Inspired

I just read this Fckin good poem on someones blog and just felt like being nice (to myself):

Find freedom in the beauty of a chain link fence,
Write a jingle for the guilty and the blackness,
Seek carefully the split screen and in fareness,
Guide the light straight to the heart of the fight.

Is it my name you seek,
Would you rather I was meek,
Where then is the tip of my pen,
When I have the chosen to pick.

It does matter I say,
My foes laughter may pay,
When the execution I stay,
It does matter to who you pray.

Give it the taste of sweetness,
Bring it to the crest of bitterness,
Make it loved and endless,
The artist shatters rain and beats the harness.

Seriously! I would never, ever, be able to make money as poet.

Development

It does not matter who you like or who you hate, development makes us all feel better. The blond(blond as in schupid!) who gets a brand new synthetic chest feels as much glee as the uptight suit who just got him/herself the latest Beemer.
Consistently the consequences of hard work and true grit provide the most satisfying feeling to any upwardly mobile fella/dude/chika/gal who has a heart. The effort that gets paid provides the grease that all humans need to be continually creative thus gifting us with constant improvement in our daily lives. Just imagine the effect of Einstein and a modern pimped up computer.

Geeks and naturally gifted brainiarks have a way of finding possibility in impossible isht. Though they can barely communicate, we so love them when they create something practical and lovable like an Ipod.

Development is a function of need. And need is a requirement of survival. The essence of struggle is results. Success at whatever level is development. We get what we pray for and what we work for.

Drought

Thats what happened!Drought. I thought I was a writer but after thorough consideration occasioned by my belligerent creative side I awoke to the harsh reality that me and my so not so sophisticated writing hobby could never live together on a permanent basis. It is prudent that artists get down to the reality check motel for a quickie with Lady Mental Block. Otherwise we would never have had Google. Seriously! The only reason Newton discovered gravity is because he was bored with Math. And the reason we all can Google is all those text poring researchers who got tired of the book bound libraries.

A candid overview of abilities and disabilities will always get you back to that place you were just before your mental capacities got blocked! But self depreciation just like currency will not get you very far. You just go with the flow because that is what will get you far, far out to sea where the glimmer of water and the dryness of your throat will definitely remind you of the various survival instincts that you have. Artists do not live to work but work to live.

I am not privy to discussions between the two principal principles but what I do know is that if they ever discussed me(Yes...little me) then the words Kubaff and Kitendawili would be used extensively. First, it is the nature of an artists work that has impact. Second, the artist is not important. Third, you only get to enjoy the money if its worth the effort. Writers on the other hand just ruminate and regurgitate then they get to hang around presidents and their fat fed cronies for some more rumination which may again give rise to an opportunity for regurgitation. Writers rarely pay for their mistakes, it is the mistakes that pay them. Imagine a newspaper headline without political intrigues. Just imagine!

Non-ruminant animals like graphic designers rarely have a precedent to follow and are by nature a mad lot. They are the narcotic traders' justification for existence. They cannot pretend to be writers because they are constantly getting mentally blockaded and need to fire up some engines for the trip round the moon and back.
So why is it that am writing again?

I do not know.

It is all legal

Here I am stuck on a deserted desert island in 1940. Am sort of like Man Friday stuck on a 200 square meter Mtaani plot with fat ass Crusoe.

I dislike pessimism but would prefer to be a pessimistic optimist. If am looking for honey I go straight to the bees. If am looking for the money I go straight to the biz. But then things are not as straight forward as they look.

The myth on Friday Island is that those who work hard and know their isht get ahead. This is one of the jokes that I laugh about everyday. The truth is, if daddy knows someone who knows their sh8t you get ahead. There are very few shiny coins at the top of the mountain and even fewer lower down. And Imagine I just figured that out.

Crusoe is supposed to be white. White with a beard and 30 pottered Bwanas shouting "Kaffir, Kaffir." Honestly, without the shadow of Thomas' doubt, Crusoe is a very negroid fellow. In this context he is a fetid leech with fangs and a sense of importance the size of the Kalahari. The desert of ideas spreads from this guy's a**.

