If money could buy happiness, where would you buy it?

Centuries-old cultural conditioning has given us a nasty neurosis: the belief that happiness must be "earned". It can be "earned" only by enduring unpleasantness (eg work, pain, misery). But how do you know if you've endured enough unpleasantness to deserve happiness? Another unspoken game rule: "responsible adults" can never endure enough unpleasantness to truly deserve happiness.

Laid on top of the first neurosis is the idea that spending money will make you happy. This is toffee coating on a bad puritan apple. If you spend enough money to give you the (advertised) conditions for happiness, the neurosis emerges in the form of apparently random worries, guilt, "feeling shitty", etc. Worrying is the easiest and most popular way to negate happiness.

So: we never stop working, we never stop spending money, we're never really happy – ideal conditions, coincidentally, for a certain type of slave economy.

I am still wondering if this is Art.

Is digital Art, still Art? Good Question.

It's been nearly 80 years since the critic and philosopher Walter Benjamin wrote "The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction," in which he explored the void left by our ability to create photographic representations of images, which he felt lacked the aura or originality of the artist's hand. In the years since then, high-definition photography has made it ever easier to produce realistic images (and, somewhat regrettably, photo-editing filters have allowed us to mimic "vintage" effects to with the click of a button).

Meanwhile, painting persists. In what's sometimes called hyperrealism, a group of emerging and established artists create paintings and sculptures that approximate the appearance of high definition photography. The results are sometimes jarringly lifelike; other times, the artist focuses on the inherent flaws of digital photography—like compression errors or over-exposures—revealing something deeply human in the process.

Love Body-Art.

How Retarded?

Let me tell you again why I despise retards, because they are freaking STUPID. And I work with a bunch of them squares. Here is the story: I get a call from some dummy at the office, telling me "we" are having a Christmas Party on Friday and "we" are all buying Christmas presents for each other. First this retarded because I don't celebrate Christmas to start with. Secondly: I never buy presents for your ass throoghout the year and vice versa. So now what's with this whole lovey-dovey-happy-family nonsense? How pretencious that? So please count me out, because I am real like that. In case you don't our "relationship" because you are a douchebag, let me spell it out for you : We are just collegues not buddies. So take your middle-class cash and buy presents for your cousins and neighbours. Dammit.

I am not Bantu Educated but I think like Lesego Rampolokeng.

Bantu Education was a system that was imposed upon people of my pigmentation (Black people to be exact). By an oppressive system of government, that was set up to denigrate and pull down and suppress for economic gain by another sector of humanity. It was an already made excuse, because if you could label me non-white than you can oppress me that much. And once you do that, then you could dehumanize me and take away that which defines me as a human. Meaning when you kill me or torture me, in you damn head you are not doing that to a human being. So my existence does not matter, whether I am dead or alive is of no consequence to anyone or anything. So black back then were only of importance or consequence to the level to which they contributed to the empowerment of those that had set this rules in place. Even the architect of Bantu Education had said himself that it was useless to teach Blacks: Mathematics or Science blah-blah-blah, because Blacks according to him are designed to be viewers of wood and drawers of water. Hectic.
Please remember this history. Happy Reconciliation Day.

That girl from Jules High School is not a Nymph.Because I don't like her.

Nymphs are like fairies in that they were unpredictable, a little scary, and often showed up in folktales. But, seeing as they are from a different culture, they are also entirely different. For one thing, the nymphs are all women. This is definitely significant in the way they were scary. One of the things you might (and should) notice is the common theme of women's sexuality = scary and women's chastity = good. Noticing that, it should not shock you that these somewhat scary spirits are at their scariest to mortal men when sex enters the picture (Hylas is a lovely example). It should also be noted without surprise that these nymphs are spirits often personifying nature. As Sue Blundell so awesomely points out, women are often associated with nature and wildness as things beyond the control of "civilization" (need we point out that this civilization is extraordinarily patriarchal?). It is usually said that this is because of the whole XX chromosomal ability to bear children. I argue that this is merely an excuse and the real reason is that you're dealing with a patriarchal society and "wildness" and "nature" and such things are seen as Outside of Culture, just as women are. However, they also show up from time to time as the wives of heroes and (often spurned) lovers of gods. Nymphs, like all female deities, are beautiful. When they aren't inhabiting some specific part of nature, they are often the attendents of more important deities. I like nymphs. In many ways they seem far more human to me than any of the human women. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do

Your mother's ass is so fat....Oh well.

