Horizon

There.

In the direction I'm pointing...

that's my horizon.

Can you see it?
Probably not.

There is no way you can see
what I can see,
or for me to see what you just saw...
but I wish it were possible.

Genie!
My three wishes are
foresight, hindsight and insight...
in any order.

Well, that's my horizon,
and I pretty much can't see anything beyond it,
so that's my border.

It reminds me of an invisible boundary,
that I've never really  tried to touch.

Have you ever wondered if the setting sun is noisy?
I'd expect it so,
with it's sinking slowly over the horizon,
into the sea, I assume.
I'd also expect a lot of steam.
As a kid,
that's where I thought clouds came from.


On the one side of my horizon
I can see a setting sun,
and on it's opposite I know that it will rise again,
while all around
the waves keep lapping and the clouds form and dissolve,
endlessly.

But I know for a fact
that the higher I go,
the further my horizon keeps extending,
and farther I can see,
and my invisible boundary will stretch out, unfold and widen,
endlessly.

Then maybe see what I've never seen before,
and if I could make sense of it,
maybe know,
what I've never known.

So the ideal place to be,
for you and me would be,
on the top of the world isn't it?

I don't know about you,
but I'd frankly miss the waves lapping at my feet.

Generation Gapped!

I have always had a ten-year generation gap with anyone who is two years younger than I am.
I am not a grammar Nazi but their language and usage confounds me.

Their topics all seem Greek, Latin & Mandarin.

I don't understand the music they listen to...I'm still stuck to the same music that I liked ten years ago because it is safe and familiar, while venturing into new music (is it music?) feels like rushing into a dark alley in sin city.
 Video might have killed the radio star, but reality shows definitely killed the music videos.
Whatever happened to all the music channels?

I never knew it was cool to be a loser...apparently kids these days think its ok to display infinite amounts of stupidity.(Not that we were any smarter-but we hid our stupidity much better  and we still do)

They always seem to be two steps ahead of me...or behind, if that is the "In Thing" with them.
You know, that is another thing that bothers me...things that are in or out, or things that were like five minutes ago, or soooo like yesterday.
I guess that makes me...soooo like day before yesterday.

Anyone three years younger than me-a KID!

That's how I see them, and that’s how I’m going to treat them-like a juvenile-post-pubescent-hormone crazed-delinquent.
Which was why I was lucky enough to find a wife whose age was not an issue...I had the good luck of finding a girl who was just within the two year limit...someone who had faced life as an adult-but more importantly someone who could treat me like her baby.
Yep! With her, I get to be the kid, cuz she is the more mature one.
Ga ga goo goo baby!

Once upon a time,
I was full of vitriol
and bile,
but now on antacids
for quite some while,
but the row of teeth that you see
is not from a grin or a smile
its grit and determination
and just a pinch of guile



I usually don't open my mouth while people are being stupid...they think I'm trying to compete and outdo them .

What is a pregnant goldfish called?

A bubble is round because the air within it presses equally against all its parts, thus causing all surfaces to be equidistant from its centre.
So now you know.

According to Genesis 1:20-22 the chicken came before the egg.
So there you have it.


Sahara means desert in Arabic.
So the Sahara Desert is actually Desert x 2.

To escape the grip of a crocodile's jaws, you should push your thumbs into its eyeballs.
Might work with other animals too, but not with cyborgs and zombies.

Mary, Mary quite contrary was Mary, Queen of Scots.

A pregnant goldfish is called a twit.
Why?
Because she forgot to take her pills on time.

Starfish don't have brains.
Sometimes I feel like I'm the only jelly fish in a starfish sanctuary.

A crocodile cannot stick out its tongue.
But you can...after you push your thumbs through its eyeballs and escape with your life.
Although the now blind croc might not be able to get affronted by your tongue.

It is illegal to be a prostitue in Siena, Italy, if your name is Mary.
On the other hand it's quite ok to be a contrary queen.Even in Italy.

A group of hippopotmuses(or hippopotami) is called a bloat.
When women say they feel bloated, that's how they are feeling.

It takes four hours to hard boil an ostrich egg.
Out of which you spend three hours trying to run away from the ostrich mother.

A group of owls is called a parliament.
I thought the parliament usually had jackasses and hyenas and blood sucking leeches.

Trivial Jokes:Take trivia and add a punchline.
And then add another...everyday.
That's what they taught me at improv class.

I excel at the writing part...churning mediocre jokes that appeal to the lowest common denominator(or so I'm told)...but it's the delivery that's killing me...
instead of my audience.

Maybe I should try Vogon poetry.

In the cemetery where Al Jolson is buried

On the morning she was moved to threw cemetery, the one where Al Jolson its buried, I enrolled in a"Fear of Flying"class.

"What is your worst fear?"the instructor asked, and I answered,"That I will finish this course and still be afraid."

I think of the chimp, the one one with the taking hands.

In the course of the experiment, that chimp has a baby.Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the mother, without prompting, began to sign to her new born.

Baby, drink milk.

Baby, play ball.

And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body, her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again and again the words: Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief.

-Amy Hempel

Doggy style

I record my thoughts the way a dog marks his territory.

There seems to be a method to this madness.

Pink posterity

I've never been completely honest with any diary that I've confessed to...

a rosy posterity has always been more important than expiation 

or the pursuit of in self.

I am a liar,

to myself 

and 

more so to others...

Perhaps that is the only truth 

I can permit myself to disclose.

Martyr

Drinking black coffee made me feel like a martyr-some one who forgoes the pleasures of a creamy, frothy sweet coffee with the choicest of the toppings...

As a kid I faked an allergy to eggs to avoid eating them.I hated the way the yolk stinks.

Still do.

I've stopped eating simple carbs.

The object of my dieting was never weight loss or weight gain.

Self control.

Thats what it was.

And external control.

In a life that is largely run on schedules and timetables set by someone else, this is one small area where I can still wield power-exert some control-retain some sanity.

I've eschewed rice and roti and embraced eggs and beans.

I still don't like them...eggs, but I'm certainly not allergic to them.

Recently, after a short snorkelling session in the glassy waters of the cook islands, I found out that I'm allergic to sun...polymorphic light reaction is the medical terminology, but the results are large scale scaling of the skin...I turn reptilian, and itchy, and oozing red.

I switched over to chai recently.

It's tiring being a martyr.

My chai is light-just one teabag, very sweet-two heaps of sugar and one third milky.

The chai is an exception to my diet, but I do retain some control over it.Never more than a cup a day.

Some habits die hard.

I'm normalizing slowly, I think.

I'm normalizing...or thats what my intentions are.