Black and white

My favourite picture of Albert Einstein depicts him from only a few inches away. He stares directly into the camera, his usually wild hair looking slightly more tame than usual and his mustache darkened by the shadow of his face. His face, in so many pictures synonymous with playful sagacity, here looks slightly mournful, his eyes trying, but not quite succeeding, to conceal a distant melancholy. Something – some burden – is weighing upon him, and if Einstein can’t overcome his burdens for a single moment and be happy, what hope do we have of doing so?

The irony of Meyrin

From the lofty heights of a plane window, Switzerland looks like a third grade art project gone disastrously wrong.

A patchwork of yellow, green and all the shades in between dominates the landscape, rising and falling gently, almost as though god wasn’t quite bothered to fully stretch the terrain out. Patches of forest punctuate the unordered grid, felt stuck on haphazardly with little regard for any aesthetic function it might actually provide (or in this case, detract from). Rivers and lakes flow sinuously into each other, ensuring that they are placed as inconveniently as possible so as to ensure that no settlement can increase beyond a particular size. The glitter of human habitation is scattered sporadically around the scene as well, and the occasionally, the glint of the sun of a car’s windshield or the glass roof of a house is bright enough to blind me, 40000 feet in the air.

At some point, with no discernible transition, the ground gives way to the clouds, and I am so high up it seems as though the clouds are simply resting ethereally upon the ground. From the clouds rise the stubborn peaks of the alps, the snow-covered crown of Mont Blanc pondering its kingdom imperiously.

The border of the plane window casually frames this mess of a scene, and yet somehow, it works. All of the disparate elements combine to form a cohesive image, one that actually makes sense. You’re so high up that while you can’t actually see any humans, you can see the fruits of their effort and this lends a certain organic feel to what you see. It tells the tale of a people that seeks to control its land, but not to rule over it. It tells the tale of a peaceful coexistence between nature and man, one that benefits both and harms neither.  It tells the tale of a Switzerland that you want to experience a lifetime’s worth of in mere weeks.

This is not that tale.

That awkward moment when

On the 25th of January 2014, I did the SAT.

By starting my post with that sentence, I feel I may have gained your attention, but really it’s nothing special. I’m 17 and will soon be applying to universities, some of which are in the US and therefore require me to take a standardized test like the SAT.  Nevertheless, the fact that I did take the SAT on that date is of significance to this post, so I figured I would cut the crap and just tell you that outright.

That being said, the actual test itself was of little significance.  I could have been in that large, curiously cold sports hall for any number of reasons: a spot of urban adventuring, an attempt to conduct the largest-ever study of school sports halls (with a sample size of two! TWO!), or being the testosterone-fueled maniac that I am, a workout session. The point is, I was in that particular sports hall on the 25th of January and as a result, was seated at the very back of the hall, in one corner that was conveniently placed so I could stare out of the window and at the tantalizing freedom that the real world waved in front of me.

To my right sat a boy who was about the same age as me, perhaps slightly shorter and rather more casually dressed than I (I was, as usual, wearing a shirt and slacks). He wore a pair of trainers which were either Converse or Vans. As we first got to our seats, we shared an awkward smile, an uncomfortable grimace that suggested that even though we were about to undergo a 3 hour exam, we would be able to covertly stare at each other whenever time allowed. I remember all of this not because I’m a creepy stalker, but because what this gentleman (gentleboy?) did during those three hours will forever be imprinted onto my mind.

The transition

As I write this, my parents are at a dinner party. My brother is in his room, doing whatever it is that younger brothers do when they’re not depressed about being as perfect a paragon of humanity as their older counterpart.  Having finished all the work I need to today, I now have about an hour and a half of freedom to do what I want. I could be reading, I could be watching a TV show, but instead, I’m writing a blog post. The problem is, I’m not entirely sure what to blog about. Those of you who know me well might be able to imagine me, sprawled across my bed with the laptop perching precariously atop a paperback. I’m frowning as I contemplate the screen before me, and in the background a Fall Out Boy song plays for the umpteenth time.

Insomnia

Sometimes, I take forever to go to sleep.

It’s not that I don’t want to; far from it. I only shut my book (well, my tablet cover), at around 11:30, and by that time, I’m more than ready to sink into the blissful oblivion of my dreams. Unfortunately, my mind generally has other plans. Instead of falling asleep as most humans are prone to doing, I instead stay awake no matter how desperate I am to surrender consciousness to my pillow. It can’t be due to copious consumption of coffee or red bull; the only drink I have on a regular basis is tea, and that too in the early evening. I’m never really bothered by jet lag, and in any case, it’s hardly realistic to imagine that I’m jet lagged every day.  No, my inability to fall asleep quickly is undoubtedly the product of a conspiracy far more nefarious than anything I could express with mere words.