We’ve all seen the news reports, the e-blurbs, paper clippings and everything in between. People are scrambling to get things under control and others are just scrambling for their livelihoods, while the so-called pundits of the music world and, of course, people with no semblance of knowledge or actual fact are basing this phenomenon solely from word of mouth and other such jibba jabba.

What was once considered a taboo side hustle has now become a lucrative business of sorts, with hip hop as the central inspiration (or culprit, if you will) behind it. After its explosion people saw how seemingly easy it could bring them as much notoriety as it could money and began doing underhanded things to make it happen, which has now brought unwarranted attention from the media and – more importantly – the fuzz.

Now we’re in an era where, under the solemn stare of the all-seeing eye, people are panicking and desperately trying to find other ways to satisfy their fix, while suppliers are finding other, if not entirely legal, ways of appease that demand. Things will ultimately coming to a head, with the moral and legal ramifications to affect the business for years to come.

I’m talking, of course, of these weird surgical procedures women do to make their asses fatter. Disgusting, disgusting shit.

Largest Clock Collection (This dude really had time on his hands)

Look what I founf (Letter from Pearl Harbor 1941)

Dear Sis:
It is now 9:05 Sunday morning and we’ve been bombed now for over an hour.… Our anti aircraft guns are yammering and every so often a bomb strikes so close as to rock this ship. Again a bomb. We’re helpless down here in the Forward Engine Room because our main engines are all tore down. We’re trying to get underway if possible. We were just struck by a bomb near the bow. We’re fighting back as much as possible because we have no power to load our guns, no power circuits to fire them. It is all being done by hand….
We’ve lit off all the boilers that are not out of commission and are trying to get underway so that we will not be altogether helpless by laying alongside the dock and be a stationary target. Those bombs are getting closer—God grant that they do not hit that loaded oil tanker that is lying right across from us. Ten million gallons of fuel oil would bathe this ship in an inferno of fire…. I am on the interior communications telephone and I can hear the various stations screaming orders at one another. A man just brought us our gas masks…. We’ve been struck several times now but fortunately there are no casualties as yet….
There has been a lull for a few minutes but there they go again. Strangely Sis, I’m not excited but my heart is beating a little faster from all that firing. I know that this is not a drill because the concussion of exploding bombs is jarring the whole ship. I don’t know why I am writing this because if we are hit with a bomb here—they won’t find enough of me and the rest—let alone this letter. I imagine it is to show myself that I can be calm under fire. A few of the boys here are white faced and their voices hushed and choked. They too know that this is no joke or mock battle—but the real stuff….

Czako survived the attack, went on to fight in the Pacific campaign against the Japanese, and then returned home in 1946.

(Letter from Behind the Lines: Powerful and Revealing American and Foreign War Letters—and One Man’s Search to Find Them (Scribner), edited by Andrew Carroll. Copyright © 2005 Sandra Cook.)

Could this Be? #thinking

Thought I'd share this Info (Shout out to all my writer friends)

2011 Writer's Digest Conference
When: January 21-23, 2011
Where: Sheraton Hotel & Towers (NYC)
What: Three full days for writers in the digital age.
Bonus: WD's Pitch Slam! Pitch 50+ Literary Agents face to face to get represented, hone your work, and sell your writing!

Who is Mike Check?

