And at a pretty dark tone too, I might add. I apologize; it's been quite a tight few months (one heck of a quarter-of-a-year), though I have much in my mind I need to unload. Let's start with a mild article.
The world is full of coincidences, I'll garner that. Maybe it's not a surprise when given the scope of time, distance and sheer manpower that's made up history that certain things are not unheard of. Money is universally appreciated. Consequently, gambling's a sin. Love for another is profoundly magical, and consequently marriage (and all the headaches that come along with it) seems a logical choice. These may seem to be coincidences when you think on it, but one agrees they make sense.
What makes sense more, unfortunately, are humanity's vices. Sadly, greed, lust, pride, jaywalking...they are universally prevalent. Every civilisation is plagued by them, and universally felled by them. The insidiousness and universality of the darker side of Men has become such a common sight that we've become inured, familiar, and even scandalously close to it (witness Desperate Housewives). It is often no surprise that the surest way to link humanity across time, space and culture is in its all-too-familiar flaws.
But what really made me do this article is the reverse: that Mankind's beautiful moments are perhaps more (or as) universal as we think. As an engineer, I've marvelled at how the discovery of brewing a type of ordinary-looking, sun-dried leaf resulted in the beverage known to us as Tea, and subsequently the bean that goes through all manner of roasting, high-pressure hot water infusions, and a special mixing with margarine and corn (among others) to form the coffee that the world loves. And don't get me started on wine and beer.
It isn't just about food, forgive the impression. The pride we all find in the development of culture. The common concensus of the need for a higher form of management (the government). The joy in art and thirst for exploration and knowledge. The undeniable beauty of love, and the embarrassing sweetness of a crush. The invention of the wheel, of agriculture (well, for most of us). Sweet, oh so sweet technology. The link really isn't so obvious sometimes, and it does well for us to sit back once in a while to marvel at what we can achieve, and unanimously, at that.
Speaking of which, I've had the remarkably heart-warming experience recently of seeing a straight-laced (and usually detested, come to think of it) person open himself up to the simple experience of karaoke. Watching him take of that figurative tie and cut loose (never mind the actual quality and even choice of song) was an experience worthy of books (and blogs!). Reminded me a little of me.
Note to my future self when I am to again read this: remember how Pride has brought you to this day. Keep this close, and never allow this to happen to you again. I stand once again at a crossroads and once again I will have to bid my teammates (one of them a second time) goodbye. My next entry will be a solemn one.
Lastly, the token tune of the day: the one currently playing on my phone (and my poor head): Gnarls Barkley's Crazy.
There was once a father and his son, who were never on the best of terms. One day, in his selfish, arrogant manner he offended and insulted his son for the last time, over an act that would was forgettable in its details but undeniable for its consequences. From that day on, though the family still resided in the same home and ate the same meals, the two would never speak to each other again.
The silence was eerie, to say the least. Both refused to acknowledge the other's existance, and both refused to care. Meals were eaten separately, interaction became merely a dodge in a narrow corridor, and through it all, a beleaguered mother, saddened by the rift but unwilling to take sides, observed in silence.
And through it all, in their obstinate pride and stubbornness yielded not one perceivable bit.
If the father was sorry, or cared more than his actions would speak, he showed no sign. For all intents and purposes, he was right, and the opposer was wrong. This was a man who ignored his kin's cries for reconciliation upon his deathbed, and nothing would shake his faith in himself.
If the son was willing to swallow his pride enough to pronounce himself wrong or take the humiliation meted to him graciously as he was wont to countless times before, he was not now. With a corresponding faith in himself that surprised and dismayed his family and friends, he did not step down in the slightest bit.
In time, the only remaining factor that contributed to their awkward silence vanished: the young man had grown enough to support himself, and promptly left without much fanfare for lodgings of his own. After he bid farewell to his mother at the doorstep, she, believing in a religion founded on forgiveness and goodwill, asked him if he would consider healing the rift that no one could mistake was there.
If he had heard his mother's words as he turned his back to leave, he showed no sign.
Years; decades would pass before the prodigal son would return.
But return he did: his father, struck down by vagaries of mortality, was on the final hour of his life. "Please come back for him," his mother pleaded through tears, "for he is delirious with regret and sorrow. He misses you so, and cries constantly for you. He is so very sorry."
