"Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about." — Haruki Murakami (Norwegian Wood)

Monday, September 20, 2010

Start your day with positivity

"It's so easy to be negative than stay positive all the time"...just by that statement you'll say its NEGATIVE by itself...

I woke up this morning feeling very energetic to start my day...and what a great day to start it by reading Rhonda Byrne's "THE SECRET" with coffee on the side:

YES! Life is good and I love contemplating on this idea of "The Secret". I checked out my little garden outside and found I have some new bloomed in my garden:

"Whatever you give out in life is what you receive back in life. Give positivity, you receive back positivity; give negativity, you receive back negativity."

I tried to test that statement by checking out Facebook statuses this morning. I found out that most people focus on what's bad in their life, whining about their job, complaining about the traffic, hating someone from the office, worrying about money, not being happy with their relationships. You stay too long in negativity that you probably not noticing your becoming so negative and toxic to other people.. and when you look at you life in whole, all you see is nothing but FAILURE. 

"Life doesn't happen to you; you receive everything in your life based on what you've given."

"It's so easy to stay positive than be negative all the time.".. it's so easy to see when things are not going our way but isn't it easier to deal with it if your positive towards life? For an easy Monday, I think this is something to think about.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Imagination is a lost art

"I thought the first Harry Potter was great,"

"I liked the second one better," someone said.

"I never saw any of them," someone else said.

In that moment I realized everyone but me was talking about the movies, not the book. Later in the conversation, someone brought up Twilight.

"I haven't seen it," was the response.


It happens all too often. I'll mention Stephen King and find myself surrounded by people talking about movies based on his books. It gets worse than that, though. When you start talking about To Kill a Mockingbird or Pride and Prejudice and the person says, "Oh, Keira Knightley was GREAT in that," you know they rather see the movie than...READ.

We're a visual society. It seems, if you want your book to be read, you'd better get a movie deal out of it, pronto. THEN the world will rush out to buy the book, reading it AFTER they've seen the movie.

"I like to be able to picture the characters in my head," someone once told me. "If I've seen the movie, then I know how the characters look."

Imagination is a lost art, I guess. In fact, after the movie comes out, usually the book covers are revised with the film's actors, like this:

Or this:

I understand the power of cinema, but isn't part of the fun of reading being able to make up your OWN mental image of the characters and scenes? Isn't it the author's job to bring it all to life for you?

I remember as a kid, loving to read. I remember being told by the grown-ups that I needed to be outside playing rather than cooped up inside reading. Good point, but all of that reading paid off handsomely later in life. Even reading commercial fiction enriches someone. I visited places in my imagination I'd never visited before. I learned about things...and I developed a vocabulary and writing ability that I notice many non-readers lack. In fact, if I hear one more person saying words like "irregardless" and "a whole nother" I'm going to start handing out books on the street.

What do you think? Are we raising generations of couch potatoes who have no idea A Christmas Carol was a book before it was a movie? Who think Charles Dickens was a famous actor and William Shakespeare was "a great character in that Gwyneth Paltrow movie."

Jar Of Hearts

I know I cant take one more step towards you
Cause all thats waiting is regret
And don't you know im not your ghost anymore
You lost the love
I loved the most

I learned to live, half alive
And now you want me one more time

Who do you think you are
Runnin round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Who do you think you are
I hear you're asking all around
If I am anywhere to be found
But I have grown too strong
To ever fall back in your arms 
I learned to live, half alive
And now you want me one more time

Who do you think you are
Runnin round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Who do you think you are  
It took so long just to feel alright
Remember how to put back the light in my eyes
I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed
Cause you broke all you're promises

And now you're back
You don't get to get me back

Who do you think you are
runnin round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me
Don't come back at all
And who do you think you are?
Runnin round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul 
Don't come back for me
Don't come back at all

Who do you think you are?

Who do you think you are?

Who do you think you are?

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The Year of Spagetti

Nineteen-seventy-one was the Year of Spaghetti.In 1971, I cooked spaghetti to live, and lived to cook spaghetti. Steam rising from the pot was my pride and joy, tomato sauce bubbling up in the saucepan my one great hope in life.

I went to a cooking specialty store and bought a kitchen timer and a huge aluminum pot, big enough to bathe a German shepherd in, then went around to all the supermarkets that catered to foreigners, gathering an assortment of odd-sounding spices. I picked up a pasta cookbook at the bookstore, and bought tomatoes by the dozen. I purchased every brand of spaghetti I could lay my hands on, simmered every sauce known to man. Fine particles of garlic, onion, and olive oil swirled in the air, forming a harmonious cloud that penetrated every corner of my tiny apartment, permeating the floor and the ceiling and the walls, my clothes, my books,
my records, my tennis racquet, my bundles of old letters. It was a fragrance one might have smelled on ancient Roman aqueducts.

