Of New Years and New Year’s

444056I’ve been around for a while now. 2015 started unlike 2014 did. This year, I opted for not minimal New Year resolutions, but no New Year resolutions at all. You see, one thing I noticed about resolutions, is that they are exactly what they are… just plans with a fancy name based on a date that has no effect on any natural aspect of our dear mother earth. New Year would have been a life changing experience to witness if maybe the sun didn’t stop shining for the whole of New Year’s Eve, or if all our injuries and illnesses got healed prior the first day of the New Year. If all our mistakes and ill-doings of the previous year were wiped out and replaced with life changing epiphanies of success based on our individual needs and wants, then  I would pick out a pen and paper, my computer, smartphone, or calendar and plan for a New Year experience. Our emotional attachment with this date has become an excuse for getting away with what we planned for but didn’t achieve in the course of the previous calendar. For others it is a dream of rebirth and transformation mostly experienced a midst behaviors that they want to change. Back when I used to celebrate the coming of a New Year, a friend of mine, half drunk and one hundred per cent high tugged at the sleeve of my shirt at 12.00am and whispered to me, “Happy New Year bro, this year I ain’t drinkin’ no more. I’M DONE!”… He called me and invited me for a couple of shots of some fine brandy a few nights ago after yelling,” Happy New Year sleepyhead, I’m so fucked up right now. Come drive me home!” I hung up on him. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the emotional impact of pulling out a whole year experience off the walls of a house and replacing it with a new array of calendars and how some email subjects and email contents of the New Year to bosses and clients have the wrong year in them. I understand how the marketing teams of most of the companies I’ve seen keep sending season’s greetings to clients and members of staff all the way to ten full days after the first day of the New Year (I mean, even my computer’s word editor insists that I have to capitalize ‘new year’ even if both words are in different parts of the dictionary in small caps.). What I do not understand is the undying ignorance and forgetful nature of people who have the same New Year resolutions for four to five years in a row. What I do not understand is why most people have to wait for over three hundred days to make life changing decisions. Naturally, the human race is a social species. The aspect of being part of a group when it comes to life changing decisions is a source of motivation for millions of people all over the world.

A friend of mine got shot the other day while he was trying to stop a robbery. He didn’t know that the robbery he was trying to stop was a success and had already turned into a getaway. He was being all that nature made him out to be… a hero. He’d been home for the New Year celebrations and had just got back. I’m sure he had a few plans or ‘resolutions’ up his sleeve and I’m almost sure that dying during the first week of 2015 wasn’t part of the list. I’m sure kicking the bucket isn’t one of anyone’s bucket lists unless the individual is a basket case, which would make buckets inapplicable all together. He hadn’t planned for random multiple public mourning ceremonies with huge speakers blowing music that he probably never listened to just like he hadn’t planned to be the unsung but slain hero of an efficacious stick up. I’ve been watching people all week make money off his story in the name of mourning. Nature has a crazy sense of humor. As much as I wouldn’t know what specific people plan for at the beginning of a new year, I know that the unpredictable nature of tomorrow is supposed to be reason enough to do what we have to do today in order to reach our goals. The New Year is a viable opportunity to set a starting point for under confident people who feel that they need an extra ounce of encouragement from a loud crowd.

But let’s face it. If we changed our lives based on a fixed calendar date and at the same rate and time in different places all over the world, all we’d have is change to celebrate and no one to motivate. Everyone would be a winner, an achiever in their own right. No one would ever have time to recognize another person’s efforts and progress. Innovation and new talent would be ignored if everyone had something extraordinary to show for the previous year. The fact that some individuals and groups of people actually do make a difference whether negative or positive (Depending on what you consider positive or negative) in between the year or over a few years creates a platform of comparison which in turn encourages us to do what is necessary regardless of the date and time. There is no one time in this planet that a single personality would see themselves as a complete success in all aspects of life at the end of the year. What we need is not a universal crowd inspired by broadcast messages and social media shout outs. What we need is to ensure that the same enthusiasm to change directions, tendencies and behaviors is kept alive all year round in order to prevent rewriting resolutions and plans every time a year ends.

Of Ceilings and Inspirations


Let me tell you something about roofed houses without ceilings. Let me tell you something about rainy days inside these houses. Inside these havens of liberty where the rain cuts off that Plain White T’s song called Hey There Delilah. I love that song but the roof gets so raucous when it rains. When it rains, if we are lucky enough not to experience a power blackout from our monopolistic power supplier, I hit the pause button and sit in front of this white screen and write about myself. I write about anything. My black and purple curtains flutter a little when there’s a breeze. When the wind gusts, they billow, pushing my little satellite speaker off its stand, leaving it hanging on its feeble wire…its veins. In this humble transition of mine, I imagine the prospects, probabilities, and the future. I switch genres of music; I fidget as if I’m sitting next to Mona Lisa. “The situation could have been worse”, I tell myself and count my blessings. I lift my juice glass and pause for a sip. I ponder as I flip to the next track.

My neighbor has a television. A man of the cloth, that’s what he is. He forgets that the rain has abated and doesn’t tone down his televised sermons. I can hear his wife hissing because she needs to sleep. The crack of his palm when he slaps her resonates through numerous tiny spaces in the thin wall that separates our discretion. The irony that the lack of a ceiling inspires amazes me. Those numerous tiny spaces suck the air out of my lungs at odd hours of the morning when the neighbor’s wife puts out that kerosene stove. That nasty smoke inside my thin slice of heaven makes me sneeze up a storm. I love this place as much as I don’t. I love it because the glass is half full. I hate it because I cannot afford to like anything that is not a metaphor in my life right now. I hate it because I love comfort zones as much as I love malaria. Getting used to what I did not plan for is easy. I see it happen to many people I know. I see smiles on their faces. I see frowns in their eyes and hear the frustration in their giggles when I joke about bad music and marriage.

I know better than to measure my self-worth against other people’s net worth but while we are stuck on this rock, the best you can do is to learn something about competition, about comparison, about the beings that surround you. This ceiling-deficient house that I dwell in has opened my mind more than it has opened my eyes. I love the fact that consistency in the lives of men of intellect is a proclamation of failure. I consider myself a man of intellect; a man of constant change. I carry my pride with me because I know what rock bottom looks like. I know what pizza tastes like too. It tastes like the bright side, where the sun rises. I have absorbed every ounce of this domicile of mine. I have taken in the good memories and the bad ones. I have no photographs of it. I have grown into it so that when I leave it, my attachment dies with its memories. My rebirth is what I’m searching for; what I’m waiting on.

I brought her here once. She was beautiful. She couldn’t spell to save her mother’s life, but she was picturesque. She hinted at the simplicity of this place, the nakedness it had in it. She never even for a second noticed the half full library shelf resting on one corner, the square woolen rug that I placed my feet on, or the collection of sneakers sitting on a red carpet on the other corner. She pointed out the faults so charmingly, she made me smile. She didn’t evaluate its similarity with a Launchpad into my upbeat future. She was enchantingly ignorant. There was no need to show her the door. She was facing it.” I’ll make her wash her feet when I invite her into my next house”, I promised myself……to be continued.

What I want, when I want