Without further ado, the son dropped everything and rushed home, where the remainder of his small family awaited. As his family looked on in silence, he approached the bed where his father, for the first time in decades, addressed him in person.
"My son," he spoke, barely legible through tears. "Time has not been good on my body, and also on my mind. The terrible event that had torn us apart as father and son has weighed so very heavily on my soul, and so much time has passed that the event and the reason are forgotten to me: all that is left is the terrible pain and guilt it has left in me." His voice was weak, so close he was at death's door. "I plead to you, my son, now that all that regret and pride has brought me to my conclusion, for your forgiveness. Nothing more, not my money or my works or my desire to live, matters now than this. I am sorry. Please...forgive me."
For a while, the son stood there in silence, his face unreadable. Then he smiled softly, and replied for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
"No."
As all present reeled in shock, he went on. "After decades of silence, hate and bitterness, you remember only the pain that has led you to this scene, but not why. I remember; I have never forgotten. All my pain, all my suffering, all these years; and Why." He pointed his finger accusingly at the man on the bed. "Your pride and stubbornness have yielded only at your deathbed, where you have finally had ample time to consider your affront to me. Not one hour earlier. And for that, for your pride, where you could never have said sorry for just one time to me, we have both suffered, our lives stunted by the rift we created between us." His eyes were narrowed, his stance tall and imposing. "I am Not Sorry: I never Was. The years have only hardened my resolve, and if I should suffer the rest of my life for my pride; Father, I gladly embrace my choice. If I am indeed still your son, it is because I have learned well from you. I will - Not - offer you the luxury of your last selfish act."
And with those accusing words, he turned and walked away, his mother crying out his name as she wept.
The Father was dead before he had left the room.
It is all too possible to be Too Late to be Sorry. Repentence and Forgiveness are but hollow gestures in the face of a lifetime of blind Pride.
I've often felt and preached that though I am considered a weak contributor to the world of programming, I love what I do. A friend asked me recently about why or if I like programming. That was kinda when I was coding an impromptu name re-arranger on the spot during a gathering at Burger King. An interesting experience, if not bloody stressful, yet kinda fun. :D So now when I need to assign random people random names to do a Christmas exchange, I don't have to find paper to tear up and write names on or worry about someone getting his name back. Lol.
Where was I. Right. My answer surprised me for its spontaneity. Two things, that pretty much guaranteed I like it here.
First off: Architecture. This is where the God complex starts: you analyze a task, no matter how big or small it is, then isolate its distinctive traits. Inheritance, polymorphism to handle similar behaviors. Sectioning off of various parts to better tackle individual problems. Design patterns to standardize and structure repeatable behavior. And most importantly allowing for easy maintenance in the future, be it debugging, changing, or even adding supposedly different modules with minimal effort. It's so structured, yet so dynamic, it always puts a tingle i my spine as I set about creating the veritable house of cards. It doesn't stop there. The very act of maintenance is like reading and re-writing a story: the discipline involved in making sure every line, every for and while loop communicates clearly its purpose, with grammar vocabulary and - heck - enunciation that's similar to all others of its kind. How do I describe it...it encourages anal-ity more so than a table full of work items and even a computer's desktop, to good effect.
Secondly, and the really big thing: whatever you do in code, if good, stays good. Because a large amount of the beauty of programming lies in dividing a task into the smallest possible, solvable pieces, you solve them easier and know that they stay solved: you can commit even the toughest algorithm you can find (from school, at least :p) to code, and then forget about it: if need be you can always come back to it a long time from now, and if it is well documented, continue from there. It's much easier to solve an equation if you don't have to worry about falling back because of a forgotten value or remember a solution method you just learned but kinda forgot. Now you won't have to wince if you were to try throwing in random values to an equation just to see their effects: let the computer crunch the numbers. Recursive functions? Barely a problem. Just watch that while loop ;) Coding takes care of the need for impossible and wasteful amounts of memorization, both for complex functions (getting the inverse of a matrix) and remembering things that will probably be obsolete soon (enumerating the various types of menu choices), while freeing up your ability to concentrate on the bigger picture. Knowing the way my memory never extends past a month, it's a godsend.
