On an unrelated subject....

I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT

Ok so there’s a lot of expectation from me in my house. From my parents especially. Today they sat me down and grilled me about my “poor” GPA average. If you were an unbiased spectator and you looked at my academic record, you’d say “Hey, that’s about right.” But they’re looking at it from the inside. They know why I failed every time I failed. They were there for those academic triumphs that I made against all odds, and above all my peers.

So they know I’m no dullard.

Which is just the worst thing ever. I wish they thought I was a fucking dumbass. They expect from me, every fucking time, nothing less than an A. Man you should have seen them after my first semester. I get ONE fucking A minus and they’re wrinkling their noses, making faces and asking “Why did you get an A minus? Why couldn’t you get an A?” Like what the fuck? I’m thinking “You guys are lucky I’m getting any fucking A’s at all.”

But it’s like they can read my thoughts and they say to me – “Your education is not for us, it’s for you.” Yeah, right. It’s for me. If it was for me, then wouldn’t I kinda like it? Wouldn’t I kinda wanna pass? If it was for me would I play ‘Bubble gum, bubble gum’ to choose my major?

No.

I know my academic record is pretty fucked up. I made really silly mistakes that if avoided, could easily add about a 0.5 to my GPA average. Mistakes like forgetting to go for a final exam and getting a B instead of an A. Mixing up final exam dates and missing two final exams; one B and one C instead of two potential A’s. Telling my teacher to go fuck herself; getting an F instead of a sure A. Taking Hyman, Hansen, Adi, and Taiwo in the same semester against all reasonable advice (including the advice of a professor come to think of it). I’ve made many stupid mistakes which if avoided, could have made me a potential candidate for valedictorian; in the league of the geeks. (By the way, I swear I don’t mean to be rude, but if you wanna be valedictorian easily, try doing CMD or skip a few semesters and graduate with the Spring 2009ers. They’re not too er...bright. To my knowledge.)

But imagine a geek with my mistakes. Fuck. They would be so pissed with themselves if they were me. It’s almost like failing on purpose to them. It’s not like something they couldn’t control happened. They made these mistakes; they’d be furious with themselves. I know this; I know a few school geeks.

But really, I don’t fucking care. My academic transcript makes me a little-bit-above-average student at best. But I don’t fucking care. For me, it doesn’t take a 4.0 GPA for me to know that you’re clever, or you’re smart (although they are kinda related), and it also doesn’t take me getting a 4.0 GPA for me to feel good about myself. Fuck that shit.

But the expectation in my house. Fuck. Today my father said what they’ve been saying since I left secondary school – “If I knew you couldn’t do it, then I wouldn’t ask it of you. But I know that you can do it!”

Fucking hell. I don’t mean anything by this, but my sister brings home a grade report equally as considerably-more-than-average as me but does she get any shit? Nope. She was a smart ass in primary school! Ok maybe she dropped a little in secondary school, but she is far from average! There was like one A on her grade report. If that was me, fucking hell, all of Lagos would know how big a disappointment I am, how much I’m giving in to peer pressure, how much I don’t appreciate what my parents are doing for me, how much I’ve become such a bad boy. And it’s all because they know I can do it.

I hate it when someone tells me that they know I can do it. And it’s not just my parents that tell me. I hate it to damn hell. Fuck. How do you know I can do it? Are you in my fucking head? What the fuck?

One time I came back home and I got a B plus in Econometrics and my parents ask me again “Why did you get a B plus?” I go “It was hard!” And they go “That’s just an excuse.” With the implied I-know-you-can-do-it.

IT WAS FUCKING HARD!!!!!!!

Jesus H. Christ.

Fucking hell. I’m tired of the high expectations.

One of my professors, Professor Hyman, asked me why I keep fucking up all his classes and I told him very truthfully that it was because he rarely tests his students. Two out of three of the Hyman courses I took, the method of grading was just a final paper due at the end of the semester. I told him I was not to be trusted with such freedom. Just come to class, sit down, listen to bullshit, say bullshit, and turn in a paper after three months, I’m bound to run wild. Because my mind was never here in the first place, I never wanted to be here. Bongo Adi for instance gave us tests like every two weeks. I had to sit my ass up in his class. I mean look at it, the lowest I ever got in a Bongo Adi class is an A minus. And that was only one out of five times. In Hyman, I’ve got a B plus, An F, A WP, and another WP (sort of).

