Rides for grownups and overpriced donuts

It's just two weeks and three days remaining until September begins again, and I will try to challenge myself to write a blogpost every day for the remaining days of August. Here's the cipher... and the plaintext.

Just a couple of days ago, I went to the Saskatoon Exhibition, a yearly 5-day event in August where the Prairieland Park is filled with shops and food stores and midway rides. I wasted $103 on a Friday, and because this is the fifth year in which I have went, I got pretty tired of all the rides.

It's way more colourful at night.

One of the rides I went to was something called the Alpine Bobs. It was a staple of the midway: swinging cars going up and down a circular track at high speed. I could close my eyes and imagine that this is what the Olympic bobsledders feel, except that this ride, it's got more bumps.

At the time, I was thinking about how stupid I was to spend such a ridiculous amount of money on rides that I pretty much went on for the past four years, and how I dared to go here despite the fact that school is fast approaching and I should save more money for books and other grown-up stuff.

So I started to philosophize.

I was making life metaphors while on this ride.

I was on the ride, and as it whoozed me across the alpine bob track, going up and down and around and around as it throws centripetal forces against my body, I tried my hardest to avoid bumping into the hard plastic chassis of the car I am in. I was struggling against it, trying hard not to hit myself against any hard surface, until I just stopped, and let go.

I let myself be taken for the ride, bracing for the hard turns and the violent motions of the ride. And surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. 

It got me thinking: if only I also just went with all the violent motions and sudden sharp turns that my life right now is throwing at me, that I stop resisting and just sail through all these... turbulence, it wouldn't be as violent and harmful as I originally thought them to be.

Because from the queue line, the ride seems harsh and cruel and unforgiving. It is once you step on the ride that you realize... how fun it actually is. Eventually, a teenage girl's horrified screams of nervousness and terror eventually becomes peals of laughter and enjoyment. Because that's pretty much how the ride, much like life, is supposed to be taken: horrifying, but when you look back at it, you'll smile and think, "I can't believe I just survived all that!"

And of course the rapid motions and sudden turns are necessary, to make a ride more exciting. Who wants to go on a ride that just moves you back and forth? It's gotta have to thrash around, it's gotta have to drop you from a hundred feet, it's gotta whirl and tilt and spin and swing to make it a ride worth 6 tickets, of course.

Similarly, who wants to live a life that's just humdrum and drudgery? It's gotta have panache, of course. it's gotta have risk and love and friendship and heartbreak and betrayal and success to make a life worth living. 

And no matter how violent the ride is, when it's all over, you'll look back... at all the memories, all the hurt, all the thrashing and whirling and spinning and tilting that you've experienced so far, and you'll smile. Because you've survived all that, and you're ready to survive a lot more.

So then you go to the next queue line, and when it's your turn, you buckle up... and enjoy the ride.

The conundrum of connection

After watching a video about social media killing social connections, I have realized quite a couple of things. Here's the cipher.

We are living in the Internet age: the era of mobile technology, immersive video games, and ever-changing
status updates on our social media profiles. We see and experience life like we have never experienced before: literal gigabytes of information that can be accessed by a quick click of the Search button. The average modern smartphone is more powerful than the entire console used to send a man to the moon.

I think the internet makes it harder for
us to be happy.

But, I acquiesce, that this ease of information we have is the reason why people are feeling more and more lonely every day. I think it is because they see the entire world and then look scornfully at themselves in their current state. Whoever haven't browsed profiles at a dating website, and asked themselves, "Why do all the attractive people have to be so far away from me?"

This desire to be in close proximity with attractive people leads to a feeling of loneliness, a creeping sense of depression, a persistent thought that everyone in their city is unattractive compared to the supermodels and pop stars and swooners who live hundreds of miles away.

However, this global view of the world blinds the person's eyes to the personal connections he makes. He does not see the attractive lady sitting on a park bench, the adorable puppy who gleefully fetches a thrown stick, the supportive friends he goes out with on a weekend night. He fails to savor these little moments that should build him up and instead longs for the caress of the "perfect one": he so much aspires to get to Oz without stopping to admire the majesty of the yellow road he's travelling on.