This is a story from the Year of Spaghetti, 1971 A.D.

As a rule, I cooked spaghetti, and ate it, by myself. I was convinced that spaghetti was a dish best enjoyed alone. I cant really explain why I felt that way, but there it is.

I always drank tea with my spaghetti and ate a simple lettuce-and-cucumber salad. Id make sure I had plenty of both. I laid everything out neatly on the table and enjoyed a leisurely meal, glancing at the paper as I ate.
From Sunday to Saturday, one Spaghetti Day followed another. And each new Sunday started a brand-new Spaghetti Week.

Every time I sat down to a plate of spaghetti especially on a rainy Afternoon I had the distinct feeling that somebody was about to knock on my door. The person who I imagined was about to visit me was different each time. Sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes someone I knew. Once, it was a girl with slim legs whom Id dated in high school, and once it was myself, from a few years back, come to pay a visit. Another time, it was William Holden, with Jennifer Jones on his arm.

William Holden?

Not one of these people, however, actually ventured into my apartment. They hovered just outside the door, without knocking, like fragments of memory, and then slipped away.

Spring, summer, and fall, I cooked and cooked, as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge. Like a lonely, jilted girl throwing old love letters into the fireplace, I tossed one handful of spaghetti after another into the pot.

Id gather up the trampled-down shadows of time, knead them into the shape of a German shepherd, toss them into the roiling water, and sprinkle them with salt. Then Id hover over the pot, oversized chopsticks in hand, until the timer dinged its plaintive note.

Spaghetti strands are a crafty bunch, and I couldn’t let them out of my sight. If I were to turn my back, they might well slip over the edge of the pot and vanish into the night. The night lay in silent ambush, hoping to waylay the prodigal strands.

Spaghetti alla parmigiana

Spaghetti alla napoletana

Spaghetti al cartoccio

Spaghetti aglio e olio

Spaghetti alla carbonara

Spaghetti della pina

And then there was the pitiful, nameless leftover spaghetti carelessly tossed into the fridge.

Born in heat, the strands of spaghetti washed down the river of 1971 and vanished.

I mourn them all — all the spaghetti of the year 1971.

When the phone rang at 3:20 p.m. I was sprawled out on the tatami, staring at the ceiling. A pool of winter sunlight had formed in the place where I lay. Like a dead fly I lay there, vacant, in a December spotlight.

At first, I didn’t recognize the sound as the phone ringing. It was more like an unfamiliar memory that had hesitantly slipped in between the layers of air. Finally, though, it began to take shape, and, in the end, a
ringing phone was unmistakably what it was. It was one hundred per cent a phone ring in one-hundred-per-cent real air. Still sprawled out, I reached over and picked up the receiver.

On the other end was a girl, a girl so indistinct that, by four-thirty, she might very well have disappeared altogether. She was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine. Something had brought them together, this guy and
this indistinct girl, and something had led them to break up. I had, I admit, reluctantly played a role in getting them together in the first place.

Sorry to bother you, she said, but do you know where he is now?

I looked at the phone, running my eyes along the length of the cord. The cord was, sure enough, attached to the phone. I managed a vague reply. There was something ominous in the girls voice, and whatever trouble was brewing I knew that I didnt want to get involved.

Nobody will tell me where he is, she said in a chilly tone. Everybody's pretending they dont know. But theres something important I have to tell him, so please tell me where he is. I promise I wont drag you into this.
Where is he?

I honestly dont know, I told her. I havent seen him in a long time. My voice didnt sound like my own. I was telling the truth about not having seen him for a long time, but not about the other part I did know his address and phone number. Whenever I tell a lie, something weird happens to my voice.

No comment from her.

The phone was like a pillar of ice.

Then all the objects around me turned into pillars of ice, as if I were in a J. G. Ballard science-fiction story.

I really dont know, I repeated. He went away a long time ago, without saying a word.

The girl laughed. Give me a break. Hes not that clever. Were talking about a guy who has to make a lot of noise no matter what he does.

She was right. The guy really was a bit of a dim bulb.

But I wasnt about to tell her where he was. Do that, and next Id have him on the phone, giving me an earful. I was through with getting caught up in other peoples messes. Id already dug a hole in the back yard and buried
everything that needed to be buried in it. Nobody could ever dig it up again.

Im sorry, I said.

You dont like me, do you? she said suddenly.

I had no idea what to say. I didnt particularly dislike her. I had no real impression of her at all. Its hard to have a bad impression of somebody you have no impression of.