Do you know why Professor Hyman gave me my last WP? I was the only one that he gave in the whole class.

Come on. Try. Guess. Look at the title of the damn post.

Because he knew I could do it.

FUCKING HELL.

And I’ve still not done it by the way. I’m supposed to turn in the paper on Monday and I haven’t got past the introduction. I even have cheats.

Man, I agree with my parents. Maybe I have the potential. I’m in class sometimes and the teacher says something and some students are still asking “What?” while I got the shit already. The class becomes boring. I guess it’s a gift. But I just can’t put in the study time. So I guess it still boils down to the same fucking thing. I CAN’T FUCKING DO IT.

I’m a dumbass. I can’t do it.

I’m not a dumbass but I’m lazy. I still can’t do it.

It’s the same fucking thing. Fuck. Call me a dumbass. I DON’T FUCKING CARE!

This school shit, it’s not for me. I don’t want to be here. I used to hate Professor Hyman, but we had a little talk about this, and he was totally cool about my extra-curricular life goals. And he was totally honest with me. He said he’d fail me if I failed.

I like him now by the way, cc @ O.O.

And that’s all I want. Fail me if I fail. But don’t call me to the side and tell me I coulda passed.

DON’T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT ALREADY?????!!!!!

Fuck. I failed means that I failed.

I know I can’t do it.

But you know I can do it.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I TOLD YOU I CAN’T DO IT!!!!!!

Fuck. I’m me. Are you me?

Jesus H. Christ.

I know I can’t do it. But I have to do it. The best I’ve done is the Dean’s list. It’s very fucking annoying by the way. The Dean’s list is from 3.51 to 3.75 and the President’s list is 3.76 to 4.0. I’m always riding 3.75. It’s so fucking annoying. At least like a 3.755 and an approximation or sumin.

Anyway, 3.75 is the best, but my parents want a 4.0 on the fucking dot this semester. And it’s not like I have the easiest combination of courses ever. But they don’t care about that. I’m a shredder that they pump cash into every semester. They don’t care about that. I have to shred their cash in a 4.0 manner. That’s all they wanna see.

Come on mummy. Come on daddy. I know I can’t do it.

But you know I can.

So I guess I have to. You know there are these things that human beings do that they never knew they could do? When you see my name of the President’s list, just imagine an avatar next to it depicting me with my mouth open, and that surprised look on my face. Like “Wow! I’m a Jedi!” Yeah, that kind of surprise.

I just want all this pressure off my back. Everybody expects me to be top notch. The only way to remove pressure is to fail woefully, or do what people expect of you. You can’t be in the middle. People will always tell you they know you can do better. If you fail woefully, they’ll be like “Hmmm. Perhaps I was wrong.” And they’ll leave you the fuck alone.

But fail woefully? Nah. Are you fucking kidding me? I have to be able to get into a school for my master’s abroad and leave this fucking country.

But I still want the pressure off my back. It makes coming home, in Lagos, the city of cities, unbearable. It makes me squabble with my family and sometimes hate them. It makes them hate me all the time. It just fucks up my vacation every fucking time.

So I have to do what I know I can’t do, but what you know I can do. Just to get a little peace in my fucking life.

“Hey Bode, I know you can do it.”

Yeah yeah yeah.

Yeah.

Spiderman is just the coolest

NONESUCH PALACE

Have you ever heard of Nonesuch Palace? I don’t think so.

It was Henry the Eighth’s brainchild. His pet project. His more artistic contribution to history. It was built with so much grandeur, flash, and art; and that was why Henry the Eighth called it Nonesuch Palace. There was none such palace built before him and there would be none such palace built after him. That was his reasoning and intent. That was his reason for choosing the name.