Still, it has its ups and downs. As a person who primarily inherits and re-arranges codes, I've seen my fair share of pain. But it's in setting the thing right breaking down what your pedecessor could not handle, that gives me a high, and given a choice I'll probably still stick to inheriting code: no better way to learn than from another before you.
I guess that's why when someone asked me if I would prefer lazing about at home all day with a rich spouse or go out to save the world one starving child or one disaster survivor at a time, I chose none of them. Not for me decadence (well, too much decadence :p) or sappy altruism: I love my job too much now to change it.
Well, at least except for anything with guns and tanks :)
Brandon sat down upon the bench with a heavy sigh. His old friend sat beside him, arm outstretched over to clasp the bench behind him as if in support.
"It's good to see you again. I admit it's not been easy to catch up." He said. "Times have been hard. But I'm sure you don't need to hear that." In reply, his friend merely offered a smile, as if in encouragement.
"Here's something more interesting: a personality test. I've been pondering over it for some time, because it's actually a very simple test, but with very difficult to read results." He counted off his fingers. "It says that everyone falls basically within four characteristics: Sanguine, Melancholic, Choleric, and Phlegmatic. If they sound familiar and vaguely disgusting you're right: they correspond to the four Humours. You would have heard of them some way or another."
When his friend didn't reply, he continued. "The four Humours. Sanguine, Melancholy, Choleric, and Phlegmatic, corresponding to Blood, Black and Yellow Bile, and well, Phlegm. It was one of the oldest methods of medicine, something like the Chinese 'Heaty' or 'Cooling'. For example if you were suffering from heatiness you were too sanguine: treatment involved careful draining of your blood, hence the term: exsanguination. But I digress."
He composed himself. "A friend of mine brought a book in to work today talking about this. I took a liking to it, simply because I became quite good at classifying people into these groups. Everyone I guessed at took the given test and confirmed my results. It's a little fun, really." His eyebrows narrowed. "But for the strangest thing: I can't seem to classify myself."
For a moment there, Brandon thought he heard his friend chortle. "Jest how you might. Here, maybe you can help me with this. We'll go in sequence. First up, there's Sanguine. These guys are happy people, always getting stuck in with the boyz. They're the life of the party, source of the sound. They're the ones always with a smile on their face." He paused, and stared at his taller friend, practically grinning back to him. "Much like yours. But you ain't fooling me. Sanguines are also a little lazy and too-fun-loving for their own good, prefering to live too much in the moment. I for one am not sanguine, and in this respect we all got that one right. I do exhibit the occasional childish tendency to want to have fun and make some noise, but this just isn't me totally."
He smiled. "On to the next. Choleric. These are the compulsive doers, people who just want to get their hands dirty making things happen. They work on practical facts and see no point in wasting time deliberating or asking for opinions. I know quite a few cholerics and I know enough to say that I am in no way like them. The friction between us shows. So, strike that."
His ever silent friend remained unmoving at his side of the bench, with a look in his eyes that seemed to indicate attentiveness. Brandon continued. "This is where things get tricky. Melancholic. Unlike what the word sounds like, these people aren't necessarily suffering artists or chronic depressants. It rather describes people who are meticulous; who think alot on everything. They are very tidy people who like to see things done *just so*. As you can imagine, some do take these traits to the extreme and develop a sort of naivete, musing about how the world works and perhaps being a little angsty." At that last word, he shot a glare at his friend "I know what you're thinking, so cut it. I might whine quite the bit, but I'm not meticulous enough to fit the description correctly. Believe me, I've seen meticulous melancholics."
He sighed. "Which brings me to the last one: Phlegmatics. These people are the bystanders of life, preferring to observe and contribute at a distance, away from the limelight. They're peacekeepers, self-sacrificers who make great playmates or parents. They're very likable, and to prove the point I identified a strong phlegmatic who's a very lovable character in my circle. I must admit, it's hard not to develop a crush on her."