He looks at the majestic stars through a telescope but he does not see the chair holding him up.

The person should then realize that he is not alone in the world: he is just alone on the internet.

Star light, star bright.

This is the Pleiades. It is so bright it can be seen even in the busiest cities of the world.

Only thing is, this star cluster is so far away that light itself takes 391 years to reach Earth. Yes, when we look at the Pleiades, we are looking at the light of a star cluster which is older than us.

Even the Sun is quite far away. The light of the Sun takes 8 minutes to reach Earth.

The closest star from our solar system, Proxima Centauri, is so still so far (4 light-years) that if you made a scale model of the Sun with a radius of 30cm, Proxima Centauri needs to be 8514 kilometers away to be accurate. The distance between New York and Los Angeles is 3961 kilometers.

Stars shine so bright and they illuminate our night sky. But what's actually happening is we're looking back in time. Looking at the Pleaides means looking at the light generated 391 years ago. These are the lights of a time way before us, back in the day when we were still young, or probably nonexistent.

And who knows, the star might be a supernova now and we wouldn't even know. If Proxima Centauri dies, we would not know it did until 4 years after, when its light stops shining.

So all these years--since when?--he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.

I am looking at a dead star. What I thought was shining for me, beaming at me, is actually the remnant of a love long due. It's the light from years ago, way back, probably even more. I am looking at the light of a dead star, of a love lost and forgotten.

I remember the memories we had, of the good times we shared. They're all gone now, the light of my sweet little star will vanish sometime.

I look out the window and see the light of Pleiades from 391 years ago.And I think to myself,

It's time to move on.

Puppeteer

I can see the strings, the cross-rods way above me.

I move a leg. And another one. In a few moments, I begin to do something my puppeteer calls walking. He smiles. As he twitches the cross-rods, his audience is entertained, dazzled by this wondrous thing that moves.

He pulls strings here and there, and I realize I am not alone. There are hundreds of us - perhaps even thousands, all moving, all doing stuff - to the delight of the audience. My fellow puppets seem not to take notice of the strings connected to them: it's like they haven't seen it yet.. or just prefer not to give a damn.

I look at the audience. A massive plethora of myriad individuals, watching us, studying us. Then I see something above them - strings. They are puppets as well, puppets who are currently just watching us do stunts. Eventually my eye catches one of the stage puppets move ot of the stage to be replaced with someone from the audience. After a few moments, I feel my legs being walked out of the stage. I am now being made a part of the audience as well.

All of the motions, all of the people watching, makes me wonder who moves these many puppets, who controls them. I squint up toward the light to take a glance at the puppeteer's nametag. His name is Society. For the past few hours, I keep seeing someone go to Society and help him move the puppets. A few hours ago, there was only one. Now there are hundreds of them, each making at least 10 puppets move. They all have the same nametag: Technology.

Now Society doesn't always control the puppets by himself. Sometimes, he crushes them, destroys them, throws them into a fire for reasons I could not comprehend. Sometimes Society just cuts off a puppet's strings, rendering the poor wooden figure lifeless, laying in a heap of wooden uselessness on the floor. He occasionally wipes out puppets of a certain color, of a certain height. There are times when he threw an entire region of people away.

Both the puppeteer and his group of sidekicks with the name Technology take part in this horrendous display of destruction. But there are times when they actually improve some people. They polish their wooden eyes, make them more attractive, make them do more actions. Sometimes, they augment the puppet's capabilities.  They help them be the best puppet they can be, for the delight of the audience.

I take a look at myself for a second and I was shocked with what I saw: right there, on the dull tin plate pinned to my chest, is the name Society.

White crayon

The white crayon doesn't show up until you have a 16-pack of crayons.

What is it for anyway? Crayola said it's for 'advanced coloring techniques', where you were supposed to highlight glossy surfaces or emphasize a chiaroscuro, but what kind of pre-schooler would come up with such a concept? I don't even see a kindergartner saying chiaroscuro correctly.