Funny that his cousin and heir’s grandson’s wife should raise it to the ground almost a century later; for cash. For centuries she ensured that Henry the Eighth’s Nonesuch Palace was just a rumour. She made sure, till 1959, that there was none such palace in the memory of the world.

But that is how it is meant to be.

Henry the Eighth’s Nonesuch Palace wasn’t for England, Scotland, or Ireland. It wasn’t meant to be revered by the great realms of Spain, Italy, or France. It wasn’t meant to be passed down through his heirs to Queen Elizabeth the Second. It wasn’t meant for you or me. It was meant for him.

Fact is, it was built to rival the French King, Francis the First’s palace.

Rumour is, it was built to be King Henry the Eighth’s solace. The one place he could go and put up a banner that said “Fuck the world.” That’s why it was meant for him and him alone. And that’s why that gambling bitch, Barbara Villiers, who raised it to the ground, did him a favour.

Nonesuch Palace. None such palace ever built and none such palace in the memory of the world. These two conflicting, yet complementary ideas form such a brilliant ambiguity that I don’t think can be found in such a short phrase ever again.

There’s this place I go when I’m tired of the world. It’s a land in my imagination. I can stay there for hours just lying down on my bed smiling at the ceiling. It’s kinda like that thing in that movie Avatar. My body’s here, but my soul is there. In this place, I have everything I want. I do everything I want to do, and perhaps everyone I want to do. There is no anger, hate, confusion or any other dark emotion in this place. But there is jealousy; from others toward me. But even that is in short supply because in this world, I gather only those that can make me happy around me. Here I am invincible. Here, I am not a king, I am THE king. Here all problems are solved. Here, I am at peace.

Here is in the future; for there is nothing that resembles such serenity in my life in the present.

I go there all the time. More than you think. I’ve been doing this for at least a decade. I could be talking to you here, but dude I’m really there. I used to be ashamed of it, and I have never spoken to anyone of it. But now that I have learnt of Henry the Eighth’s Nonesuch Palace, I find that I can give this place in my mind a name. For truly, there is none such palace or place in the world.

It is not in the world, it is in my mind. Even in the world of minds, there is none such palace in the world.

This is the first thing

I have understood:

Time is the echo of an axe

Within a wood.

- Philip Larkin.

Be the wood. Be the log of wood. Close your eyes and open up all your other senses. Your hearing, your feel, your taste, and your smelling. Be the log of wood and close your eyes. Hear the rush of the wind as the axe comes down with furious velocity. Feel the wind as it breaks on your skin; your bark. Taste the little pieces of wood scattering from the brunt of the axe as they fall into your mouth. Smell the pain of the blow before it hits you. Close your eyes and be the log of wood. Then let the axe hit you; don’t move. Feel the force and the pain. Hear the sound of the axe hitting your bark. Taste the pain; smell your fear and smell the pleasure of the axe. Lastly feel the waves of the blow as they reverberate through you. Be the log of wood. Feel those semi-circular waves as they move semi-concentrically and very slowly from the point where the axe hits you, through your body. Feel the waves as they are conducted atom by atom through your body. Feel the echo from that one blow. Be the log of wood.

In my Nonesuch Palace, I ride on that echo. And as I pass through my body, atom by atom, riding on the waves of the force of the blow of the axe, like the Silver Surfer, I can control what I feel. I can control what happens, I can control what happens to me and what happens to you. I can make the weather whatever I want it to be. I can wear whatever I want. I can buy whatever I want. I can say whatever the fuck I want to say. I can murder and I can steal. I can bring back to life and I can give back. I can be wherever I want to be. I can create life and I can take it away. I can make you beautiful or I can make you ugly. As my pleasure commands.

I can do anything I want to do as I ride the waves. I can be wherever I want. I can. Only in this place; only in Nonesuch Palace. Time is nothing here because of that echo. Generations of shit can happen in one-normal-world-hour in Nonesuch Palace. It is a place of impossible timeless possibilities.