He rubbed the back of his head, suddenly self-conscious. "...yet conversely, in that person's reflection I find myself not quite there as well, though lots of people seem to agree on me being a phlegmatic." His troubled expression returned. "The problem is that I'm not humble. At least, not any more. Lately at work I've been pretty defensive, striving to make myself heard after one too many 'not being recognised' episodes. It's causing quite a bit of unnecessary tension I feel, and pretty much making me unhappy."
He shook his head, and looked at his friend, still beaming that smile back at him in silence. "So what do you think, smug guy? You're no choleric or melancholic, and you're certainly not a doer. People say you're sanguine, but I know the truth. You just sit there the whole day, smiling at idiots like me who come here to pour our woes out at you." Mild irritation crossed his face. "You're just a bloody statue."
Unmoving, his stoic friend stared right back at him, his smile the only answer.
Brandon smiled in return, and lapsed a little back into deep thought. "Maybe they're right, maybe I'm a phlegmatic who only just recently lost his way and is suffering as a result. Stars above, I'm definitely not happy playing the 'getting attention' bit. It's time I played my part on this stage and stopped fooling myself."
He nodded, mind set, and stood up, feeling quite better. He waved a casual goodbye to his companion. "Good bye then friend. Take care of yourself, and hopefully I'll be back with less things on my mind." Pausing awhile as if awaiting his reply, Brandon nodded, and then set off on his way home.
Draped eternally in his relaxed, outstretched pose across the bench, Ronald McDonald watched him leave.
This is another one for the geeks. Let me first start with the insights, and the story. I'll give the geek alert at the end so it's clear when to stop reading :)
The Singapore army opened its doors one more time to the general public this year, showcasing its newest and future developments. So naturally I went down (after realising no one I know can match my geekiness and COME DOWN WITH ME -sic-), and had the rare opportunity to have my writer side, photographer side AND geek run amok simultaneously. Quite the experience.
My photographic side has only just begin to manifest itself so there's still so much more to learn, but I can comment straight away on one thing: people do so love to pose next to things. At the risk of sounding like an Adeptus Mechanicus acolyte, I fail to see how one's posing next to a mechanical thing of beauty, filling up just about as much of the screen as it is, makes a picture better. If anything, it kinda spoils the perfection, breaks the beautiful, streamlined symmetry - hmmm. Ok, there's a little bit of the geek mixed in with this too. What is most annoying however, is the way people can blithely get in the way of a person setting up for a good shot and stay there: the pictures I took were incredibly hard to compose, and still they were full of people. I even saw a woman ignore her husband's warning that I was taking a picture, to stand right in front of me and take her own.
Aside from that, I also realised looking at another person's (more professional) shots that I still had lots more to learn as a photographer, but also that there is a limit I must stop at. As I have observed earlier, taking good pictures demands too much that one step back; remove himself from the scene. Caught between the geek and the photographer, priorities came first. There will be more chances later :)
The writer in me however, had less of this limit: all I needed were my senses. And what an experience it was. Standing tall and unmoving as blanks of new and old calibres were fired in the distant display grounds, and the unaccustomed flinching or plugging their ears as they walk on nearby. Sensing and identifying old sounds: choppers clearing the trees or rooftops just before screaming past overhead, IFVs revving their engines as they filed past. Seeing hated technologies disappear, while new exciting ones take their place. Observing kids as they struggled with an assault rifle's unexpectedly significant weight, fathers shaking their heads at the cammo counter to give the dubious honour to their wives (there's a reason behind that, for all you non-Singaporeans :D), fellow geeks grilling politely bemused display staff...my own unmaskable joy at finally coming face-to-face with the main objective: my first Leopard II tank. The highlight was singularly the technology/vehicle displays at the parade grounds. So, without further ado...
...Geek Alert!
The statue points the way. This statue, apparently called Sgt Rocky, has quite the bit of history I hear, and is a mascot of sorts to our specialist training center.
Me, inspecting a decked-out Sar-21 with maglight, forward grip, reflex sight, and laser among other stuff. 'Eavy, too.
Bionix II: our equivalent of the American Bradley IFV, down to the Bushwhacker.
Living out the Gunner Fantasy :D
Loading end of our artillery piece. I quite like how this picture turned out.
The Leopard II A4, with what looks like an angry horde storming it. This one took some skill and elevation.
The opposite direction. Note the tank's German heritage, in its treads, turret, and extra tread link mountings.
