same old, same old

- so what've you been up to?

- oh you know, the usual. worshipping idols, taking things and people for granted, trying to change

open wide, here comes the new year

viva la vida / ecclesiastes

you know what's really toxic? what's really soul-destroying? wanting to be there. or wanting to feel like you're finally there. Because here's the truth -- there doesn't fucking exist. You'll never actually be good enough, or smart enough, or funny or popular or rich enough. I know you think you will be, if you just try hard enough or change your diet or whatever but I'm telling you -- you never reach that point. That magical point just beyond the horizon where you think you can finally relax and be happy. Wake up! It doesn't exist! It's not real. Look, I know you think you know all this already - that being discontented and incredibly successful is something that happens to other people, something people write novels about and make movies out of - but you don't really think it applies to you, do you? Deep down, you think you're above all that. That it'll never happen to you. You don't actually realise that somewhere along the line everything you've been doing - every single thing you've ever tried and all your "achievements" amount to nothing more than a miserable attempt to pacify that shitty niggling feeling deep down in the core of your being that never seems to go away. That feeling of not being enough - of never ever being enough. You think 'oh if I can just do this, or oh I if I can just be this way - then my life will be sorted out. then I'll have my happy ending.' Listen to me. You need to fucking wake up - or else you'll end up 40 years old and alone, a sad old bastard who spent the best years of his life chasing something that doesn't even exist. And then you'll be like the rest of these poor old bastards who never really lived a day in their life. Who spend their days with their heads in the sand, walking around like zombies, not knowing where they're going or what they're after. And you'll have wasted your life, and there's no getting it back. Listen to me. There's no such thing as happy. Are you listening? You'll never be happy. This is it. Do you hear me? This is all you get. Right here. Right now. This is it. This is your life, and it's all you've got




So go and make the most of it.

weakness has its own pattern

- you remind me of myself 

- in what way?

- neither of us can seem to stay in love for very long

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how to be perfect without wanting to be perfect

because if you want to be perfect, you start wanting other people to be perfect, which makes you a shitty person, because then not only are you unable / unwilling to reveal yourself to people and show them all the hidden ugliness and error you harbour in your heart, but you are also unable to tolerate the vulnerabilities and shortcomings of others... unable to receive them sincerely and without judgement

how to forgive yourself for not being perfect, but not so much that you are content with less than perfection

how to love one another

how to love your mother

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The Pygmalion effect states that if you think you're better than everyone else, sooner or later they'll probably notice and stop hanging out with you.

the trouble with perfection

By the end of the High Renaissance, young artists experienced a crisis: it seemed that everything that could be achieved was already achieved. No more difficulties, technical or otherwise, remained to be solved. The detailed knowledge of anatomy, light, physiognomy and the way in which humans register emotion in expression and gesture, the innovative use of the human form in figurative composition, the use of the subtle gradation of tone, all had reached near perfection. The young artists needed to find a new goal, and they sought new approaches. At this point Mannerism started to emerge. The new style developed between 1510 and 1520 either in Florence, or in Rome, or in both cities simultaneously.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mannerism

immovable feast

memories are made of this

- A long time ago, when we were still living in New York, David was working as a cab driver at the time. I remember one winter he came back at some ridiculous hour and as he was hanging up his coat he said to me, guess who I just met? and I said who? And he said, Dean Martin. And I said who? This was back in the early 1940s by the way, back when he was still a relatively unknown crooner who used to just sing at clubs around the city. Anyway, so I said who the hell is Dean Martin? and he explained to me who he was and that he'd gotten his autograph. And I said to him, I never knew you were a fan of his. And he replied, I'm not - I just felt bad for the guy! Apparently what happened was that he picked up Dino from outside a bar or club after a gig, and he said the guy just looked completely miserable, as in totally defeated. So when he got to the hotel he told Dino how he didn't want to mention anything but couldn't help but notice how a famous singer was in his car - and that he just wanted to say he was a big fan and loved his stuff and told him he'd let him ride for free so long as he'd agree to autograph this picture he had of me at the time -- apparently I was a big fan of Dino's as well. So anyway he got the autograph, and showed it to me. A few years later, he became quite a big deal - as I'm sure you're aware. And every time we'd catch him on tv, David's chest would puff up with pride and he'd wag his finger at me and say, you see, Cheryl, everyone needs help. Big or small, whether they know it or not, everyone needs a little help now and again. A couple of years after that, Dino was in town again to shoot a film. And at that time David was having a little bit of success as a pianist, and he hoped or believed that maybe if he could get him to recognise who he was... I don't know, maybe Dino would give him a shot, or return the favour or something. So he was on his way to the location of the shoot planning to show Dino this picture of me with his autograph on it. And on the way there he was stuck in traffic, and apparently there was some hold up because someone had fallen into the water and was flailing about. And everyone was just standing about not doing anything so of course he takes his shoes off and coat off and just immediately dives in without a second thought. And when he finally swims over to the person, someone with a megaphone yells 'CUT' and he looks around to find about a hundred people and about 5 cameras just staring at him, including the person who was apparently drowning, because they're all filming the movie Dino's supposed to act in. So they fish him out of the lake and he tries to explain how he's there to meet Dino and they probably think he's some crazy fan and escort him off the premises dripping wet and all. And by the time he gets back to the spot where he'd jumped in from - he'd just chucked his coat and shoes on the ground, you see - so of course his wallet was gone, and the picture was inside his wallet. He was so embarrassed by the whole thing that when he came home that day he just told me he'd lost the picture, and refused to say any more about it. I remember he was awfully depressed for about a week after that, but I don't think I ever truly did believe he'd just misplace something as special as that. He'd only told me what'd really happened about five years ago. By then, he was pretty much spending every day in the hospital, and he was hooked up to all kinds of machines, and when I was visiting one afternoon he called over to me and said to me, 'do you remember that day, when I lost your photo with Dino's autograph on it?' And I'm glad he told me the truth, because at least I can remember him properly this way, even with no picture or autograph to show for it.

- That's an amazing story.

- ... Can I ask you to do something for me?

- Of course, anything.

- Can you not publish that story in your magazine, or in any other publication you might write for? I know it's silly but, I don't really want anyone else to know about it. It's one of the few things that I can confidently say I know about him that nobody else knows. And I kind of want to keep it that way. I don't want him to be famous. And I know it's selfish, but it's the kind of story that people will want to keep telling over and over again. But if everyone starts telling the story, I feel like I'll be losing a little bit of him, of him beckoning me with a bony finger, and me leaning over towards him just to try and hear what he was saying. When I think of that story I want to remember it like that. As something special and private, just between us, something whispered and half-remembered between green hospital sheets.

Please. Promise me you won't tell anyone.

get tender

but how

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I am struck by its small-town ambiance – the inherent slowness of life, the dedication to a certain way of life that revolves around languid, simple meals with friends, often in modest, open-air eating places, or going from one mamak stall to another, nowadays perhaps interspersed with a drink in a fancy bar somewhere in central KL. We call this kind of social interaction to lepak, even when we are speaking English. 

[...] 

To understand the Malaysian’s commitment to the art of lepak (or lepak-ing; the verb can be used with great freedom) is to understand why KL is a strange place – a capital city with the soul of a village, a metropolis that doesn’t quite know how to be a metropolis.

- Tash Aw, Look East, Look to the Future