And there is always the theme music. There is always music. As I move through this extra-dimensional world like Doctor Who, riding waves that even I can’t see, I raise my hands to a sky that I can’t see and I close my eyes giving myself into the theme music. Tapping from its power and doing all that I want to do. Tapping from its power and keeping at bay all those forces of evil that are threatening to break through the barrier of my mind and fuck me the fuck up.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

From the outside these forces can hear the boom of the baseline and they back the fuck off. They know that if they enter they will be absorbed through the villa of my walls as easily as I can kill an ant. To fight with me in Nonesuch Palace would be as impossible as a paraplegic killing an ant.

It is needless to say that almost every time I am in Nonesuch Palace, I am high.

It is a world-proof place. Problem-proof. People-proof. Drama-proof. Religion-proof. Depression-proof.

The ironic thing is that it is the world, and problems, and people, and drama, and religion, and depression, that push me into this place.

When I go to Nonesuch Palace, I am lonely, depressed, ravaged by my problems and fucked up beyond reason. It is a solace most needed, and it was built for that purpose only.

Let me give you an example. Yesterday, there came up this depressing topic in my house. Whenever we talk about it, it always leaves me under pressure and depressed. It gets me thinking about how fucked up everything is, and how it has to be me that has to turn all this shit around. It puts me figuratively six feet under the ground. No coffin and alive. No sleep and choking and choking on the sand that fills my body until my body is full of sand and the sand cannot enter my body anymore. All the holes in my body are plugged with sand. I cannot move and I have become part of the earth.

So I procure some weed, I smoke for a while and then I come back home.

I’m back home and everything is depressing still. They are still talking about that depressing thing, but now I cannot hear them. Maybe I hear their words, but their words do not sink in, and for all intents and purposes, it means that I cannot hear them. If I cannot hear them, I cannot be depressed and I find myself smiling in a house where everybody else is depressed and frowning. I am protected by the walls of my Nonesuch Palace. By all the scenarios I imagine and the boom of the baseline of the music that fills the place.

It is a beautiful place.

When I come back, I am a log of wood with an axe stuck in my side. Everything that pushed me into Nonesuch Palace. Loneliness, girl problems, dissatisfaction with my life, family problems, and other such worldly things, they all come rushing back. They gather themselves from all over the place in a whirlpool manner, and gather in one spot to form the sharp, prolonged pain that is the axe in my side.

But every second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, decade, century, and millennium in Nonesuch Palace is worth living to receive that pain. At least it takes the pain away for a while.

I know I am not the only one. There have been millions of us as far back as Henry the Eighth.

That place where you go to rid yourself of all the shit in your life. That place that makes you feel like a dog coming out of the water of life and shaking it all away. That place that numbs the pain of life. That place that gives you serenity and wealth and love and all the things you desire. That place that you have created in your mind.

It is called Nonesuch Palace.

There is and was none such palace like mine and there never will be. There is also none such palace like yours and there never will be.

This is why Nonesuch Palace was meant for Henry the Eighth alone; and even if it was rebuilt, we can never see what he saw in it.

Funny thing was, this Nonesuch Palace that Henry the Eighth built, the greatest, most beautiful and grandest of all his palaces and all palaces, was the one he visited the least. He never really wanted to go there just as I don’t and you don’t. We don’t want to go there because of the reason we go there. We want everything in our life to be good so that we don’t have to go to Nonesuch Palace.

But it will never be so.

So nurture your Nonesuch Palace. Do not be ashamed; bathe it with water and sunlight and let it grow. Because in this life my friend, you will need it.

More Yoko Ono stuff...lol

I HATE YOKO ONO(S)

The Beatles are perhaps the most successful and talented rock band to have ever graced our world. They did not only offer such pioneering and revolutionary music but they brought true art into music and lyricism. Their album Sgt. Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Club Band was for most of the world, the beginning of the stimulation of immense artistic creativity coupled with music. After the Beatles, artists were forced to also integrate art into music or else they would not survive in the music business. The Beatles left the world a standard that is being followed nearly fifty years after their breakup, after being active a mere ten years.

All this greatness, artistic genius and legendary music, was destroyed by a bitch called Yoko Ono.