I love hip-hop but I have a deep disdain for some of the people who participate in it. I, like you, truly enjoy the sounds, art and every other creative aspect of rap, but I’m just not entirely fond of the nitty-gritty, behind-the-scenes aspects of the culture. Hell, I’ll even admit that I don’t feel that I am that big of a deal in this shit to really have a feel for the true nitty-gritty, behind-the-scenes aspects of the culture.
*waits for c-sectioner to pop off at the mouth about the last comment*
Done? Cool.
To be honest, I sometimes feel a weird sense of guilt when it comes to this online shit. It’s finally nice to make a decent living for a change and not have to play musical chairs with my bills every month, but after a while I find myself thinking about what my next step is. Hence, I’ve tried philanthropic endeavors as some form of “moral balance,” such as spearheading the main hustle’s charity BBQ event this past summer. The event ended up raising a nice amount of money and hundreds of school supplies, all of which was donated to an organization dedicated to help Haitian schoolchildren.
I’m a modern day Charles Hackley.
When I see artists doing the same thing, though, I’m a bit torn about it. On one end it’s always a great thing to see these megalomaniacs cast aside their ginormous egos for the sake of bettering their fellow man, or at the very least pretend to cast aside the shit for tax purposes. On the flipside, it only seems trendy to do so around the holiday season, with most rappers seemingly pretending to give a shit about the less fortunate by going to the hood (with bodyguards and fur coats in tow) to toss turkeys out the back of a truck during Thanksgiving or X-Mas like they were Nino Brown or some shit for glorified tax purposes, as if that makes up for them spending the money the same people receiving said turkeys spend on their business endeavors on stupid shit like diamond-encrusted Nuvo bottle chains and such.
And you see why I haven’t purchased an album in years.
So hearing that Puff allegedly stiffed two separate charities isn’t anything surprising to me, save for the ironically funny fact that one of the organizations – a plastic surgical group – held a charity event to find a cure for breast cancer. Unfortunately, it also feeds into the notion that most rapsters don’t care about Black people NO! I mean that they only show their “charitable” side when instructed to do so by their handlers.
If a rapper isn’t going to do anything charitable at all, it’s perfectly fine; it’s their lives and they can do whatever they want with it. However, just keep it real and be like that. Fronting like you care when we all know you don’t is just a waste of our time and theirs.

Flying in "Endless" Thoughts....

Stop and Think for a moment.Yeah?

All goes white.

Dear Gareth, thought I'd write you a letter #NotReally

Gareth Cliff look what you've done.Now everybody fancies themselves ''Letter Writers" . Even good gentle men like Steve Hofmeyr and Siya Slikour Metane are slicing their piece of the cake. No wonder Mr Cliff, you have so many followers on social networks like this one and the other one. Well-done Gareth, oh and by the way well done for scoring a free meal out of the ANC the other day. #justsaying

This is not really an open letter to Gareth Cliff, because I couldn't careless and neither would he. This was a status update on my FaceBook page. Gareth Cliff's picture is used without permission.

This is something.Yes.

Possible Causes Of Writer's Block (I think So)

1. Critical childhood voices: those voices from the past who tell you that you're not good enough, you're not creative, you're untalented, or lazy. They might have originated with parents, grandparents, caretakers, teachers or siblings. While you no longer may hear actual voices in your head, you've incorporated their views of you somewhere along the way, and these views (or self-beliefs) crop up at the worst times for your writing. The feelings of anger and self-doubt that result produce confusion, sap your motivation and makes you wonder if you should even proceed.

2. Personality style: passive or aggressive, outgoing or shy, rigid or flexible, courageous or fearful. An outgoing person may be great at book signings and marketing his work, yet block when it's time to sit down--alone--and write for three hours. The flexible person may have numerous ideas that flow effortlessly from him, and he may be able to juggle a number of different projects, yet he may block when it's time to choose just one idea and get to work. The insecure person may write fluidly and happily alone, yet block when nearing the end of her story because she's too afraid of rejection to submit a finished product.

Your past may have produced defense mechanisms that can also cause you to block. If you have been rejected by parents as a child, you may tend to reject others before they can reject you as an adult. You may quit your critique group, rejecting them before they can reject your work, and end up blocked in your writing. Get to know the quirks--both positive and negative--of your own personality.

3. Self-criticism: harsh and self-punishing judgments on our work and marketing efforts. Even when our criticism is well founded and accurate, harsh criticism defeats and blocks us before we can get started. Self-esteem plummets, courage then fails, and we shut off the computer and head to the refrigerator. We're afraid we're deluding ourselves both about the viability of the project we're working on, as well as our basic ability to tell a good story. This can certainly stop our writing in its tracks.

Think FuzzMail

WHAT IS FUZZMAIL? Fuzzmail records the act of writing and lets you send it as an email. Dynamic changes, typoes, pauses and writeovers are captured and communicated. We created fuzzmail because we wanted a more emotionally expressive alternative to email, so that an emailed love letter does not have to look the same as a business letter.

Thinking like Albert 2.

My political ideal is democracy. Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolized. It is an irony of fate that I myself have been the recipient of excessive admiration and reverence from my fellow-beings, through no fault, and no merit, of my own. The cause of this may well be the desire, unattainable for many, to understand the few ideas to which I have with my feeble powers attained through ceaseless struggle. I am quite aware that for any organization to reach its goals, one man must do the thinking and directing and generally bear the responsibility. But the led must not be coerced, they must be able to choose their leader. In my opinion, an autocratic system of coercion soon degenerates; force attracts men of low morality... The really valuable thing in the pageant of human life seems to me not the political state, but the creative, sentient individual, the personality; it alone creates the noble and the sublime, while the herd as such remains dull in thought and dull in feeling.

