At The Mercy of My Fingers

I know you are going to say this is just too much! We have better things to do than reading a blogger’s jabbering every other night! But I can’t help it, my fingers just won’t rest, they refuse to stay away from the keyboard. I have tried, I swear I did. I must have clicked on those stupid solitaire cards over twelve thousand times tonight, and yet my fingers don’t seem to have had their satiety. My pink little mouse that looks as if it is a hand-me-down from an 8 year old girly girl has been begging me to stop restlessly clicking on it for over 2 hours, and yet my fingers refuse to keep away from my broken laptop.

Something in me has woken up from its deep, long slumber this week. Something in me has shaken me up, and like a somnambulist, I found myself picking up on my reading where I had left off. The pleasure of those books must have ticked off the ink swelling in the tips of my fingers.

Something in me has realized that fantasies are just what they are, and reality must set in sometime. My feelings about this statement are ambivalent. I am not sure how much I prefer living my reality as opposed to dreaming my fancy.

I am trying to take serious steps towards fulfilling the promise I had made to myself, the one in which I swore to live more, to do more, to be more; but as the saying goes, one hand cannot clap on its own, and without a serious entourage and excellent company round the clock, I am afraid my hands not only won’t clap, they are also tied, tied to a bittersweet reality that keeps me going in vicious circles of fabulous far away friends, and omnipresent insignificant everyday companions who make me feel like a cat lady.

Tonight I can’t help but imagining myself some 30 years from now still sitting in this chair, sipping from this same hideous cup of coffee, only by then I would be ordering decaf instead; I foresee uncontrollably shaky hands in my future and a pile of heart medicine. I see glasses so thick they seriously could pass as the bottoms of coca cola bottles. I see a big house filled to its brim with books read once and only once, with rusty yellowish notebooks scattered all over the place, and with little, almost invisible insects crawling and making tiny nests inside the walls of an imagination that never knew where its door knob was.

I see neighborhood kids practicing their prank skills on me. I see myself tutoring students I wish I could spank to make a living.

I see nephews and nieces coming to check on me every once in a while. I hear them complaining about the stench of the house. I see myself cracking the windows once they have left. I see myself trying to look presentable and driving my 2005 Polo – 30 years from now – to Sassine Square. I see young waitresses puffing and rolling their eyes at my sight.

I sit here seriously wishing I knew how to change this inevitable prospect, and whilst my imagination aids me, my reality refuses to cope. Somehow I wish the world would rearrange itself to suit my lazy ass. And to end this with a somewhat less pessimistic thought, just wait and watch it do it!

Alternative Curriculum

I am sitting here, unaware of how I got here, of why I chose to be here in the first place. As I try to make my recollection, I realize that I decided to come here, I even inquired on how to get here, and drove in a daze with only one purpose in mind: being here.

I have only been here once before, and considering my poor driving skills, it is far. I believe the memory of the vibe this place had given me the first time around brought me back. It gave me the sense that this is the kind of place in which I need to be in order to clear my head, to refresh my crowded thoughts, and to try and simply, relax.

None of the above has been achieved though, and for a very simple reason: I realized thoughts cannot be organized, feelings cannot be disciplined, and the myth of the brain and the heart getting along has been deemed as such for the right reasons. As for the relaxation part, I feel even tenser than when I arrived.  

All the students surrounding me with heads buried in their books made me think back to my school days, and more precisely, to my school books. I sit here wondering what most have spent a good part of their time wondering. When will we ever use these useless equations throughout our miserable life? Why would it help to know the name of that body part and that one’s function? How is memorizing stupid outdated poems going to help with life’s entangled problems?

Tonight, here, I would like to take a shot at creating an alternative curriculum; one that I believe would help much more with life’s path, at least in the way life seems to me, here, tonight.

I propose a class that would make math look so last century, and I would like to call it “how to lower your expectations”. Take that algebra.

And how about replacing science with “the metaphysics of luck”, “the alchemy of hormones and how to control your stupid impulses” and “beauty and the beast”?

Instead of literature, I would go for “the art of winning an argument”.

Philosophy shall become “the reality of evasiveness”, and civism will go by “the one on one book for etiquette and mutual respect dummies”.

As for geography’s substitute, a special course on “how and where to cultivate the fruit of your decisions” will be conducted by the master of your being, Mr. Ego in all its splendor.

History is so easy to replace, it will become, with the blessing of – for once – both your head and your heart, “guidelines and techniques on erasing the past”.

Regarding activities, a twice a week constructive lesson will be given on “ways to tell a lie from a truth and other practical advice”.

Have I forgotten anything? Maybe. You wish to tell me to shove my curriculum and get over it? Most probably. Do I even care? Of course note. Has this helped me move on with my night? A definite no. Why have I written all of the above? Not so sure.

The lesson: None.

The teacher: An idiot who will never learn by himself.

The one to blame: A system that has probably taught me everything but from which I have learned nothing, and yet, it is still the one to take the blame.

The objective: Filling the blanks in life with elusive meager literature.

The result: Time killed, the acquisition of an illusively mended heart and of course, continuum boredom and loneliness.