Bitch.

Have you ever thought that if perhaps Yoko Ono had not entered John Lennon’s life, there might not have been squabbles between he and Paul McCartney, and the Beatles would not have broken up so soon? Furthermore, if they had not broken up, George Harrison might not have gone all those fucked up places he went and contracted cancer. And might not have died. John Lennon might not have written Imagine, and he might not have been stabbed to death for it. The Beatles would still be together, and their members still alive, if it wasn’t for our dear Yoko Ono.

Bitch.

But of course I must concede that if Yoko Ono did not enter John Lennon’s life, he might have never written Imagine, he might have never become an antiwar activist (which was for a good cause), and he definitely would never have fathered his son Sean (who has a right like any other child, to live). Most importantly, he might have never been happy. All these things Yoko Ono brought into his life.

But she is still a bitch. And I try to say this with the best intentions that I can gather.

If you asked John Lennon (before he died), I’m sure he would tell you a great many good things about Yoko Ono and all the good things that she had brought into his life. As I have mentioned above, she did many good things for him and as a result, also for us, John Lennon’s audience.

But why the fuck couldn’t she leave it at that? John Lennon could still have written Imagine if he was with the Beatles. He could still have been an antiwar activist; in fact the other band members supported this cause. He could still have fucked her until his John Sperm Lennons reached her Yoko Ovum Ono and conceived Sean. So what the fuck is her problem? Why did she have to fuck all that greatness that came before her? She didn’t need to fuck up a good thing to create another good thing. She didn’t have to.

But that was the problem. She wasn’t a part of all that past, and if I might add, sustainable glory, and that was why she fucked it up. She did it because when John Lennon went on the road with the Beatles and did all that Beatles shit, it wasn’t all about Yoko Ono. So she fucked it up. Ended it. Removed the stumbling block. Killed George Harrison and ironically, John Lennon in the process.

A quote from the bitch about the Beatles’ split (and I was pleasantly surprised to find this, because it renewed my hate and multiplied it a thousand fold): “I felt the weight of the break-up because he had been communicating and having an extremely intense and intelligent exchange with three very intelligent...guys and now he expected all that to be replaced by me.”

Why wouldn’t you, bitch? Didn’t you enjoy the attention and the high pedestal in his life that he placed you? Wasn’t replacing those “three very intelligent...guys” your mission, bitch?

Don’t answer; all are rhetorical questions.

When two people are in love, in lust, or romantically attached to another, it generates, if you will allow me neologism, side-feelings. Especially jealousy; which is closely tied with hurt, neglect, and the need for attention. Let me explain and put it in modern terms so that you might understand. Many people have complained of this to me so I will use it. Your send your boyfriend or girlfriend a text message and they don’t reply for a long while, or reply at all. Not knowing why, you assume, aided with the “love” factor, the worst. Oh, he/she doesn’t care about me. Or he/she is out with their friends again and has forgotten about me. Or he/she is fucking someone else. Or he/she likes someone else now. Blah blah blah. You assume all these things because you are in love, or in lust, or romantically attached to another.

But all these things are not always so. The individual probably misplaced his/her phone, was sleeping or had something important to do. Innocent shit like that. I will however add that although they are not always so, they are usually so. My point here though is that because of the “love” factor, you do not give the other individual the benefit of the doubt.

You want the person to do what you want. You want them to be your own. You assume because they are involved with you, they must devote themselves totally to you. Everything that they do must be to please you. Every action must be in your honor.

I do not criticize these feelings. It is what every human being craves. When they are romantically attached this is what they expect from their other in the false and blissful aura of infatuation. It is not wrong. It is what makes us feel loved.

Where I begin to draw the line is where you think that if any action taken by the other is not in your honor, then it must be against you. No, no, no. They also have their own lives to live. When two people understand this, then they have become mature and have left the insecurities and perhaps the greater degree of bliss that is offered by puppy love.

