Lest we forget

Grieve for me, that my life did not end naturally,
that my plans, my hopes and dreams could not be fulfilled.
Grieve, that five minutes less or more could have saved me,
but now, my presence is gone from this world.

Grieve, that I can no longer make you laugh or call your name,
that I won’t be home tonight, tomorrow, or ever again:
Grieve, that I died young, early, before my time,
that I’ll not be wearied further by sun, wind or rain.

Remember me, for who I was and what I did,
remember what I was like when I was a kid.
Remember my quirks, my habits and funny lines,
remember me and that one outrageous fib.

Remember me, in the times I was happy,
remember me, in the times I was sad.
Remember me, for when I did things my way,
and all the good times that we’ve had.

Do not grieve for me without end,
don’t fail to restart your life again.
Remember me, and why I died before my time,
so that others might make it to their prime.

In memoriam: James Stampa 1983-2004

midnight sanity

on a different note.

i watched bro'town. comments to matt's commentary, coming soon.

isn't it scary that you all will be unleashing yourselves into the big wide world next year? (leaving me behind, biatches).

what does it feel like? nirosh? shaz? where is life going? what shape and form, colour and consistency will the future take? what fears, expectations, excitements, uncertainties, ambitions etc. run through your mind?

i really want to know guys - because it's scary for me.

p.s. the reason why we don't run to the rhythms of base 8 or base 12, is simply because that would be silly. thank you. please come again?

midnight madness

insert four letter word beginning with f and ending with k and pushing u and c together. i wrote this five minutes ago. then blogger.com decided to log me out. without taking myepic masterpiece with it. so here we go again. obviously this is only a Tribute. the original was perfect. alas.

midnight madness, melancholy, moodiness, misery, or any other 'm-word'. it is often only at midnight when everything becomes so acutely clear, as if the glaucoma of the day has been drained by the dehydrating fatigue.

yes matthew. i agree with you - what are we? what am i? i am a product of my parents. as much as i revel in being the idiotic crusader shouting in the streets for the liberation of the individual from the shackles of family and culture - i am now - glaucoma-free - a family man.

true. family is important. i'd kill for the quintessential perfect nuclear suburban family. kevin arnold in the wonder years didn't know that he was living the perfect life. maybe if he realised that he wouldn't have acted like such a dolt and would have kissed winnie's pretty cheeks more. anyway. family is important. it is not only the canvas we can paint our uncertain scribbles on, but it is also the net that can catch us when all else falls out beneath us.

i have been sculpted in millions of ways by such things as particular words at particular times, particular events at particular times, particular fullnesses and particular voids at particular times and particular places. all of which were out of my control. i am my father, and i am my mother. i am also the newest limb of a great tree. why then, does this not fill me with a pride so fiery that it propels me to the stars?

i don't know.

when contemplating my parents' lives, i am touched with such a deep sorrow that it feels like i'm skimming the abysmal ocean of universal human misery. why can i not make my own mother happy? is this a testament to the glorious failure that is me? why do my eyes see sadness and uncertainty wherever they cast their gaze? even behind eyelids they still see the shrouds, whispering this way and that, haunting.

how to spring free from the mud that is the tangled mess of ancestral history, still eludes me. however - not only must one break free from the shackles - but one must also take the best fruit to savour. family, ancestry and culture taketh, but they also giveth.

here here. a tribute to family.

i love my father. i love my mother.
so much love.

i just hope i can figure it all out.

Base12

I tell ya what. What would it be like if our society was base 12 instead of base 10 ie. for the things that it is base 10, if it were base 12???

Would teens go up to 23? Would we make up new names for the words (or, taking a primordialist approach, would we have different names in place) for thirteen, fourteen and so on?

Would we develop two extra fingers to facilitate the new countdown?

What about cellphones and computer keypads. ATMs. Eftpos. Our personal PINs would be made more secure by about [(12x12x11x10) - (10x10x9x8)] more combinations. Yipee. More numbers to choose from (and forget). Bearing in mind the a personal PIN cannot be the same 4 numerals, must have at least 3 different numerals...

Base 12. At least our watches and clocks would fit in finally. Calculators would need redesigning though...

Hang on. Not timepieces. Well, maybe. 5x12 = 60. Any questions?

How about base 8? Once we got used to it, we'd never be undersold by a computer retailer again. 80GB of HDD storage my ass... 1MB = 1024 KB, 1KB = 1024 B, and so on... But at the shop 1GB = 1,000 MB, while 1 MB = 1,000 KB. That means we lose about 6 GB. An 80GB HDD is really 74.

yeah... base8 anyone?

randomness from the even more random med-school magazine

An argument for feelinks.