Something really new: the Terrex IFV, with all-round viewports, gunfire direction sensor and remote-controlled turret, this thing looks like that APC out of Aliens.
Finally, the tank that will make mine clearing much easier: the Trailblazor. Sporting Sherman Crab-like flails and a mine trail corden-layer, this thing should have been invented ages ago!
There's a favourite quote of mine that I ironically can't remember totally, and it comes from Sherlock Holmes himself.
It isn't the one Spock quoted to great effect in The Undiscovered Country, though I like that one too. The setting was actually more like around the first time the both of them got to know each other. Watson had noted that a great astrological occurance had taken place involving Jupiter or Saturn or whatnot, and Holmes had to his surprise exhibited a distinct lack of knowledge on the subject. Upon being informed of the fact of the planets' order around the solar system he declared then that he would endeavour to forget it all again, to Watson's bemusement.
Why? His answer was something to the effect of the fact that the knowledge had absolutely nothing to do with his life, or rather his interest in life: crime. The man knew everything a man in his line should know and much, much more: tattoo origins, smoking habits, marks of various careers, sources and effects of a variety of poisons, etc. And to do so, he felt, he had to make sure that not one cell in his brain was dedicated to remembering the irrelevant.
What does this have to tell us? Plenty. A friend recently commented that I had a single-minded purpose to exhaust whatever I develop an interest in, to the oblivious exclusion of all else. Although I disagree on such an observation (more on the results of my efforts than of the efforts themselves) it got me to thinking: how much do I know? How much does everyone?
In this day and age, the byword seems to be for us to know a little about everything. Knowledge is Power it seems, even if, I feel, it is Knowledge for Knowledge's sake. Soccer matches, celebrity gossips, recent disasters, tech developments, friend gossips. Listening in on an everyday conversation is always a revelation for me. And it has begun to show me something: that we are so very shaped by the information we take in, in ways most of us fail to see.
The more varied the conversationist, the more it seems that he/she is generalised, prone to sweeping statements and quick judgements; a lack of patience. Someone with a lot of strange new revelations on everyday facts like the unhealthiness of commonly-believed-as-healthy foods displays a unconscious but marked deviance of the norm to the point of an acute, almost instinctive defiance. All this, I feel, are changes that we all go through without knowing it, when we let ourselves be changed by the media we experienced, whether or not we controlled the absorption of these media. How much of this is us, how much from the outside? How much then, is this welcome? We should be very careful of whatever information we take in, because (harkening to one my earlier thoughts here) knowledge is all-powerful and enlightening, but only when put in context of the nature, and strength, of the purviewer. Can we handle the truth?
Which brings me to my next point: I'm one to speak. Immersing myself totally in the things I like and ignoring the rest (i.e. maintaining my own world) has gone a long way to defining the way I am, and I know this is true for many people out there. I have seen the effects of living a life as far away from social development as possible (and will for the rest of my life treat them as a lesson and reminder), yet I also have seen the effects of living a life totally immersed in the here and now; the people and news that flow daily around us. We either sharpen ourselves to an extreme point like a spearhead, or hone our edges all along for a balanced yet unremarkable sword. In light of recent performances at work and school, balanced with the observed effects of my presence amongst people, I suspect I am sinking into the former, yet unable to go further on to the perfection of my art(s) to all else, or retreating back to dwell in comforting yet unfulfilling normalcy of the latter.
There's probably more I can raise here about this point, but my mind refuses to work at this hour. I hope this is in some way legible to you dear reader, but maybe I'll put these thoughts in order tomorrow morning, when they should make more sense ;p
A short clip to entertain you while I'm gone: one of the newer pieces by Yanni, something I'm stuck on right now. This might be a little messy to some, especially the piercing soprano sax at the end: Playtime. Quite apt; as it's finally time for me to relax from work and get back to my hobbies. Next: my Sherman tank....
Spending time recently deep in 'grown-up land' has raised a strangely hollow feeling, which ironically was not one I was expecting at this point of my life. I spent a large part of my early life essentially wasting it (I'd like to believe), pursuing and thinking of things that were so meaningless. The advent of wikipedia and google, the internet; Learning was among the first things that literally pulled me out of that goop, and I was hoping that spending time and mixing with the crowd would bring in that next step.