An open letter to the human brain

Dear Brain,

Firstly, allow me to comment on the fundamental irony of this letter. I’m writing it to criticise you, but in order to think of these criticisms and capture them in a blog-worthy format, I’m using you. It’s you, with all of your flaws and shortcomings, that has realised you have a problem. You’ve recognised this problem, but more importantly, you’re willing to call yourself out on it. Good on you. This vaguely reminds me of a quote I once heard: “A physicist is an attempt by an atom to understand itself.”. It’s a lovely quote, and implies a level of introspection that one wouldn’t normally consider. But you probably know that, seeing as it was you who came up with the quote.  Also, and I’m not sure why this is relevant, the first three letters in your name are the same as in mine, and since it can’t possibly be a mere coincidence, this lends you a certain amount of insubstantial credibility.

Jumping off a boat

Did you know that salt has a smell? You wouldn’t think so, but after having spent an entire afternoon jumping into the sea, I can objectively tell you that it does indeed have a smell. Think of the last time you went to a beach. As you go down to near the shore, a certain tangy smell fills your nostrils. I’ve always put that smell down to just the smell of diesel intermingled with the ambient scent of human population, but it turns out that salt makes an appearance too. Perhaps I’m just stupid, but I was very surprised by this.

I write this blog not to comment on the scents of specific condiments, but rather about jumping off things. Yes, this post is going to be exactly as strange as it sounds. Ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve held a peculiar fascination for jumping off, over, or onto things. Even today, I find a perverse joy in hurdling a fence, much to the displeasure of my parents who believe that I’ll somehow break every bone in my body doing just that.

The jump from the boat to the sea was about 4 metres, but I’m terrible at estimating distances, so that figure could be complete rubbish. Regardless, as you’re about to leap into the great unknown, there’s always this moment of hesitation as you consider mortality, spirituality and what it means to be human. Granted, my thoughts were more along the lines of whether or not I felt like another cup of coke, but I like to think I’m more intellectual than that. The point is, when you finally jump out, away from safety, you feel an exhilaration like no other. You’re superman for a second. Nothing can touch you, you’re invulnerable and you’re caught in the glorious abyss of infinite possibility. Before you know it, you start falling and you’ve exploded into the sea, with water filling your nostrils, forcing its way into your mouth, and bubbles tickling every exposed part of your skin.

As strange as this may seem, this wasn’t me.

This feeling is an addicting one, so it’s no surprise that I continued to jump off the boat, each time dedicating my jump to a specific teacher or celebrity (as you do). The feeling never got old. There’s always that fear that instead of penetrating the water like a pencil, you’ll bellyflop. There’s always that expectation that the jump is going to take longer each time.  Once you’re in the air, you always try to finish a word or sentence, but there’s never enough time. Once you reach the water,  you don’t want to come out from its warm embrace. Eventually, you break the surface, gasping for breath, before you climb out again, only to repeat the process.

Yes, I did just write a post about jumping off a boat into the sea. I told you I was weird.

It started with a muffin

Have you ever tried a Starbucks muffin? How about the double chocolate one? It’s the one that’s an incredibly dark brown, almost to the point of being black. It’s the one that has the large chocolate chips encrusted in the top like diamonds in the rough. Sound familiar? I hope so.

I tell you this because there is objectively nothing on the planet that tastes better than this muffin. Having taken the first bite of the muffin, you taste first the soft crumbly body of the muffin in all its glory. It’s light but fulfilling and has enough of a hint of chocolate to keep you interested. Then it hits you. The flavour of the chocolate chip (which you, as a sophisticated connoisseur of baked goods, have also bitten into) explodes into your mouth and you are reminded of everything good that has ever happened to you. Mere words are not sufficient enough to describe this sensation, but suffice it to say that once you have tasted this ambrosia, this nectar that only the gods themselves could have created, muffins will never be the same again.

It was with this entirely objective view that I found myself entering Starbucks on Wednesday afternoon to purchase this same muffin. Having purchased it, I went to sit down, reserving a table for my friends who had decided to content themselves with far inferior food from Subway. As I sat, alone, I realised I was entirely content. I sat in relative comfort, in an air conditioned environment, anticipating good company and I held in my hands the most perfect muffin mankind had ever witnessed. Looking around out of sheer contentment, I noticed another person sitting alone at another table. He too was holding a Starbucks double chocolate muffin, and he too was looking around the room. We made eye contact for a moment, and almost unconsciously, I lifted my muffin. He looked confused for a moment, and as comprehension dawned on his face, his face shifted imperceptibly and he too lifted his muffin. And there we were, two strangers who almost by chance shared a moment of muffin appreciation. It was perfect, almost something you’d see in the movies. After this moment ended, I put down my muffin, turned around and saw my friends striding towards me. I forgot about that short connection I made with that stranger until later, and when I looked around again, he was gone. I’ll most likely never see him again.

