K8 the GR8

No, not underwear models… this is much more interesting.

There is a well kept secret here in Wicklow, it’s buried in the countryside, halfway between Roundwood and the Sally Gap.  It’s a very wierd peace-haven called Victoria’s Way.

If you want something different, whether it be a picnic with the family, a quiet stroll or just some good old fashioned food for thought, you’ll want to visit this place.

It isn’t very well marked, but you’ll recognise it by the painted sign on the road.  Its carpark is usually bare apart from a wooden shed with a coin slot on the side, for any donations you feel like throwing in.  From the carpark, the entrance is through the gates of hell, into a huge field full of these fellows:

Each has their own musical instrument, their music is only bound by your imagination.  From this field you have several options - there are extensive walks dotted with random sculptures to freak you out unexpectedly, or there’s an open maze, which is not so much a maze really as a set of random paths intertwining around small signposts.  Each signpost is obscurely worded and will confuse you utterly, but still manages to provoke alternate levels of thinking, which is pretty much the overall effect of this sculpture park… absolutely everything smacks of ‘WTF?!’

When you’re finished meandering, you’ll eventually find yourself back at Victor’s house, which is a tiny cottage attached to a mighty garage.  Inside this garage, are statues the likes of which you would never forget… like this starving chap:

Or this mildly upsetting but vastly intriguing couple:

Once you’ve signed the far wall, you then advance to the shop where you’ll find a wallful of totally unique hand-made jewellery.  This is surrounded by Buddha and Ganesh statues, incense burners, books and ornaments.  Everything is extremely well priced, unless you count a conversation with Victoria himself the extra cost, for it’s a conversation full of arguments like; is 1 + 1 = 1? Are you really a ’self’ or an expression of ’self’? 

Absolutely everything is confusing in an unexplainable way.  To give you an idea, here is the story behind Victoria from his book ‘Making your dream come true’;

Victoria was born Victor Langheld on April 29th 1940 in Berlin, Germany.  On Ash Wednesday, 1945, he emerged from the firestorm of Dresden a dead man walking and began a second life.  He came to Ireland in 1946.

At the age of 12 he decided that enlightenment would be a goal worth sacrificing his second life for.   So he took to heart the advice of so many spiritual masters to go east.  He arrived in India in 1964 and there studied and practiced relentlessly to make his dream of enlightenment come true.  He eventually became a Buddhist monk and, on December 1st, 1980, much to his surprise, he achieved the peak experience of awakening and release.  To his astonishment he realized that reaching the peak is easy, but that the return home is difficult.  Indeed, it would take another 18 years of toil and an encounter with a fully realized spiritual mistress before he began to glimpse the way home.

It was in honor of this extraordinary woman and in submission to her unsurpassed knowledge and power that he changed his name to Victoria.

Mr. Cool - The Nirvana Man

I had one of those ‘almost’ conversations the other night.  It was an ‘almost’ conversation because it didn’t actually happen, but I imagined it taking place for a full 20 minutes before I decided against broaching it.  This was unfortunate because I was watching one of the Sopranos final series at the time, and  I’m always too embarrassed to ask the Accidental Terrorist to rewind after I’ve had a zone-out session.  It’s a very flaky thing to do, and saying something like; “Sorry, love, could you press pause for a while, I have some serious thinking to do…”  sounds so pretentious.

~o0o~

The conversation would have started with this question:

“Hey babe, after all those long talks about religion and belief and all that, I’m feeling a little hypocritical.  How bad would it really be if we decided not to celebrate our family stuff through the church at all?”

The conversation would have lasted a good three hours, and I think I already know where it would end - this is why it was an ‘almost’ conversation.  See?

~o0o~

Our kids still haven’t been Christened.  Well that’s not entirely true… Laughing Boy was very sick as a baby and we were faced with a numbing ‘just in case’ situation.  A nun called into his hospital room one morning with an old brown suitcase.  Inside was a bible, holy water, some lace to represent a Christening gown, and other various religious accoutrements.  We had asked her only to give him a blessing, but instead she went the whole hog.  It was quite sad at the time seeing as his daddy wasn’t even there.

As for puppychild, well… I’ve just been putting it off.  She’s three now, and my dear mum keeps offering to help me arrange a local Christening, saying it’s as easy as dropping a hot spud.  She even offered up her garden for a small party.  I just can’t pick up the damn phone to start the ball rolling.