The white crayon. Basically useless, very neutral. It sits at the edge of the 16-crayon pack, waiting to be used. No doubt that after some usage, the white crayon will be the sharpest, most crisp, while all the other crayons have shown dullness due to repeated use.

The crayon has its own brilliance though; a hidden one. Just like how it was supposed to be used to emphasize shading, the white crayon serves a higher purpose. It is not meant to be used or even understood by normal people. Only a chosen few can understand the significance of the white crayon, and when they do, they unleash a masterpiece.

It has its own time, when some artist uses crayons to work on something extravagant, something life-like. It is when the white crayon becomes essential. It rises above the purpose of toddlers using it to create rugged crayon drawings and becomes a tool to enhance, to accentuate, to beautify. It has its own time, when art finally becomes art, an authentic appreciation of the visual world, a symphony of colors orchestrated in the hands of the artist. And in between this mélange of hues and shades, the shades of the white crayon bind them together, make them cohesive, or draw the boundaries between one color and the other.

It is then that the white crayon does its job. Unfortunate as it may seem, the white crayon is the underestimated knight of the crayon box, whose real purpose is only known to a few. Often misunderstood, the white crayon symbolizes everyone whose real potential haven't been tapped, those whose brilliance will someday break the twilight of the world's dismal, repetitive drudgery.  A day will come when all the world's hidden talents will emerge and bring forth the real ability mankind has.

What was hidden shall be seen. The white crayon, inert as it may seem, does actually have a purpose. And it's one that is the most artistic of all: to impart beauty onto the world.

Writer's block

You see, I'm a Scorpio. Just like Picasso or da Vinci, I never finish most of the work I start, just like this blog.

I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.

But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!

My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.

I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.

I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.

I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.

Glass slippers and pumpkin cars

It's funny how little girls get treated like royalty. Princesses, shades of pink, a tiara and a ballgown, all those sparkly and glittery jazz. But as she grows, the poor little princess begins to realize that life does not end in 'happily ever after'. She removes her tiara, steps down from her throne, and removes her ballgown (!!!) to reveal her usual, normal-person dress.

In a snap, her shiny coach goes back into a pumpkin, and her servants become nothing more than rats. She does her normal activities, studying, sleeping, working. Aside from the things she has to do to keep herself alive, there's nothing new happening. It's the same thing every day.

Our princess gets trapped in the realm of drudgery, as she deals with unpaid credit card balances, academic pressure, and the stress of the workplace. She curses the weather for being too extreme, her boss for being too much of a jerk, and her family for being indifferent to her feelings. She envies those people who has real friends. She goes home with a sigh, she drags herself to school. This is her life.

Every once in a while, she puts on her tiara and pretends it's all going to be alright. She pretends that she can get everything with the snap of a finger, that she can get a good laugh from the court jester. She gives orders here and there, pampering herself with the royal benefits of being a princess.

The microwave oven beeps and she snaps back to her misery. And somewhere, somehow, she hopes that somebody has her slipper.

Plaintext

The bottomline is, I don't know how to write.

Since that time in my life, I have learned not to write too much. I have learned that words are too powerful to be thrown out, randomly, to people you do not know. Especially words that define you, words that come from the soul.

Trust is now a bleak word in my ever-growing vocabulary of mixed-up words from Spanish, French, Filipino, and English. I lost the ability to write in plain sight. I decided to obscure the meaning, the true point of what I'm trying to say. The plaintext is hidden in the deep dark alleys of my mind.

Of course. It's because by now, I realized that it only through my thoughts that I can be sure that everything will be safe, that what was supposed to be a secret remains a secret. It is only in the mind that I can be sure. It is only in my mind that I can be safe. Sure and safe. Two words, a lot of consequences. It is the prerequisite to friendship, to love, to peace. It is everything positive.

I don't know how to write. Since that time in my life, I am now the cryptic connoisseur, the master of metaphors. I write what I feel in cipher, and hide the plaintext deep within. But somehow, somewhere, somebody will find the key. Someone will finally decipher the message and know who I really am.

Someone, somewhere.