But really; no. Spending time watching so many people grow up has raised a few thoughts to the fore, chiefly that I am an acute introvert: I really couldn't care less about other people. And secondly that the more I hear about what is right for our age, our lives, the more I become skeptical. The more I feel hollow.
We should think about protecting our future. Putting money into these kinds of investments. Enjoying Life, no matter the cost. Fighting for our Rights. Get a home this way, of this size. Don't care when we know we've offended someone; done something wrong. Observe this protocol in that occasion in order to set and maintain the proper sort of impression. Getting attached to this kind of guy, getting married in this kind of fashion, treating this sort of topic for bragging rights among a table of friends.
Sound familiar? It's the voice of our generation. So I guess it's the voice of adulthood, just like the echoes of those before us. Yet the more I listen to these 'topics of the times' the more I am convinced that I should never leave the childhood I keep wrapped around me. Doesn't it become tiring after awhile to observe people talking about the highest principles that they can't seem to maintain themselves, to demand standards from people yet dismiss other standards of themselves as unrealistic? To talk ceaselessly of eternally temporal (oh the pun) topics, to see beauty only in the most gratifying of things? To Hate, only to spawn Hatred? To seem so ironically, so sickeningly sure of oneself, even with the possibility of being wrong?
This is not a rebuke to the people and society I know. Rather, I believe it is the last declaration of defeat from a naive child to a world that works in mysterious ways. I have looked for and tried to believe in so many things that are supposed to be (reasonably) eternal, only to see faith crumble, people change, and rules flouted, and to realise that I just cannot change with it. If 9-11 and the property market crash are blatantly obvious signs, it's that this has been a decade of uncertainty: so little things are really true, really permanent. Perhaps it is time to disengage somewhat, to rethink the things that should be kept permanent and reconsider exposure to those that aren't.
I live in a world of my own, I know. The problem is that trying to come out of it over the past few years hasn't really justified its supposed benefits. It is so tiring, to try to believe in things that I do not, to hate or like or believe in things so much. Once again I reach out; attempt to ask anyone who'd listen (or in this case read); who may understand the source of my innocence or blindness; who might help explain and share. Once again I know I will not find any. By seeking solace in correctly childish diversions I bathe myself with bitter irony and further alienate everyone I know, but I guess I seek not vindication; only expression.
A tune that seems kind of right being here, and one that I think might bemuse some friends of mine (really, no offense is intended); music from one of my favourite composers (is he called one) - One Man's Dream from Yanni. It helps of course that a highlight of this tune is the bass: one of my fave instruments :p
If this wasn't to your liking here's another, more the original way I heard it - a beautiful exchange between a violin and a saxophone flute (that's what they say he played - I have no idea what that thing he's carrying is!). Among my chief faves of his tunes: Renegade.
I had a random thought today, while looking through pictures of people: our faces say so very much about us. From our feelings to the setting of our 'neutral' moods to our current demeanor and health, you can tell a person's very character and status from his or her face. Which is not to say that the rest of the body isn't important, but for a person like me, that's usually the first thing I look at each time I meet or glance at someone. I like to believe that a beautiful face on a less-than-perfect is better than a less-than-perfect face on a beautiful body (never mind the typical guy mentality).
Our faces tell so much about us. I have over the years met colleagues and people that had so much of their lives to tell through their faces that I could immediately read it when something was amiss. Until recently, I seemed to be the only one this sensitive at the office. Not any more...hmmm. I think I've fallen in Love. ;) Lol.
Let me see now; the faces and characters I've put together recently. They're so formulaic, so distinctive, that you could almost attach a name to each face. The perpetually bubbly one, with inverted crescents for eyes that search constantly for the next big thing to guffaw heartily at. The smirking, laid-back one, that views humanity the same way a hawk does. The intense one, that is always on the verge of some big thing...just putting them into words makes it so true, so...fitting. Take the time to observe the people around you; the effort they put into animating their faces. How much more can you see; learn from them all? And what's more, what would you describe Your own face as? Ask others what first impressions your face gave them...you'd be surprised.