Then there’s the wedding.  Being the Queen of my family, it’s up to me to arrange such a gig.  I’ve never been one for the white wedding and the flowers and the horses and the horses d’ouvres and all that.  A massive cash injection for something that’s supposed to be intimate?  I don’t get it.  I’d rather go abroad or do something different… a scuba wedding maybe.

I blamed myself, this laziness bug that lives with me.  Time speeds by and before you know it, you’re three years behind yourself.  This is partially true, but I’ve been listening to this other voice that’s telling me to be true to myself and to my family lately.  You’d be lying!  it tells me.    You can’t renounce something you don’t believe in!  Your sins are your own, there for learning, not for shame!  You’re feeding that poor priest a whole lot of crap, but what did he ever do to you?  Be honest!!!  Strap on a pair!!!

I played guitar for a local choir recently.  I lasted two weeks.  I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of what the priest was saying… something about the passover, about Israelites having to slaughter livestock to save their first-born from the wrath of God.  Everyone was chanting and mumbling like a gang of Templars, leaving me wondering whether it was I who was blind, or all the others?  I remember mass as a child, how awesome it all was… people dressed up in finery, pictures of torture on the walls, wine, candles, and a man who was murdered horribly on his 33rd birthday.  How could a kid not want to know more?

Now though, I think I know enough. 

Why is it so hard to find a way to celebrate family affairs in a way that feels right?  The God I believe in, the God of two halves that set this whole comedic opera in play for whatever reason, hasn’t given me any signs yet.  An even bigger problem yet is the breakaway.  To claim that the Church and God are two different things altogether, is like disrespecting your elders, but on a massive scale to me.  I think this is why so many people have Santa syndrome.  They continue holding masses for family occasions, they leave their auntie’s present of a Sacred Heart on the wall, and carry on blessing themselves as they pass cemeteries.  If they stop and listen to logic it all might go away and their family structure would dissolve.  They would be frowned upon, and would fear that the gates of heaven would close, even though they probably have the key in their pockets anyway.

Ireland needs more options.  It feels like we’re sitting in the front row of class here… we’re being watched like a hawk with no chance of passing any notes to the Buddhists in the back row.  The Muslims are outside sunning themselves on their prayer mats, the Taoists have already graduated, and the Extremists have jumped out the window.  It feels like there’s no-one else to talk to except the Protestants - even they seem to be seeing things a whole lot clearer than us Catholics.

Would anyone object to my starting my own ’Church of the Open Mind’?  Do you think it would catch on? 

‘Careful now!’

I’m finding myself with spare time suddenly but with nothing much to say.  Then I decided that it is very rare for a blogger to post a post and use all of their tags at once (Bloggers such as Brian F and Stupid Irish Daddy are disqualified for lack of imagination of course).  This is my challenge,  and I’m giving myself an award for it.  You can have one too if you can do it.

What is both strange and unusual is that marijuana is illegal.  This subject is taboo, but it’s just something to think about.  Once one partakes in the activity of having a spliff, one is immediately part of the chain.  One is working hand in hand with the drug-lord and his artillery, and my philosophy is that this is unfair burden on us stoners.  It’s a little known fact that weed is quite benign, that it’s worst effects are the munchies and diminished brain capacity, but we accept this, and we take responsibility for it quietly and with a few giggles thrown in. 

Working the daily job is not easy.  Neither is dealing with the family and it’s shortcomings.  My weakness is that I would like to sit back and be able to put up with the tripe on the box and find it humourarse.  Sometimes it’s nice to listen to music or glance at the uncategorised pleasures of this life and be inspired to write new poems and things.  Contrary to public rantings, weed does not generally make us want to take up smack or turn bi-polar.

That’s all I’m saying because this is supposed to be a quickie.

Here’s my award.

Do you want it?  I’d offer it up for general grabs but seeing as memememe is one of my tags, I have to name names.

Me aul’ f’la

Irish Flirty Something

Scribbles by Hanulf

(You know you want it)

World Peace.  Conjures up images of Miss America speeches and 6 year olds blowing out birthday cake candles, doesn’t it?  The most important and relevant question of our day, our century, even our millenium has become the cheesiest.

Baino wrote a lament on the atrocities carrying on in the world in September, and I told her I’d get back to her, that I was inspired to think long and hard about it. 