Im sorry, I said again. But Im cooking spaghetti right now.

Im sorry?

I said Im cooking spaghetti, I lied. I had no idea why I said that. But the lie had already become a part of meso much so that, at that moment at least, it didnt feel like a lie at all.

I went ahead and filled an imaginary pot with imaginary water, lit an imaginary stove with an imaginary match.

So? she asked.

I sprinkled imaginary salt into the boiling water, gently lowered a handful of imaginary spaghetti into the imaginary pot, set the imaginary kitchen timer for eight minutes.

So I cant talk. The spaghetti will be ruined.

She didnt say anything.

Im really sorry, but cooking spaghetti is a delicate operation.

The girl was silent. The phone in my hand began to freeze again.

So could you call me back? I added hurriedly.

Because youre in the middle of making spaghetti? she asked.


Are you making it for someone, or are you going to eat alone?

Ill eat it by myself, I said.

She held her breath for a long time, then slowly breathed out. Theres no way you could know this, but Im really in trouble. I dont know what to do.

Im sorry I cant help you, I said.

Theres some money involved, too.

I see.

He owes me money, she said. I lent him some money. I shouldnt have, but I had to.

I was quiet for a minute, my thoughts drifting toward spaghetti. Im sorry, I said. But Ive got the spaghetti going, so . . .

She gave a listless laugh. Goodbye, she said. Say hi to your spaghetti for me. I hope it turns out O.K.

Bye, I said.

When I hung up the phone, the circle of light on the floor had shifted an inch or two. I lay down again in that pool of light and resumed staring at the ceiling.

Thinking about spaghetti that boils eternally but is never done is a sad, sad thing.

Now I regret, a little, that I didnt tell the girl anything. Perhaps I should have. I mean, her ex-boyfriend wasnt much to start with an empty shell of a guy with artistic pretensions, a great talker whom nobody trusted. She sounded as if she really were strapped for money, and, no matter what the situation, you’ve got to pay back what you borrow.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the girl the thought usually pops into my mind when Im facing a steaming-hot plate of spaghetti. After she hung up the phone, did she disappear forever, sucked into the 4:30 p.m. shadows? Was I partly to blame?

I want you to understand my position, though. At the time, I didnt want to get involved with anyone. Thats why I kept on cooking spaghetti, all by myself. In that huge pot, big enough to hold a German shepherd.

Durum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields.

Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew that what they were exporting in 1971 was really *loneliness*?

**Translated, from the Japanese, by Philip Gabriel. From newyorker.com

~Haruki Murakami, The Year of Spagetti. 
***Spaghetti makes guest appearances in many of Murakami’s tales (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle seems as though it starts in the same kitchen that’s being described here, for example) but this is the story where it is put front and center. The paragraph quoted there is more than an evocative look at someone sinking themselves deep into a pursuit—it sets the tone, it’s an exclamation of loneliness. Spaghetti sauce the one great hope? This seems from the start like a guy sinking himself into something to block out something else.

The narrator gets a late afternoon call from the ex-girlfriend of a friend, looking for their shared acquaintance. He evades her: “I was through with getting caught up in other people’s messes. I’d already dug a hole in the backyard and buried everything that needed to be buried in it. Nobody could ever dig it up again.” The plot moves forward incrementally from there, and then peters out, but—as usual—that’s beside the point.

It’s a story of different kinds of loneliness, and it’s as simple as can be.

Ten Ways Being a Geek Makes You More Attractive

1. You’re probably very smart.

2. It’s hip to be geek. Everyone is familiar with the stereotype of thick glasses, a pocket protector, an obsession with star trek, and social skills akin to a sack of potatoes. Times have changed: geeks are often fashionable, hip individuals who are very aligned with the trends of their own generation

3. You geek out on more than just your computer. Ever seen the movie collection of a film geek? Ever had an automotive geek work on your car? Ever seen the body of a fitness geek? The tenacity of someone like us, when applied to hobbies outside computers and the like, can yield impressive results.

4. Geek humor is the best humor. This is perhaps a biased opinion, but I’ve never laughed as hard as I have while reading some of the random, funny things that came out of geek culture.

5. You listen to good music. Geeks have access to tools that allow us to hear music that extends well beyond top 40 radio. Want the entire discography of Aphex Twin by tomorrow afternoon? Ask a geek. Not only do they listen to good music, they can find just about anything you’re looking for in a heartbeat.

6. You make good money. If there’s one stereotype about geeks that usually rings true, it’s that they rarely have trouble earning a decent income.

7. You fix stuff. Everyone loves a handyman, especially one that can fix one of the most frustrating devices ever conceived: a personal computer.

8. You’ve got your own stuff going on. You’ll never meet a geek who runs out of things to do, they’ve got lots of hobbies and interests and are more than happy to dive head first into one of those when they’ve got some spare time. In other words: they won’t rely on you to give them a life.

9. You’re very articulate. Compulsively reading a few hundred RSS feeds a day yields a vocabulary that could put most college English majors to shame.

10. You’re passionate. When a geek becomes interested in something, they tend to immerse themselves in it entirely. They’ll strip a new gadget down to nuts and bolts and re-build it with an xhtml compliant grappling gun. This intense passion can extend to many areas of a geek’s life, not just computers and hobbies.

Monday, September 13, 2010


What IS it with men and their nasty, tattered stuff? Socks that have holes in them, underwear that has skid marks, furniture that's falling apart?

Many a woman has tried to separate a man from his stuff...and many a woman has failed. You can try bribing him with new stuff to replace it, but he won't hear of it. He likes his old stuff. He doesn't see it as broken DOWN. He sees it as broken IN.

Is it biological? Part of the "hunting and gathering" instinct? Or is it simply man's way of being sentimental about things?

You see, women save things too. We're just more likely to save letters, photographs, greeting cards... We tuck them away in an old shoe box in the back of our closet, rarely seen. Every now and then we pull them out and sit and cry over old times, while our men stare at us as though we're from another planet.

He's not holding onto that old coffee cup for sentimental reasons. There's nothing sentimental about it. Guys, in case you haven't noticed, coffee, over time, STAINS a cup, so it looks something like this:

There's no way I could drink out of a cup like that. I'd just toss it and buy another one. My sofa is only ten years old and already I'm feeling it's in bad need of replacing. And most men wouldn't care about that...but try and replace his favorite chair. Just try. You'll be in for the tug-of-war to end all tug-of-wars.

Men, more than women, tend to still have clothing hanging around from high school and college. Some may even be lucky enough to still fit into them. Their socks get holes in them, they keep wearing them. Women throw them away and go buy new.

Or, in the words of Jerry Seinfeld: "Men wear their underwear until it absolutely disintegrates. Men hang on to underwear until each individual underwear molecule is so strained it can barely retain the properties of a solid. It actually becomes underwear vapor."

What is up with this phenomenon? Is it just a fear of shopping? Or does it go deeper than that?

♫♥♫♥♫ Let it rock, yeah Let it roll, Let it go ♫♥♫♥♫

There are people who can walk away from you... And hear me when I tell you this! When people can walk away from you: let them walk.

I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. I mean hang up the phone.

The single hardiest thing I deal with in my life is letting go of loved ones within relationships, I work so hard in my own life to make things work and accomplish the goals I set forth. I have hung on too long within relationships and it takes a toll on you emotionally and physically. Over time and a lot of heart ache I had came to the point that I have zero patience with new people I may meet if they play games or I have to chase them then I LET GO, the whole "dont chase, replace" motto. I live a super healthy and positive life so bringing someone into my life that has drama or doesn't live the same way will not happen. You need someone that pushes you forward someone that make you a better person. Someone who makes you SMILE someone on your level, not someone you have to change.

When people can walk away from you let them walk.

Your destiny is never tied to anybody that left.

People leave you because they are not joined to you.

And if they are not joined to you, you can't make them stay.

Let them go.

And it doesn't mean that they are a bad person it just means that their part in the story is over.

And you've got to know when people's part in your story is over so that you don't keep trying to raise the dead.

You've got to know when it's dead.

You've got to know when it's over. Let me tell you something... I've got the gift of good-bye. I believe in good-bye. It's not that I'm hateful, it's that I'm faithful.. And if it takes too much sweat I don't need it. Stop begging people to stay.
Let them go!!!

If you are holding on to something that doesn't belong to you and was never intended for your life, then you need to......


If you are holding on to past hurts and pains .....


If someone can't treat you right, love you back, and see your worth.....

If someone has angered you ........


If you are holding on to some thoughts of evil and revenge......


If you are involved in a wrong relationship or addiction......

If you are holding on to a job that no longer meets your needs or talents


If you have a bad attitude.......


If you keep judging others to make yourself feel better......


If you are struggling with the healing of a broken relationship.......

If you keep trying to help someone who won't even try to help themselves......

If you're feeling depressed and stressed .........


Sometimes putting a period is better than putting a comma because it’s better to see a complete sentence than a hanging one that doesn’t make sense. Courage is measured equally by both holding on and letting go...

♫♥♫♥♫ Let it rock, yeah Let it roll, let it Let it go ♫♥♫♥♫