hEY hOLD uP mRS. JOnEs...

There are certain essentials in life that are plain and obvious to everyone, those things that you cannot do without because they are necessary for the very survival of man. Air, water, land, that perfect pair of shoes that goes with all of your outfits, that cute purse that you can always trust to pull through any formal occasion, that tie that lets everybody know that you may not know much, but you sure have taste. There are certain essentials in life that you dare not go through life without; and one of these is Mr. Jones.

Let me explain. As you go through life, doing what you usually do, there is always a chance encounter of unfortunate disproportions and disturbing realism; when you meet a being who you know your friends must never find out about. Because of the disruptive labels we mark on people, because of the images on television, in GQ and Glamour, we are prone to severe undulating moves towards what we think is an “acceptable” image. A size ten is preferable to a size twenty, 120 pounds, better than 300 pounds of flesh, blonde hair definitely better than nappy hair, the lighter you are (sometimes…sometimes…) the better for you (sometimes…sometimes…). We know what we want and the image has been imbedded in us ever since we watched that music video with Rihanna, or noticed how Brad Pitt’s abs glistened as he tore down bodies and souls in the land of Troy. We think we know what constitutes the acceptable image and hence forth we set out in life.

Once in a while, ladies, there comes a person, who not so much fits that picture you had in mind. And I know you know what I am talking about. For some reason, when the two disproportionate worlds clash, it is starry and even magical; but there is one problem. You dare not let your friends find out, you dare not let the world know about your Mr. Jones.

See the thing is, Mr. Jones is a necessity, an essential being: a lady cannot go through life without him. He is an ego booster, always ready with the compliments even when you do not need them. Sometimes life is easier with Mr. Jones around because you do not have to work too hard to please him…the “love” “fancy” “infatuation” bug is rolling in wondrous cadence throughout his person. You can name a handful of reasons why you like him; but you can name a million and one reasons why you should not even be giving him a second look. He is not exactly the person you are going to take home to daddy, or sing praises about when you call up mummy, he is not the one you are going to introduce to your enclave of friends, definitely not the name you will be uttering in general circles of known associates. Simply put, you know that Mr. Jones will not fit into your world, but for some reason you like him and would like to have him around, so you keep him, hang him up in your secret closet, if only for a little while, if only for as long as his role plays out, as long as his essentialism runs out, then you can wave Mr. Jones goodbye.

Everyone has their reasons for having a Mr. Jones; maybe its loneliness, maybe its boredom, maybe its selfishness, to make one feel better about oneself, or maybe, just maybe, it is fear and pressure, lunacy and intoxicating liberalism; but one thing is clear: he has a purpose and he serves it well. And there are many reasons why he is Mr. Jones, and not a prospective mate. Maybe he speaks a different language from the one you and your circle of friends speak, maybe he is from that abhorrent part of society that no one dare speak of, maybe he does not look like Cruise, does not dance like Brown, can’t think like Chan, or maybe, and here we get into more hairy stuff, he is an ex-convict and your preppy life style just cannot accommodate him. Sometimes you just know that you don’t really have a lot in common to talk about, maybe you don’t even speak the same fashion or read the same books. If you put Mr. Jones next to the previous men in your life, he would look like the lost alien landed in the middle of Antarctica, completely lost, no comparisons there. Whatever the reason, you have your Mr. Jones and a secret he will remain as long as you live.

A word of caution though; do be careful that Mr. Jones does not dump you; it can be a real blow in the face, a nerve wrecker, a train crash, adverse, repugnant, very unfitting, definitely something you should avoid. Usually this never happens because he is probably so glad to have you in the first place that he would roll out a red carpet for you, he would kill for you, die for you, act foolish for you; and that is the reason why you are with him in the first place, because you know that no matter what you do, he will forever be sincere and loyal, fearing that if he isn’t loyal for thy being, you will leave him; how endearing!

And you gentlemen too have your Mrs. Jones. They are tucked away in some corner, hidden from the knowledge of all those guys who you know will never give you a break once they find out about her. She is probably not your type, not the kind of girl you would go for, or maybe she is the kind of girl you would definitely go for but because of “image” “looks” and a dying need to preserve “social order” you make her your Mrs. Jones. She’s not blonde enough, tall enough, smiley enough, good God why the hell are you with her! You can’t take her to momma for a number of reasons; could it be that she does not know how to cook, could it be she dresses different from what momma is used to, could it also be she weighs more than is “acceptable” according to the standards that you simple-mindedly invented. You like Mrs. Jones because there are needs that she, perhaps, fulfills that nobody else can. And, to get more controversial here, maybe you know that she has always dreamt of a guy like you, an Adonis of sorts, and she probably doesn’t stand a chance with you in the first place, and so you play on this little insecurity of hers, and she becomes simply, obedient, all adoring, Mrs. Jones. And when her task is fulfilled, when her job is done, please remember to send her on her way-with a box of tissues and a copy of “He’s Just Not That Into You.”