Lets take an hypothetical setting where you would require to deliver something like a new F16 fighter jet. Google! Instantly you get info regarding the jet including top government secrets that enable you to make a decision on buy this gadget that can kill very many people. What a Kenyan Crusoe would do is make the process of finding a jet look like Rocket Physics Integrated 404. Lets be honest, no modern army would ever buy an F5 jet. That thing can be shot down by little Afghan boys out shooting birds for dinner. The scary specs it touts can only scare little Kenyan boys who have known no war since they were born. Truthfully, if I was in 1980 and looking for jets I would never buy that kaF5.

We live next to Moose-Seven who lives on war, pirates who tear apart their country for fun and capture huge sea vessels as a hobby and a hoi poloi of indifferent warrior nations who would rather die than give up oil and yet we repeatedly reveal how little war hardware we have. How long do you think its going to take for the pirates to figure out we are a soft corrupt target. It recently came to my knowledge that some soldiers who may be relatives of mine are riding in refurbished Matatu amoured cars. Is that a pirate I hear snickering in glee?

I dislike what graft and nepotism do to countries. It does not take a genius to figure out where theft could be fatal for so many people. But I guess with the media touting thieves and drug dealers as heroes and many reaping way beyond what they sow it can be difficult explaining to the youth why honesty is a virtue and not a vice. How convenient that the military whose barracks you can view clearly from Google maps is claiming secrecy as its defense.

The hopeful pessimist knows that sleep is a temporary occupation. When you wake up you are going to have to pay the nanny. Put Crusoe to the death!

Hatred,justice, love and Afghanistan

Hatred is weak. It is the refuge of the cowardly, fearful and cursed. Justice is blind; veiled up by the stereotype of truth. Love, is fire. It burns everything that it touches. But what can you do if it is the heat you crave. Afghanistan is a godforsaken hell hole with a crooked mouse for a president and thousands of warriors who will fight for any cause that is against America.

1000 Obamas will not rescue that place. The folly of America, ecspecially white America, is to assume that most people love peace and will readily lay in blind justice's bed. Incorrect. Extremism is the child of that wayward child Propaganda. Propaganda is the mistress of the lord of war. In Afghanistan, this life is normal! Occupation is just but a side effect from being a harsh uncompromising lot. Ask Attila the Hun or just ask Genghis Khan. Or if you cannot find any of them ask brother Gorbachev and the thousands of Russian soldiers enjoying their retirement beneath the harsh sands of Kandahar. Those people are nuts!

The difference between an American soldier armed with laser guided systems and a wish to go back home to Wisconsin and a derelict Heroin fried frontal lobe with a sick Mantra for a philosophy becomes starkly clear at the explosion of a roadside human bomb. You cannot fight with dead men. The seven virgins with brown eyes will tell you. How do you scare a dude who wants to be dead?

If you want to be a policeman. Then you have to be ready to be hated. Even good policemen are hated. The mistake that the Obamites make is to play the piper in a policeman's uniform. The tune is good I agree, but who is listening? All they can see is the uniform. America should have done what every good vengeful Mafia family would do. Hire a hit-man. Announcing to all the criminals in Afghanistan all your intentions amounts to grandstanding and just adds wood to the blazing ideological inferno. That bullshit about us being with them or against them was just a PR gimmick. Obviously George Bush wanted more than Osama. That is why wise old people keep saying, "Never act in anger". The first decision you make is most of the time the wrong one. If they wanted to kill the son of Laden there are many ways they could have done it. Invading a sovereign state was definitely wrong move numero uno.

Love is a matter of life and its motion. Anyone who will tell you they have willfully loved only lies to cover their embarrassment at being lured into a trap. It is because of this that love is the remedy. Where love resides; it will burn up everything until all that is left is it. If someone loves you they would never be able to find even a shred of hate to fire their anger. America should have tried a bit harder to be loved by the Taliban. Clogging their systems with sanctions only served to prove to their followers who the enemy was. But who has the strength to slay destiny;
No ruler of the earth has ever looked beyond their own objectives.

It was the destiny of America to get drawn into a war that is unlikely to end unless they have the guts to slaughter at least two million people. They will have to get their hands, hearts and minds dirty. The only way to beat the beast is to become a beast. But what happens when you have become a beast?

