an ex-girlfriend once upon a time and which I then (much later) posted to this blog, I want to post those three stories.

Mind you, they represent a time in my life when the ‘art for art’s sake’ movement was very much enshrined in my heart. I would write for the sake of writing and nothing more. As I get older, I discover more and more that simply writing towards no end is a sort of irresponsible writing. It’s a writing which is not cognizant of the state of the world and people’s inability or unwillingness to express their thoughts about it, whether those thoughts are true or false. Also, it’s a writing which takes for granted that people can write themselves out of the culdesacs that are the sombre and at times traumatic lives of the general human population – those people who often don’t have the time, the level of education, the cultural and social capital or a varied combination of all of them, to ‘write what they feel’. Then, the writer’s duty becomes an ongoing mission to try and bridge that chasm in communication, such that the culdesacs become fully-fledged streets and those whose lives they represent can be proud of them. Not all streets should lead nowhere and by extension, not all human lives should reach their denouement unreported or uncommunicated. So I try. And with that I start my purge of all the writing which was done under the ‘art for art’s sake’ precept and which did not really lead me anywhere except towards a somewhat narcissistic form of artistic ego-stroking. And for that I apologise. I’ve come to know better.

This was the first of the random word generated “We Lesser Mortals” shorts:

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The Amazing Spider-Man 2 

Illustrated by Orlando Arocena

Behance ll Facebook ll Store

My favourite superhero, even though I haven’t watched the latest installment.

Deliver me unto hopeless salvation.
Wherefore art thou, Peace?
Long have I missed thee,
Through the toil and rancour
Of this 21st century life.
I am with thee from time to time,
When I am most alone.
But then too,
Thy brother, Boredom,
Of all hell, doth hold my tired hands.
I made the mistake once
To take a doppelgänger,
That sly fox, Contentment, as thee…
I too am broken now
Like the boughs of a once robust tree.
Maybe the wind sweeps too forcefully,
This wind of change?
I hate it most when it rains,
Since my mind sinks
Droplet after droplet
Into puddles of doubt.
We once were together,
Love and I.
Now I only have The Aether…

You start writing ‘cause you give a fuck. You stop writing ‘cause you gave too many. Then one day you wake up and realise that besides all the rhetoric, the content, persuasions and discourse; you just wanted people to feel good reading your words. You just wanted people to smile. And then you go back to writing. Since a smile is easier to create than a novel.
My own words contemplating why I write.






ENDLESS ELECTRICITY: Here’s A Way Of Turning America’s Roads Into Gigantic Solar Panels

There are about 31,251 square miles of roads, parking lots, driveways, playgrounds, bike paths, and sidewalks in the lower 48 states. If Julie and Scott Brusaw have their way, they will all someday be replaced with solar panels.

For the better part of a decade, the Idaho couple has been working on prototyping an industrial-strength panel that could withstand the weight of even the largest trucks. They now appear to have cracked the formula, developing a specially textured glass coating for the panels that can not only bear tremendous loads but also support standard tire traction.

By their reckoning, at peak installation their panelized roads could produce more than three times the electricity consumed in the U.S.

The material could power electric vehicles through a receiver plate mounted beneath the vehicle and a transmitter plate is installed in the road.






NOT TO MENTION if cars are designed to RUN on this we would no longer need to burn fuel

No more buying gas.  

The indiegogo page for this project is here! Boost and support if you can, this is tremendous!

(via practiceeveryday)


Hallowed be thy fine-tip pens
Which no longer house words,
Like open wounds that leave you wanting.
It has not been easy.
But some would say it hasn’t been hard.
I am what I thought I would never be:
No time for the poetry.
No time for words.
My days are spent thinking about money;
Plotting about car insurance;
Scheming about medical aid, work and all those little things.
Foster-Wallace called it ‘water’.
I call it ‘sand’.
And steadily it fills.
I’m buried under it
day by day,
Tonne by tonne,
Little by little.
Until one day I wake up
A corpse in the loamy soil.
Because what’s a spadeful but an e-mail?
'Shovel' is a noun.
Nothing more…

There’s always something missing.


Time to save the world
Where in the world is all the time
So many things I still don’t know
So many times I’ve changed my mind
Guess I was born to make mistakes
But I ain’t scared to take the weight
So when I stumble off the path
I know my heart will guide me back

Erykah Badu in “Didn’t Cha Know”

All those to whom I owe words will not understand what writer’s block really means. Well, I guess for most people it’s the stereotypical notion of someone sitting at a typewriter, typing his heart out and crumpling paper after paper of stuff he dismisses as ‘drivel’. Maybe it is. Most probably it is. But for me writer’s block has always meant more than that. I feel like it’s a symptom of being mentally bloated. It’s not that the words themselves are not present in your mind, more like there’s too many words in your mind. Imagine being a person in the ocean and not having a compass with you and being unable to navigate using the stars. That’s what it feels like. You are in an ocean of words, not on a Titanic-esque cruise ship but on a raft and a shitty one at that. The possessions aboard are sparse and all you’ve got is your mind. But all you can think about is how you don’t want to fall overboard because you’re scared the sharks will eat you; or worse, if you fall overboard imagine drowning here in the middle of nowhere with nobody to find your decaying corpse. You’ll drown and THEN the sharks will eat you. Either way, the sharks will eat you. It may be that you capsize during the night and find yourself at Poseidon’s mercy or else you’ll die of dehydration. Now imagine you’re thinking about all these things and you’re still trying to navigate your way home. See how it feels?

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