Please don’t allow yourself to be a Mr. Jones, or a Mrs. Jones. I hereby grant you permission to have, to own, to keep a Jones, but I forbid you from becoming one. Give yourself a hard look in the mirror today and ask yourself whether you are someone’s Jones. And if you think you are, slap yourself once, then twice, then three times, snap out of it and get over it.: It is only fear, insecurity and a dangerously low feeling of self-worth that can put you in a that position. But know this, the world will always have its Jones’ no matter what we do; just don’t be one of them. Have I ever had a Mr. Jones…wouldn’t you like to know…Have I ever been a Mrs. Jones…I am not giving you the satisfaction of revealing that either (actually I probably have, I’m just too proud to admit it). But I love watching people around me turn into Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, always without realizing the transition, it is like they cannot see what is happening right in front of them. It is fun to watch and giggle over, but it does not make it any less disparaging. For all you sorry, pathetic Jones’s out there, boo hoo to you, get a hold of yourselves and don’t be so misused; and as for you owners of the Jones’ good for you, congratulations, you just ascended the throne to selfish-liberalism.

Lounge Dwellers, One and All...

Dear Lounge Dwellers one and all,

I greet you in the name of ethical paradigm of fidelity. After much contemplation and endless rumination, I have come to the sad decision to abort my participation in this much loved Club, The Lounge Dwellers, of which I have been a member since November of last year.

Although I have found my membership to be fun filled with jokes shared, games played and intellects compared, I am of the view that this is the most latent club I have ever been a party to and as such, must seek quick and swift exit. I do not feel, in any way, shape or form, improved by this club. And what is the use of being a part of something that doesn’t work to make you more than what you are. Instead, I feel saddened at the demise of my attributive intellect, which, ever since I joined the Club, has seen a massive decline, from quoting people like Emerson and Socrates, to ludicrous acts of total buffoonery all in the name of entertainment.

We share the same jokes and our sense of humor, dear Club members, can be called a synchronicity of perfection. But I am appalled at the repetitiveness of our jokes; every other day it is the same old jokes, told over and over again, as we open up our ridiculous mouths in selfsame laughter, over and over again, at jokes told way too many times that I fear we are turning into one big, fat, idiotic cliché. And is it just me, or can you all see how senile the things are, that we talk about. The food that we swallow in eager gulps-we repudiate, the people we call our friends-we laugh at in naïve judgments, the place in which we dwell-we quickly and unabashedly dismiss, as if we could do better than where we are. If we are going to ostracize our very own Academia, then pray let us work as hard as we really can, to transcend to an even “better” Academe. I find that the more we talk and insult, during club meetings, vilifying this Academe of ours, which, by the way, we have the power to transcend over, the more barbaric and immature we seem; it is no wonder that the rest of the world is laughing at us. I can no longer be a part of this depreciation of intellects.

So farewell dear Lounge Dwellers, I wish you all the best in life. I am sure that you will have more enlightening moments without me there. I, on the other hand, have got to move on to bigger and better things, The Lounge Dwellers is static, I need motion, action and better acumen. It was not all bad, we have had some pretty amazing times, some loud, some sweet, some hairy and some violent; all in all, they have been pretty amazing. I promise to drop in once in a while to see how you are all doing, friendships are precious and in you all, I found a pearl.
But for now I will join in with the rest of the world, to make fun of all of you remaining Lounge Dwellers, I will be an instigator to put you all to shame and expose you for the weak manipulators, users and downright showoffs that you all are. But I love you all still, of course I do; it’s a different kind of love, a more malicious kind of love, but it is love all the same.

AS YOU ARE

they brought to him all who were ill or possessed by demons
he cured many who were sick with various diseases,
and he drove out many demons,
rising very early before dawn, he left
and went off to a deserted place, where he prayed
when the noise of the world gets too loud
and the times of life pass too fast

Contemplate

when things around seem so right
or maybe there’s too much too wrong

Contemplate

go to that place, that happy place
but go as you are, drop the pretence, the vanity
drop the masks, the strength and all the fights

go as you are

because it is not in action that we find our answers
it is not in this world, this brain, this mind that we find what we search
it is in the silence, the quiet, the peace and the darkness
it is in the nothingness that we hear the voice
the answers are in the silence, the gold is in the quiet, the strength lies in seeming weakness

so contemplate, go as you are

lay yourself bare, let yourself be vulnerable, let down the guards that you think protect you
it is not until you let go that you let God
don’t let the noise drown out the voice
don’t let your super actions defeat his need to help
allow yourself a few minutes each day to go to that happy place
do not speak, do not think, but just be
once you’re silent, you are open, once you’re open, you are blessed
and once you’re blessed, then you are your ultimate

magnificence

YOUR PLACE OR MINE...