Here’s a snippet from her post:

There must be something positive we can do. Amongst us are eloquent writers, political commentators, military men and women, angry youngsters with the energy to follow through. We have a collaboration of talent, youth, experience and realism so why can’t we collaborate and form a useful, noisy and productive united front…
…The conundrum is where to start. There are a zillion organisations, charities, good causes . . . what we need is one . . .

And her most poignant statement;

I just don’t know where to start . . .It makes me weep. DrummerBoy may have it right . . humans are a virus dedicated to over consumption, slowly killing the planet, not with carbon but by sheer weight of numbers, cruelty to each other and will be the shortest living organism in evolutionary history - it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction and decimation thanks to the obscene consumerism and materialism of western culture. He’s even reviewing whether he would like to have children and he’s only 20 years old!

We are all painfully aware of the dire situation the world is in, yet we all suffer from the same disease, that of hopelessness.  To make a dent in this situation would take a lifetime of dedication to the cause.  We should just accept that this is the way things have always been and always will be, right?  I mean, even Geldof had a stab at it with his ‘Make Poverty History’ campaign.  I wore that white plasticky bracelet for a solid year, and signed the online petitions with enthusiasm, but I feel that even Geldof’s efforts have been swallowed by the apathy of the rest of the world.  His campaign dissapeared from the public eye, along with all the others.  Sheer inevitability.

Then something hit me.

Maybe we’re all looking too hard to find the answer, when the question itself is far more important.  That is, maybe the answer is the question.

How many perfectly eloquent people out there have thought long and hard about the state of the world, yet have given up?  Everyone!  We all have our own crap to deal with.  We don’t have time to heal the world.

Right now, the questions being asked are like raindrops on a windowpane.  Every now and then a small rivulet will form and a stream of voices will join and be heard, only to flow right to the bottom and dissapear.  What is needed is a resounding roar.  The sort of roar that a waterfall makes… millions of voices all asking the same questions, all the time.

Drown the apathy!

Maybe a campaign would do the trick, I don’t know.  We all worry about where our charity coins are really going, we’re aware of cloak and dagger funding, of big brown envelopes, so it’s up to us to be cynical and choosy about who we give our money to.  ‘Scuse my French, but what a crying fucking shame this is.

I would so dearly love to target the huge multinational corporations somehow, to destroy those who swallow local resources and steal the rug from under our brothers and sisters worldwide for their own financial gain.  But of course, that would be terrorism.  We all know that you can’t fight fire with fire.  Maybe all it would take to do this peacefully is a large effort on a tiny scale. 

For example, let’s stop bringing our ankle biters to McDonalds for their birthdays.  Let’s avail of local markets and give the penny margins to farmers instead of Tesco’s.  Let’s forgo our birthday or Christmas presents and ask for a donkey to be given to a family in a third world country instead.  Let’s stop buying Valentine’s Day/Mother’s Day/Father’s Day cards and make them ourselves.  Buy Fair Trade products, and remember that the extra expense is most likely putting bread on the tables of the right people.  If something annoys you or brings a forlorn tear to your eye, don’t just lament it, write a letter.  Call your local polititian and bug the hell out of them for a change.   Let’s start with bugging them to stop charities from being taxed for starters, the obviously moronic stuff.

I dearly hope that all of those people out there who don’t care, will be jump-started into contributing to this massive clean up.  Of course we can make a difference, and we don’t have to turn our lives upside down doing it. 

We just have to keep asking the questions.

I suffer from a strange affliction that so far, I haven’t seen others admitting to.  In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing anybody else talk about it.  I don’t talk about it.  It’s very strange and inexplicable.

Ever since I was very tiny, I’ve had this strange affection for inanimate objects.  It started with an inability to throw away things like sweet wrappers or receipts.  It progressed to severe hoarding and a disgraceful hazardous mess in my room.  Having moved house several times since childhood, I’ve since discovered the lack of sense behind this and came through a weird rite of passage cleanly.  I can now fill a bin-bag with crap I don’t use, as long as the binbag leaves my property immediately with no chance of re-claiming said junk.  I know I’m not alone concerning hoarding, it’s just that my reasoning might be a little bit peculiar.

It feels to me as though inanimate objects absorb a part of the person who uses them.  For instance, I remember when I was an ankle-biter, my mum drew a picture on my chalkboard.  I had to leave it there for weeks, unable to erase the picture, unable to play with the toy at all.  I still can’t throw out the reams of pages my two year old has scribbled on, and if I do manage to, this strange pain develops in the pit of my stomach.  I feel like I’m throwing away a part of her spirit.

Worst of all, perhaps, is when I find myself on a road, gazing with heartbreak at an old discarded teddybear in a ditch.  Some child loved that bear, then lost it.  It takes all the self control I posess not to pick up that bear and bring it home.  Films like ‘Toy Story’ really don’t help my situation at all.  Then again, perhaps this is why footage of disasters are infinately more upsetting when it contains abandoned toys.  We all have a deep-seated need to protect innocense perhaps.

The Accidental Terrorist, however, is far more realistic.  He will happily ignore or even aim for toys left discarded on our road.  So many times have I heard that sickening crunch as a child’s toy or skateboard gets instantly converted to junk at the mercy of his tyres.  He has even done this in front of children.  So many times I’ve watched a child fall to pieces as it witnesses the demolition of it’s prized fire truck, it’s cries falling on the deaf ears of adults who are sick and tired of telling these children to tidy up after themselves.  I wonder sometimes how TAT can be so smug about torturing children like that, but I can see his point - let alone the funny side.  Sometimes I even envy his callousness.

I just can’t help but wonder what on earth this emotion is useful for.  My friends have witnessed my stepping on a toy and have heard me apologising to it.  Some people laugh, others take two steps backwards, others give me a hug. Some people even use it to change my mind about something.  ‘Do it or the bunny gets it!’ is a highly efficient negotiating tool with me.  A pair of pliers and a lost fingernail I can handle… a large scissors and a teddybear and I’m anybody’s.

I’m sure you’ve seen films with characters who have lost the plot, who host tea parties with their dolls and confide in their teddybears.  You might wonder how such a poor sod came to be.  Let this be an insight to you.  On the outside I’m calm, cool and collected… on the inside, I’m a stark raving lunatic.  Sometimes I think that all it will take is one more discarded teddybear perched on a set of railings with a spike up it’s ass to send me over the edge.

Here’s the twist… ironically, I find real live objects are quite easy to kill, as long as their death serves a purpose.  I’ll catch a fish and brain it on a rock quite happily, as long as I get to eat it with lemon and some fava beans afterwards.
Yesterday, I spent a full half hour hunting earwigs, chasing them into cups, then feeding them to my carniverous plants.  Watching them drown in extra terrestrial plant gunge can be strangely satisfying which is, grantedly mildly horrific, but then again, nature can be pretty horrific sometimes.  I’m just helping it along.

So, there you have it.  Two sides to a strange coin.  More aesthetically useful than practical really, like a kitten.

Or like a teddybear with one eye missing.  That’s me.

I’m giving some serious consideration to the incorporation of two new things in my life.

The problem is, they’re both very much taboo, so I don’t want to say what they actually are.

Instead, here are some pretty obvious clues: 

(Before you ask, no I’m not thinking of changing sexes.)
 

New thing #1:

-Men have been doing this since we arrived on the planet, yet women are rarely seen doing it.
-If you were to see a woman doing this on the street, you would stop and stare, giggle, and nudge your friends.
-It has nothing to do with having a penis, or having strength.
-It involves the ingestion of a drug.
-It is a far healthier method of ingesting this drug than the method I’m currently using.
-There is absolutely no reason why men should do this but women shouldn’t.
-If my father should find out that I’m doing this, he would be pretty proud!
-You can’t do this in places of work.
-There are famous women who proudly do this, including Shari Belafonte, Janet Jones, Andie MacDowell, and Sadie B. Hawkins (who I’ve had absolutely no luck googling, but I have a picture of her doing this thing topless which I may or may not show you later, depending on how nice you are to me).
-Men seem to harbour a secret fantasy that more women should do this.

(Dad, keep schtum.  I know you know what I’m on about!)

New thing #2:

-I bought a book on this subject a few years back.  When it was spotted by various people, their reaction was usually negative, along the lines of ‘Don’t go near this shit; my (fill in the blank) did this and she changed for the worse!’
-It was very popular in older cultures, yet people were severely punished for it.
-It is an absolutely fascinating subject to me and to others, though they might not admit it.
-For the most part, it involves a group of people all doing this together.
-If you put this on your C.V., most companies would kick you out before the interview even got started.
-It’s not a religion, though there are parts of it that involve simialar practices.
-Several films have been made on this subject, the ones that I know of are mostly chick-flicks, though gender doesn’t really have that much to do with it.
-You have probably met a handful of people who do this, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it.
-The general consensus is that people don’t believe in this, though they are still afraid/respectful of it.
-It is heavily stereotyped.

-o-

So whatcha think?  Are you disgusted or confused? Enthralled or indifferent?

-o-

If you’re completely mind-boggled and feel like staring into space for a bit to think it over, then I have just the thing for you:

This.

Alternatively, if you really couldn’t be bothered, here’s some random comedy:

And a super special cartoon just for me aul’ pair:

-o-

(A very short while later….)

Congratulations to Robert (get well soon :) and Deborah!!! 

New thing #1 is, indeed, smoking a pipe.  And, as promised, here is that picture of topless Sadie B. Hawkins thus proving that pipe smoking can be a very sexy affair altogether!

Don’t believe me?  Consult Better Living through Chemistry!

Deborah, you got it, by bingo.  New thing #2 which I’m considering having a serious look into is Wicca.

What’s the worst thing that can happen… right? 

(Try to think outside the boxymoron before you answer that.)

There’s this local group I belong to, which tries to fix local issues, such as beach clean-ups for example.  I’m its treasurer.  Sounds like an important job, doesn’t it?  Don’t be too impressed though, as there are only two of us, so it’s not like there was much choice involved. 

There was a meeting scheduled last night.  I’d been informed about this weeks beforehand and was all ready to go, but the thing is, this opportunity presented itself.  I was faced with yet another moral dilemma, having to choose between this meeting (yawn) and a Texas Hold ‘em poker game with a load of buddies in town that cropped up.  It’s very difficult to turn down a poker game with a lot of players, the €€€ potential is very tempting to a young gambler like me, and there really was no way of mixing the two, so you can probably guess which option I chose.

Thing is, though… I’m really crap at lying to people.  I had to invent an excuse and apologise profusedly, even though said meeting member didn’t seem to mind.  The guilt followed me around like a bad Guinness fart for hours. 

It occured to me that karma would make me lose in my gambling endeavours just to teach me a lesson, but as it turned out, I won!!!  I’m especially proud of this, as these other players are fierce chancers who try to poker-talk you out of every decision.  They’re the type to raise the bet to 3,000 before the flop, just to mess with your mojo, and are convinced they can read you like a book, but not this time my pretties!

Last night as I was falling asleep, I began to wonder if being such a goody-two-shoes is really a good thing.  Maybe karma doesn’t punish those who happily screw over other people for their own gain.  This revelation was still rolling around in my brain until this morning, when my come-uppance arrived.

The smell was overpowering.  Across between Booterstown at low-tide and a sewage treatment plant, I had to hunt its source, gagging and retching as I tried to smell without breathing at the same time.  The cat had shat on the mat, you see, and cat shit has to be the foulest smell known to mankind. 

So, here I was, grinning like a mad-eejit (grinning from ear to ear supresses the gag reflex, you know.  I learned that from C.S.I., thus proving that tv does have its uses.) and scraping the crappy slime off the rug gingerly with tissue paper.  When that job was done, and I was on my way to the washing-machine, I suddenly stood on something very squishy, which turned out to be regurgitated cat food.  There really is nothing like the feeling of cat vomit oozing between your bare toes. 

So that was karma’s great revenge.  I’m glad to see it has a sense of humour. 

The meeting was rescheduled for today, which I did attend, two kids in tow.  Turned out that all that was required of me was to re-shuffle the names in the bank thingybob!  That could’ve been done over the bloody phone!!!

*Bah*

I’m getting really tired of this bad rap us girlies have for driving.

The same thing always happens on the M50.  I’m cut off by a small car in the fast-lane who then piddles along in front of me with the rest of the world overtaking me on the inside.  TAT always orders me to flash, but I’m not your aggressive (or exhibitionist) type, so I usually make my presence felt in their driver’s mirror until they get the hint.  When the crawler finally moves back into the proper lane, TAT always says ‘Typical woman!’.  To which I usually reply ’Betcha it’s not!’,  and you know what? I’m usually right!  I’m making a fortune on these bets that it’ll be an old fart driving his missuz around with his nose glued to the steering wheel causing all the havoc.

See, I’m exceptionally bitter, because I’ve been in three pretty nasty car-crashes.

Whenever I impart this information to blokes, I usually get a strange ‘kyih!’ noise followed by rolling eyes.  Some especially cheeky chappies will make some crap joke about women drivers.  I then have to create a scene trying to convince them otherwise.  They usually shut up when I tell them that all three accidents were caused by blokes of various ages.

A male schoolteacher pulled out onto a busy road without seeing me to his right in 2000.  I crashed right into him at about 40mph.  That hurt.  Not as much as it hurt to lose the car though.

An affluent dad was focussing on his son in his back seat whilst driving a Volvo S40 Estate in 2003.  He rounded the corner of a quiet country road on the wrong side.  I was approaching the same corner in my Ford Estate at the same time with my pretty large doggie in the passenger’s side at about 35mph.  Head-on collisions REALLY hurt, but me and my doggie walked away relatively unscathed.

Last year, I was sandwiched between two Peugeot 206s.  I and my tank of a Volvo ended up at a 45 degree angle in a ditch.  That one was more funny than painful.  You should’ve seen the damage done to the car behind, driven by an 18 year old bloke who had aquaplained up my ass on a wet day!  I thought that might teach him a lesson, but apparently his mummy and daddy bought him a brand new car the week after. (He’s the boyfriend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend you see.  That’s how I know.)

As serendipity would have it, I used the winnings of the last two crashes to buy our present specially-adapted car for Sean and his wheelchair, so that worked out pretty spiffing.

It’s almost a pyrrhic victory though,  I had really bonded with those cars.  I use to talk to them, encourage them up hills, apologising for the weather, y’know?  Don’t tell me I’m alone.  You’ve all named your cars I bet.  To have them destroyed right before my eyes by a sex who think they’re great drivers just hurts.  It hurts real bad.

-{}-

So to all you blokes who think women are crap drivers;

If you want to see a really crap driver, just swivel your rear-view mirror a few degrees to the right. 

(Or left if you’ve got a left hand drive obviously.  Wouldn’t want you to be looking at your passengers funny.)

-{}-

By the way, why is nobody taking the piss out of Jordan for naming her new child ‘Princess’ in this bloggyweb?  There is so much piss-take ammunition here, it makes my head turn pink just thinking about it.

“Step away from the sink!”

“But you told me to wash up!”

“I don’t want you to do the washing up, I want you to want to do the washing up.”

“RRRrrghh… there’s just no pleasing you!”

“You’re just sore because of a deep-seated anxt rooting from the fact that your mother put salt on your porridge as opposed to sugar, metaphorically speaking.”

“Shut your hole.”

(Stolen from Convict)

I love psychology.

Bear with me for a minute.

Blogging is a form of expressing the mind, right?  Taoists would argue that point.  They might tell you that you are trying to express your inner experience with a medium that is far too limited to mirror the exact emotions and complex spirit of our mind.  There are simply just not enough words.

Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame put it quite simply in Street Spirit:

“This machine will, will not communicate These thoughts and the strain I am under…”

To conquer this gap in understanding, Taoists invented these clever little allegories and verses named ‘Koans‘.  The purpose of the Koan is to bamboozle a person into thinking far outside normal rational thought, possibly to make you forget the difficult question you just asked, or to confuse you into a state of awareness.

For instance, “Without anxious thought, doing comes from being.”

EH?!?! You might ask… well see, this means that when one’s mind is full of complicated irrelevant thought, one tends to take a long time assessing the actual situation and coming to a conclusion as to how to solve a problem.  There is the risk that too many detailed steps will be taken in order to make that problem go away.  If one meditates and is able to clear the mind, it is easier to find the right path, clear as day.

AHHH!  You might say… well see, this is called Enlightenment.  The ‘ping’ noise that a penny makes when it drops.

Or perhaps in more familiar terms, I might berate the Accidental Terrorist over being too irate with a playstation game.

“Why aren’t you enjoying the game?” I might ask.

“I’m trying to master it but it’s too fucking hard!” He would say.

“There exists a state in which you will not attempt to master the game, and the game will not attempt to master you.”

“What is this state?!”  He might ask.

“Give me the game and I will show you.” 

At which point I would jump up and down repeatedly on the playstation until it is smashed to bits, and the Accidental Terrorist becomes enlightened.

See? You get the gist.  I’ll leave you with one more itty bitty thought:

Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said: `The flag is moving.’The other said: `The wind is moving.’

The sixth patriach happened to be passing by. He told them: `Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving.’