Lastly, a point to note: people captured on photos are very rarely who they really are. When someone points a camera at you, you naturally freeze. Some of the more camera-familiar naturally turn to their good side. Most of us just give awkward, frozen smiles. I've been shocked several times by the way I look exactly the same in most pictures where I am aware of being taken: my eyes drift and my mouth can't seem to decide whether to smile or frown: hence, I Smown. Or Frile. Hmmm. Having now begun to observe carefully the reactions from the other side of the camera, I find this to be starkingly true. Yet, when you finally capture someone who didn't expect it, he or she will literally glow, and you'll finally feel like you've captured the moment, the person's character, eternally. Or something like that. I wish I had some examples that I could share - examples I do, but not shareable - but if you've taken enough candid shots, you'll definitely know what I mean. ;)
So, one last note before I go; my regular tank update :D Now at tank #5, I've taken a step in another direction - a russian one. Yes, the most universally-voted Best Tank of all time, the simple yet cutting-edge T-34/76. A beauty that was just as easy to make as a model than as a tank!. Enjoy!
Profile pic. Note the tank's rather longer length.
Side. Note the extra co-axial MG I added (for fun :p). The wheels are painted black for rubber.
Business End. I like the green touch for this set.
In this period of milestones it's difficult telling which is more momentous than the other. A project deadline approaches. School looms in the horizon. Two years at work come to an end. The first anniversary of the period of both intense doubt and clarity broods ominously in the distance. And looking back, a lesson from all these waypoints comes to the fore.
It's simple, I guess, though I've not heard of it yet: my own 'Happiness-in-a-nutshell' revelation, that I should try repeating more often to myself. The key to overcoming Misery is that there is something better; something else worth your time, to occupy you. The key to losing Happiness is the inverse: that there is a better life, but however, beyond your reach. Happiness is overcoming Loneliness with a new hobby. Misery is being stuck in camp while your platoon books out (lmao to those days).
And the Key is; if you can't control the scenario, try your best to control your requirements. It's really all that we can do and, if you think of it, have been doing.
You really learn a lot from hanging out in a group.
Much more than what most people say, really. I've hung out somewhat with my juniors over the past few weeks at work, and it's been most enlightening. Of course, since most of the lessons I learn concern myself, this may or may not actually apply to anyone else.
First: There is never a set role for anyone in a group. Or to be precise, one's role in a group is never the same in the other. Maybe you already know that, but it came slow to me. Let me elaborate: for example, the 'nice guy' of one group need not and may not even be that nice in another group. This may be because he or she might have been putting up a front in the first place, but sometimes it's because someone else took his or her place, and the roles automatically and unconsciously change between them. The uncertain, humble junior of one team may become the confident, smartass senior of another (this, I admit most heartedly, is me). It goes for almost role you can think of. There can't be more than one Alpha Male of a group, one Big Sister. Yet there is Always One.
We just don't realise these mechanics (or maybe, I don't). Sometimes we do, in the sense that we see someone behaving differently from before and attribute him/her to being Changed and/or a Hypocrite, but return the person to his or her old surroundings and watch the old self return. It's natural, and knowing it's natural has kinda solved a lot of questions that were on my mind; eased it somewhat.
Second, but related to the first: you aren't special, or shall I say you aren't that unique 'that sort of person' when (not if) you find someone who is more like 'that' than you are. You think you talk a lot, think a lot, have a lot of unique ideas? You'll meet someone who's more of that than you are. And here's the rub: you won't like what you feel when you do. Or at least, you won't expect it. You'll realise how irritating/interesting you may have sounded, and worse, you'll realise you aren't unique any more. Hell, the other person isn't unique now as well. You realise those traits aren't as special, and that one day the other guy will grow up and realise that.
And then you realise, right there and then: You just Grew Up.
Now, another serendipitous music video: about a man who never wanted to grow up. A man who loved and cared for a world that, sadly, was not quite the same as the one we live in. A man which Our World just lost.
One of the songs that touched everyone, including me. Take it away; Michael Jackson's Earth Song.
mhmacleod November 9th 1982 (Age 27) Male Singapore A humble blog of personal insights, as a curious Scorpio attempts to understand Life, Humanity, and maybe a little Song on the side.