This topic brings me to that worst outcrop of herd life, the military system, which I abhor... This plague-spot of civilization ought to be abolished with all possible speed. Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism -- how passionately I hate them!

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery -- even if mixed with fear -- that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds: it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity. In this sense, and only this sense, I am a deeply religious man... I am satisfied with the mystery of life's eternity and with a knowledge, a sense, of the marvelous structure of existence -- as well as the humble attempt to understand even a tiny portion of the Reason that manifests itself in nature.

Thinking like Albert.

How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people -- first of all for those upon whose smiles and well-being our own happiness is wholly dependent, and then for the many, unknown to us, to whose destinies we are bound by the ties of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving...

I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves -- this critical basis I call the ideal of a pigsty. The ideals that have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. Without the sense of kinship with men of like mind, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors, life would have seemed empty to me. The trite objects of human efforts -- possessions, outward success, luxury -- have always seemed to me contemptible.

My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced lack of need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities. I am truly a 'lone traveler' and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties, I have never lost a sense of distance and a need for solitude...

I think like Daniel Beaty (To all the fatherless children, Sing)

As a boy, I shared a game with my father—
Played it every morning till I was three.
He would knock knock on my door,
And I’d pretend to be asleep till he got right next to the bed.
Then I would get up and jump into his arms.
“Good morning, Papa.”
And my Papa, he would tell me that he loved me.
We shared a game,
Knock knock,
Until that day when the knock never came,
And my Mama takes me on a ride past cornfields
on this never-ending highway
Till we reach a place of high rusty gates.
A confused little boy,
I enter the building carried in my Mama’s arms.
Knock knock.
We reach a room of windows and brown faces.
Behind one of the windows sits my father.
I jump out of my Mama’s arms and run joyously towards my Papa’s,
Only to be confronted by this window.
I knock knock trying to break through the glass,
Trying to get to my father.
I knock knock as my Mama pulls me away
Before my Papa even says a word.
And for years, he has never said a word.
And so, 25 years later, I write these words
For the little boy in me who still awaits his Papa’s knock.
“Papa, come home, ‘cause I miss you.
I miss you waking me up in the morning and telling me you love me.
Papa, come home, ‘cause there’s things I don’t know,
And I thought maybe you could teach me
How to shave,
How to dribble a ball,
How to talk to a lady,
How to walk like a man.
Papa, come home, ‘cause I decided awhile back
I want to be just like you, but I’m forgetting who you are.”
And 25 years later, a little boy cries.
And so I write these words and try to heal
And try to father myself.
And I dream up a father
Who says the words my father did not.
“Dear son, I’m sorry I never came home.
For ever lesson I failed to teach, hear these words:
‘Shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes
To avoid irritation.
Dribble the page with the brilliance of your ballpoint pen.
Walk like a God, and your Goddess will come to you.
No longer will I be there to knock on your door,
So you must learn to knock for yourself.
Knock knock down doors of racism and poverty that I could not.
Knock knock on doors of opportunity
For the lost brilliance of the black men who crowd these cells.
Knock knock with diligence for the sake of your children.
Knock knock for me.
For as long as you are free,
These prison gates cannot contain my spirit.
The best of me still lives in you.
Knock knock with the knowledge that you are my son,
But you are not my choices.”
Yes, we are our fathers’ sons and daughters,
But we are not their choices.
For despite their absences,
We are still here,
Still alive,
Still breathing,
With the power to change this world
One little boy and girl at a time.
Knock knock,
Who’s there?
We are

To Read and To Read.(Here is a beautiful picture of thoughts)

Please help, I is confused.

Bible tells us that God created Adam and Eve just a few thousand years ago, by some fundamentalist interpretations. Science informs us that this is mere fiction and that man is a few million years old, and that civilization just tens of thousands of years old. Could it be, however, that conventional science is just as mistaken as the Bible stories? There is a great deal of archeological evidence that the history of life on earth might be far different than what current geological and anthropological texts tell us.

Damn.

Graphic Poetry

Here is a poem I wish I wrote. I am convinced I did though.

Love

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

Words from the Wise.