People with romantic attachments feel these things and it is natural for them to want to avoid dealing with it. They don’t want the situation to degenerate into one in which, following from the example above, their other does not reply their text message promptly. They don’t want to have to think those ugly jealous thoughts that are sure to come. So they proceed to remove what they perceive as the causes for this, again following from the example, delay of the text message.

This is what Yoko Ono did. That is why the Beatles do not exist any longer. Instead we have the, compared to the Beatles’ music, substandard, and crappy music of Sir Paul McCartney. No offense.

There have been many Yoko Onos in human history. Anne Boleyn for instance who destroyed a holy thing. Cleopatra, who destroyed a great thing. Patricia Anne Boyd who nearly destroyed a friendship. And of course Yoko Ono who destroyed a beautiful, Beatleful thing. Most of them are women and that is why I have decided to symbolize them using Yoko Ono.

You know that girl that says she doesn’t like your friend? Or she thinks you should stop doing this or that? Or stop seeing a certain person. Or stop wearing certain things. Stop doing things the way you’ve been doing them. It’s all so she can have you to herself and fuck anybody that gets in the way. She is a Yoko Ono.

I’m not saying that every time your girlfriend says that you should stop seeing that person or stop doing that thing that you like, she is doing it for her own gain. Sometimes her demands are justifiable and even for your own good. But you have to examine it and judge for yourself. And a fair, without-the-love-factor judgement should be made. Because if it is not fair then you are also a Yoko Ono.

I’m also not saying that all who Yoko-Ono (when I asked for your permission for neologism earlier, it was just a formality. You know I don’t give a fuck) are women. I am not sexist. Men also do this. Fuck with the woman’s life to preserve his ego and battle his inner demons of jealousy that he feels in his chauvinism, he should not be having. But most of them are women and that is why I have chosen Yoko Ono.

Also, I hate her by default because I love the Beatles.

And why are most of them women? It is the power of pussy, my friends. I mean no disrespect toward women, but “pussy” is just the best way to symbolize it. When I say pussy, I do not mean the vagina alone. Work your way up from the vagina to the heart and the brain (and mind). Men are vulnerable to women who give them their vaginas, hearts and brains (and minds). As men are logical beings, they also give their penises, hearts, and brains (and minds) to such women. Most women desire a compassionate man, in other words, a sucker. And all men have to show some semblance of weakness to please such women (all women). And that is why it is mostly men who are susceptible to this Yoko Ono-ness. Women are not nearly as vulnerable as men in romantic attachments because men do not require them to be anything but themselves – emotional, caring and loving, and having a vagina.

This, added to the fact that women have easy substitutions for penises (such as dildos and other penises), is why women have all the power. In economic terms, the scarcest resource is the most expensive. This is why women are treated with such reverence; because it is not easy to find a substitute for the vagina, and women know this.

By the way, God bless all those women that give up their vaginas without fuss; or for money. You shall inherit the earth J.

This is why women have such a hold on men; and why most Yoko Onos are women. Because with their pussy-power comes the power to influence men into relinquishing those things that they found that they liked before they met the women. A very good example is when your male friends ask you where you’ve been, and you and they very well know that it has been pussy that has been keeping you away from them.

Men can’t really make women do the shit that they want; they need that pussy. Please don’t take offence; I have already described my version of pussy above.

However, we must realize that some Yoko Onos go about Yoko Onoing blindly. They love this guy so much and they blindly, under the influence of the ‘love factor’ destroy everything that came before. They are too deeply attached to see what destructive work they are doing and when they realize this, they stop, are apologetic, and try to rectify the damage that they have done.

Some do it on purpose. To keep the love of the other (admirable) and sometimes along with it, his cock and bank account.

It matters not. I hate all Yoko Onos. Knowingly or not, they destroy beautiful things. Such as the Beatles.

Who knows if Yoko Ono did this on purpose? All the alleged whisperings in John Lennon’s ears against Paul McCartney could have been in blind love. But she still destroyed the Beatles. Knowingly or not. For that, she is a motherfucking bitch; for taking away a good 500 potential songs that could have had “The Beatles” by the side of them in my Windows Media Player.

Bitch.