Is there such a thing as a different breed of woman? Does the “new times, new woman” philosophy really hold true to life as it is today? I think that I have grown up in a time very different from that in which my mother grew up, and while I appreciate having a refrigerator, a dish washer and all the fancy things you could ever think of, I am curious to find out whether the woman of today is in any way different from the woman of yesterday. I lie about my grades, every time someone asks me what I scored on what test. Instead of giving them a grade figure higher than what it really should be, I give them a figure many times lower than what I actually scored. And the reason I do this is because last year, when I was dating a wonderful, handsome man, he called one day and decided to "end things.” The reason he gave, and I have to applaud him highly for being very honest, the reason he gave was that I knew more of Aristotle and Plato than he did, I dreamt like Picasso, and I read Emerson in every word that I touched. Basically, what he was saying was that he was not comfortable with the fact that I seemed to be doing better intellectually than he was, so he damped me!

When I look back at this incident, it almost seems like something to laugh. But it really isn’t. Learning new things has always been a passion of mine, and I thought that the world loved smart girls and reasoning women, I thought the world celebrated these gifts. What man wouldn’t want a clever lady by his side, a lovely trophy to show to the world? Turns out some people do not want you to be too smart. And I watch this everywhere I go; my classes are like my laboratories, I sit and I watch people and I learn their attitudes, reactions and feelings. No one wants a smart-ass woman.

I could be wrong, of course I could be wrong. My conclusions may be based on observations null and void, but is it not true, Dear Men, that you cannot stand a woman who is more successful than you are, a woman who makes jokes funnier than yours. Is it not true that you quickly grow to loath and hate a woman who out-smarts you, who seems to know more than you do, earn more than you do, work better than you do: you simply hate the disparity. And with good reason too. If I was a man I sure would hate a woman who was driving a better car than I was. Where is a man’s place in a home if the mortgage is paid by the woman, the bills are handled by the woman, the better job is taken by the woman, dear God, I think maybe we have displaced the men and they have no more place to occupy in our lives.

Gone are the days when the man was the bread earner, the woman a home builder. It made a man feel like a man, he had a purpose, he felt needed, wanted, desired and required. Now, there is really no need for the man if you can handle all of your affairs by yourself, Dear Woman. It is no fault of mine that I like to be the best at everything that I do, it is no fault of mine that I will excel in all matters wide and small and no one dare stop me. But I do miss the golden days in which my mother grew up, I miss the days when the woman was humble enough to let the man take all of the credit for everything that she herself had done, and not utter a word about his innate frailties and massive failings. I miss the days when men felt like men and women felt like mothers, when there was a need for man and woman alike. Times have changed and they are changing fast. It is not my fault that I am smart and choose to be better than everyone around me, but it is sad that I will be judged as too head-strong, too opinionated, too hot-headed, too much to say in too much a brain. I will continue to lie about my grades, and I will forever down play my excellence; but for how much longer can I go on with such unnecessary deception. Of course you will say there are people out there who have made it work, blah, blah, blah. The next time a man rejects me because I weave better sentences than he does, the next time the boy refuses to sit next to me in conference because he knows that I tramp all of his un-proven arguments, the next time I am looked down upon because of the abilities that I cannot help; I think that maybe then I will just come to a final conclusion that times indeed have changed and I’ll be damned if I don’t miss the good ol’days when women did not try to fight for the trousers in the wardrobe, the good ol’days when women knew they were smart, excellent and brilliant, but pretended to be submissive, docile, yielding and tractable. I sure miss the good ol’days when women were not so quick to show the men that they were bigger and better, in words, ways and Acts arrogant and proud. I sure miss the good ol’days and envy my mother who lived through such gentle deception. It is one thing to know that you are better than the next man and shout it out on the roof tops, inviting anger and jealousy. It is another thing to let the next man take full credit for your wonderful creations, if only for there to be peaceful existence between the two of you, if only for there to be a sameness of sorts. Because at the end of the day it does not matter how good you are at what you do with life, it does, however, matter how well you use that goodness to uplift the person sitting right next to you.