Love is the remedy and the real security. Move closer to the fire.

Apologies and a statement to Mr Ali Bongo Ondimba

Apologies for yesterdays soggy post. I have debated with myself whether to delete that post and forces not within my control convinced me otherwise. When I say forces I do not mean anything sinister; let me amplify given recent regressions so we can maintain appearances.

When you want to move a rock and you use a spade you have yourself to blame. I am of the opinion that a lorryload of data cannot solve the world's problems. I am categorically of the opinion that cynics rule because their judgment is rarely clouded. It is because of this that I have to say yesterdays sentimental piece was out of order.That said; let us go directly to the person of Mtukufu rais Ali Ben Ondimba a.k.a Ali Ben of the poor peoples republic of Gabon.

You are a dictator sir. Respectfully let me say again. You is a dictator. In fact you is a Baboonctator. If you do not know what that is check my earlier posts. Ali, you suck the joy of life out of a people just for the joy of riding a Bugatti. I know Bugattis are nice and really fast but let us agree they are for people who deserve them. Like movie stars, dishonest businessmen and the KGB. Inheritance works for cows and personal effects. Not whole countries. Shame on France for going along with it. Gabon is richer in natural resources than most western European nations and yet has approximately 200 seedy individuals masquerading as Academia in its one university. Heh!

Rumors abound of ritual killings and deep routed corruption. Funny little groups scaring the people with sordid rituals and weird dances in the night. The ruler of the illiterate must stand up to be ridiculed. In no way does putting a whole people at the mercy of hungry mercenaries and corporates qualify as a a valiant democratic act. The sycophants will say it, the parrots will repeat it and the traitors will enforce it but no day will it be true. Remember that people reserve the highest amount of violation for the king when he looses his power. The same mercenaries backing him will soon get another suitor. Pray that he is more benevolent than the former colonial master Bongo Ondimba Sr.

I have examined a fellow called Moubamba. Yes. Moubamba, the one they also call Ben Bruno. Yes! I see you nodding. That guy who was establishing an embargo against his own stomach. He failed in his efforts at restraining himself from food and had to be rushed from the gates of the Gabonese parliament to a well known medical location. All because he thinks Gabon must see the stinging light of change. If we had 16 Moubambas in Gabon. We would be home free.

I suddenly feel the bad vibe emanating from the person of Bin Ondimba overwhelming me. Let me go start planning on how to get him to wash his armpits.

A reprimand to the self.

As I checked into the Heartbreak motel the other day, I could not help but wonder why I was not at home sleeping. It is a basic necessity at times to remember one's place. I am reminded of a place I was in years back as a freshman in a third world university. A very cold place. Where it matters not if your intentions are alright but if you are up to the task of playing the piper. Or at least paying the piper.

All this sounds melancholic and to say the truth psycho-sad. I guess along the way trying to get somewhere we become what we loathe. You wake up in the morning thinking you smell just right. Then in the afternoon you realize that the grime of living never lets you pass off for the real thing. I guess dreams are for those who are asleep. And nightmares are for those chasing dreams. Maybe it is all a dream.

Desire makes everything worse by whetting the mouth of a fool. I am a fool; let me say, and I have been a fool. For no reason at all apart from a daily titillation from what we perceive as perfect; we fold and forget that stoics and cynics have no place in the reality of dreamers.

If I was responsible for the past I would step in and slay the dragons that would torment the mistress. I would be a friend and I would be a keeper. Maybe that is the reason I am a fool. Why else would one think of traveling in time. This is not Star Trek and nothing happens if you wish on a star. If I could do things different I would need skills I doubt I have but it does not stop me from wishing I could start it over.

Maybe it is through pain that nature gets its kicks. Otherwise why would you light a little fire that grows into an inferno. Questions they say, are for those who can answer. Life they say, is for those who want to live. And love they lie, is for those who can love. There is no love, just a jumble of stereotypical perceptions and good luck.

If I was to pray, I would pray for good luck. Good luck and a way to avoid living like a fool. Right now all I can pray for are some keys to the exit door of the heartbreak motel. Or a fellow resident to ease the transition into the abysmal realm ruled by the chairman of the lonely hearts club.