I’d understand if, at this point, you were utterly confused by how strange I am. Don’t worry, so am I. What I’m more amazed by, though, is the fact that life is full of episodes like that. From things as simple as crashing into people when the bus makes a particularly unstable turn to routines as complex as the duet you perform when you run into someone and both of you move in the same direction, you interact with these people, and for the most part, you never see them again. Each and every one of these people has their own story, and for a brief second, you were a part of it. They could be future Nobel Laureates, the next secretary general of the UN or for that matter, serial killers. It amazes me to think that you have, ever so slightly, influenced the course of that person’s life. Perhaps it’s because you delayed someone that they missed their train and so had enough time on the platform to think of a cure for cancer.

Where am I going with this? I’m not exactly sure. I know that I’m amazed by how interconnected our lives are, but I’m not sure what to do with it.  Just do yourself a favour: when you next go out, buy a Starbucks muffin.

Everybody knows

There I sat, in the late afternoon of a Saturday, caught in that stupor of semi-boredom during that period of time where it’s too late for homework to even be a consideration but too early for any of your friends to be online on Facebook.  Not in the mood to read a book, I restlessly clicked link after link on my computer, scrolling through entire webpages. I read, but I didn’t process. I upvoted, but I didn’t remember. I smiled, but there was no laughter. There were temporary periods when I was able to resurface from that hypnotic trance, but never for too long. Finally, as I started veering closer to the weird side of the internet and started seeing more pictures of cats than was possibly good for me, I came to a sudden, glorious, halt.  Conscious of my activity now, I decided to check twitter.

Generally, when I’m on Twitter, it’s on my phone and I’m only really on it to share a bad pun or a life event that’s important to me but probably not to everyone else:

As I casually scrolled through my timeline, I mistakenly clicked on one specific tweet by a man named Scott Synder, who is the author of the currently running Batman comics. I don’t remember the exact wording of the tweet, but it was something to do with him going out for dinner with his wife and a Walter White (of Breaking Bad fame) lookalike standing at the door. The actual content of the tweet is irrelevant, but what does matter is that the tweet itself was an inherently personal tweet. It offered a little window into his life. It was the sort of tweet that I could see myself making (once I get a wife, of course).

What surprised me about this, though, was that this tweet was retweeted 15 times. For those of you not well-versed in twitter lingo, a retweet is the reposting of a specific tweet by one of your followers if they think that your tweet is particularly tweetworthy. I spent some time trying to figure out why on earth someone would want their followers to know where a comic book writer was having dinner, and I couldn’t come up with even one semi legitimate reason. It seems as thought these retweets occurred simply as a result of his fame and the star-crossed adulation it brings with it.

I personally could never imagine making one of my quite frankly inane tweets and then having hundreds or even thousands of strangers passing it along to their friends, but it seems like celebrities have to live with it constantly. They resort to dubious means like creating fake online identities to interact with friends or simply not having a facebook account (the horror!), but even then, countless impersonators will take your place and make posts on your behalf. It seems like an awful lot of bother just to have an outlet to interact with people you know.

Granted, the incredibly explosive nature of these updates can be utilised incredibly effectively, and is done so by the likes of new organisations and bands looking to get the word out. But for the most part, the posts these celebrities make are similar to the ones we plebeians do and it seems incredibly strange to me.

I could rant on and on about why this is so strange, but I’ll end here with a question:  the next time you post a selfie or complain about homework, what would it be like for 6000 strangers to tell all their friends?

A penchant for forethought, part 1

I’ll start this post by telling you what it is exactly that I’m going to do. I have, over the last week or so, been working on a story and I’m going to post what I’ve written so far. Rather embarrassingly, the story originated not from an idea for the plot, but rather a name.

The name was Tyrell Vecter. I can’t explain why, but something about it just appealed to me. It seemed like the name for someone incredibly intelligent, and even more manipulative. From there, I just sort of thought of things that a character like that would get up to, and decided to put it to paper.

Now, it’s not perfect yet because I’m thinking I want to make it a little darker and obviously continue the story, but here it is so far. If you do have any feedback, I’d love to hear it. And so, without further ado: