we put this festival on you bastards

On May 14, 2007 Irfaan Wrote:

Every person must have a story. Little bits of thread that wind his hours into days, his weeks into months, his years into a life. Some are extraordinary; tellings of might & courage, fames & fortunes. Some are ordinary, tales that have less excitement and adventure about them, that go about contentedly like little windmills swaying in the wind. You get those tales that are darkened with undertones of hurt and misfortunes, and those too make for tellings either triumphant or tragic.

Many stories take from all of these, and births a life thus far lived. Yours does; the sum of parts of learning, experiencing, living makes you. And no one can truly be fair to that - they may live and feel everything that you have, but the way you accept, and value things makes you intrisically different.

his head was a city of paper buildings, in the echoes that remain

On 22 May, 2006 Irfaan wrote:

It's been a cold and blustery and thoroughly windy weekend, with a less than subtle promise of winter lingering in the crisp air outside; the tantrums of sleet upsetting the roads, snow adding a glaring frosting under the morning sunrise across the mountains in the distant east, and hail thundering across the decks and roofs mercilessly. It's breathtaking; the little gasps of mist gathering at your lips as you breathe the lung chilling air, the aching numbness in your fingers as they flit and flutter through the brisk morning air, trying in vain to get warm, a nose reddening ever so slightly. A girl looking lovelier than you've ever seen. And the arena that's nature never failing mesmerise: Walking across the broad bredth of University Avenue, the light winds lashing across the skin of a bare face,and exposed wrists hanging out of jeans pockets; swirling a ballet of leaves into a gentle eddy at my feet; stepping and crunching them underfoot. Looking at a nearly naked tree, scraggly branches almost bare, save the odd dull glimmer of orange and brown leaves, listlessly ceding any resistance to the wind whipping across them. Seeing a sole leaf at the very tip of a branch, perching up on it's stem as the wind breezes around it, like an eagle raising its head to peer at the horizon, giving it a seeming grandness and majesty about it. And as the leaf raises ever so slightly more at the insistence of the breeze around it, there's a screeching second where it lunges forward, the brown stem tethering it straining

In short, it was windy.

pray you're gonna make it, then you're done

On June 28th, 2006 Irfaan wrote:

The point drifts, not of it's own accord, it's a summation of feelings that are felt; but impassive fingertips trail across a keyboard without prompting, and words rush after each other, stumbling and climbing over each other, elbowing and kicking to surface out into a melange of stirred and murky strings of thought and sentiment... it's all so loose and flimsily connected at the moment... attention wavering, enthusiasm hibernating, no drive or want or need, just a listless drudging way of going about all of it, taking what's there, and shrugging at what's not.

Everything and nothing has changed.

confess, your kiss still knocks me off my knees

On November 29th, 2005. Irfaan said:

Which brings into the spotlight an old-new consideration I'm seriously thinking about; Varsity isn't my thing. Not by a yard, a mile, a javelin throw and a longshot put together and stretched. I love the people I get to spend time with, but I absolutely abhor what a varsity is, "and what is that?" I hear piquant voices asking with a smudged curiosity, and it is this; University is merely another institution that supresses your identity and self and freedom of being and individualism and instead leaves you with a numbered shell, one of hundreds of thousands of millions. Pretty brash statement to make, but it is. We conform ourselves to the thinkings and mentalities which we are taught, so that we can learn how think the way the lecturer wants you to. And do we conform? most certain-damn-ly, because that's how we do well, isn't it? Learning, recycling, regurgitating. [/bitchout] Back to my first point, I'm seriously considering dropping out of varsity and doing full time journalism, comedy, magic or media. I'm not the most intriguing of thinkers, and write pretty stifledly, and am a pretty terrible conversationalist, as this journal and my chats with some of you fully justify, but it's something that I rather quite enjoy. Now there's a word that feature very prominently in my current endeavours. I can't do what makes me happy, because there's no way of sustaining that happiness. It requires money, and money requires not doing it.

you've got to be good to yourself, um hm.

Talents and abilities and intelligences

are cunning little beasts

inspiring our dependence

and pride and confidence

on what only ever are

the bars of our own confining cages.

Suckers.

and then hydrobots attacked

Wednesday¹

Hello Wednesday.

Pomodora's have done more for my disciplining, its curious to say, than most of the rest.

And my "other"² birthday is tickling.

That is more or less the height and width of my living just right now. I've got breadth, baby, but that's for you to come and find out about.

Coldplay's Rainy Day. There's little else to say really

1. Imagine the scritching of a poor quality fountain pen on recycled paper here.

2. Which is more swallowable to say than "fake"

i always wonder about how to spell "berserk"

"Good morning Lord Voldemort".

I (may) need to stop changing my name on other people's cellphones. May. (Nay/Yay)1

I do need many many engaging things to do, else I am crashing my day close to 8:30am and there's little that's to do to rebuild the momentum.

This is a completely unnecessary exercise in rhyming.