Turbulence

I'm back from the land of the living and installed under the frozen northern rock. Seeing SA again was great - thanks to everyone who helped make my stay unforgettable.

It's been a busy start to the new year, thanks to the job and new studies. The "ketchup effect" strikes again - shake that bottle, and for the longest time nothing happens, until all of a sudden you get a plate full of red crap. But I shouldn't complain, since I'm learning a hell of a lot and the small, daily successes are great for the motivation. Indeed, I have enough on my mind that I have little time to waste on pointless philosophizing about existence, but old habits die hard, and bad habits are tougher than Chuck Norris on Manenberg-grade tik*, so here you go.

Right now I'm watching the snowflakes dance their ballet outside my office window and pondering the random, macro-Brownian movement patterns. Humans aren't much different from snowflakes, I think. Each one of us is an absolutely unique and twisted creation by definition and unendingly complex close-up, but a rather boring, irritating and pretentious drop of water when seen from the bigger perspective. We do our dance with fate, bump into others and perhaps find one which complements us and who we can cleave to. And then ... the Windowsill of Doom, and an inglorious and mushy end.

The only problem with this analogy is the case when the snow lies overnight. OK, so my model is not perfect but we can safely disregard the conflicting example since "it is beyond the scope of this article". Or we can apply my other favourite quote: "Proof of this theorem is left as an exercise to the reader."

As you have perhaps noticed, dear Reader, the years of exposure to academic sodomy (fondly referred to as "higher education") have not left me unscarred. On the plus side, I have no illusions about the value or place of university education; my conclusion is that real life is much more challenging, albeit in a different way (more "oh shit I'm guna DIE" and less "oh crap, exam stress mind blank").

That's about it for now. I'm feeling strangely lagom** these days and have no new bees in my bonnet begging to be swatted with the hammer, so I'll close with a sketch of Stockholm. The Sisters of Mercy say it best.

Floorshow

The bodies on the naked on the low damp ground
In the violet hour to the violent sound
And the darkness the blinding the eyes that shine
And the voices and the singing and the line on line
This is the floorshow the clapping hands
Animal flow from the animal glands
In the violet hour to the violent sound
Going round and around and around and around and around
I feel the bite
I feel the beat
I see the dancing feet
I feel the light
I feel the heat
I see the new elite
I see the final floorshow
I see the western dream
I see the faces glow and I see the bodies steam
See them shimmy see them go
See their painted faces glow
Slow slow quick quick slow
See those pagans go go go go go
This is the floorshow the last ideal
It's populist got mass appeal
The old religion redefined
For the facile futile totally blind
Mundane by day inane at night
Pagan playing in the flashing light
In the violet hour to the violent sound
Going round and around and around and around and around
And the bodies naked on the low damp ground
In the violet hour to the violet sound
And the darkness the blinding the eyes that shine
And the voices singing line on line
See them shimmy see them go
See their painted faces glow
Slow slow quick quick slow
See those pagans go go go go go

* pride of the Cape, along with Abalone smuggling and "djou maaa".
** Swedish-English translator