“What’s up with all the feelings, man?” asks the future doctor. Fair enough. There is a time and place for feelings, and albeit a pub-crawl amongst a bunch of hormone-crazed drunk desperadoes (I myself being one of them) is not the best place to start a conversation about emotions. I have endured much mocking, much hostility, much pain and many a night spent crying, purely for my unrestrained displays of feeling. So amidst this antagonism shared by almost all overworked, overbilled, overstressed, overdone med-students – in the face of this deep-seated resentment towards anything “PD-like” – is there a place in the modern world for the little fragile butterflies we call feelings?
My first challenge to all you feeling haters is this – feelings are everywhere, and they govern us in ways that we are not even aware of. For example, when Osama attacked the United States on that tragic day, President Bush didn’t just turn a blind-eye. He felt. His feelings were hurt. And so he reacted. And obviously Osama had feelings too, or he wouldn’t have felt strongly enough about whatever he felt/feels strongly about to have acted in the first place. And so thus the whole bloody mess which tarnishes my morning paper started, and is being perpetuated by – feelings. This is a fact that is seldom realised. What’s more – the manifestation of all these negative feelings as radical and abominable actions are undoubtedly precipitated by the suppression of feelings, and the denial of their importance.
You might argue then – why feel at all? You might contend that if we stopped feeling altogether, then none of this would happen or have happened. But what if I propose to you a completely radical idea – that we modify these feelings. Imagine if Osama called Bush up, and invited him over for a cup of tea and some biscuits. Imagine if Bush accepted, and they hugged and talked about their feelings. Imagine how proud John Lennon would have been of this article. If they just opened up, talked, and hugged, and shared the love, it seems implausible that any madness could have ensued.
If people saw through their egos and just felt more, and focussed on feelings, the world truly would be a better place. Perhaps there is a little place for feelings in our future as doctors. Perhaps, just maybe, being able to feel a tiny bit for each individual patient we come across, just enough to make us actually care about doing a good job and care about their welfare – who knows, perhaps it may make us a little more than skilled automated androids, and make everything just that bit more meaningful.
For those struggling to open their hard exteriors to the fuzzy warmth of feelings, think of this analogy – when you chuck two rocks together they can only cause fire and destroy each other. But when you chuck two marshmallows at each other – there can only be sweet, squishy love. So the next time you’re stressing out about the upcoming exams looking at the ground frowning in gloom while walking across Grafton bridge and are too busy to look up and smile at your fellow citizen, consider a glance, a smile, a pat on the bum, heck – even a peck on the cheek. We need more hugs, more kisses, and more pink soft toys for all.

-Superdha

Bro'town

Coming as I do, from a suburb not dissimilar to Morningside [for life], I have consistently found Bro'Town a huge laugh.

Some people seem to miss the point that it's not the Simpsons, and for good reason too. (Shall we check some? a) They're brown, not yellow. b) We can actually pinpoint their location on a map, something the Simpsons consistently and skillfully avoid even after 15 years of transmission [742 Evergreen Tce, Springfield, ?, USA] c) The satire is a little more in your face and un-PC, compared to the subtle, stylish and intellectual injokes of the Simpsons)

Perhaps it's me or else the fact that it's late, but I also find Greg Dixon's opinion just a tad cynical. I can't remember how long it's been since there was a Kiwi cartoon of note (I can just about remember some terrible thing I used watch before cricket on a Saturday morning when I was eight), but I would be the first to say that the Simpsons rule and will rule for a loong time. 15 years to get the product right, consistent delivery and new episodes that seem to get wackier and wackier, the Simpsons can never be emulated anytime this year by a Johnny-come-lately as Bro'Town. So don't even compare them with any expectations. This is about NZ, not America.

What appeals in Bro'Town is the irreverence. I certainly hadn't heard the term 'post-PC' before it was employed by the esteemed Mr Dixon in his withering attack on Bro'Town. I actually feel kinda maligned by that, in fact. The non-PC element of Bro'Town is perhaps not something new, but the concept of a cartoon that doesn't start from a white palette is quite refreshing. It certainly makes me feel at home in my colourful neighbourhood, but I am kinda anxious for the people south of Bombay who may not be in a position to appreciate the humour. It certainly makes a change from ridiculous tip-toeing around the subject of ethnic diversity in Auckland (admittedly, not that I encounter it very often; it's probably just the aftertaste of political correctness).

OK, call it post-PC, but don't do it disparagingly. Post-PC is what we need, even for a little White Boy from MAGS like me.

* Bets on for the inspiration for St Sylvester's? As much as I'm biased, I don't actually reckon it's MAGS. The geographical location fits, but I'd probably be picking St Paul's. What say you?

the beginning

perhaps...

this could be the start of something new. something wonderful.

originally i was only a little more than a dha. now i am a self-proclaimed superdha. through a long and twisted journey i have plummeted, bouncing up every now and then to savour the air above the twisted vines of a world that doesn't care about one lonely boy. anyway, a superhero cannot sob - and i am not sobbing - merely setting a bleak backdrop on which to paint a more colourful scene.

in other words i was just rambling. here i am today, a fourth-year medical student coming to grips with 1) my identity 2) my chosen field of study 3) my family 4) the world 5) love 6) insert everything else here. my good friend matthew blogged me from his blog home, and after reading a few of his blogs, i was inspired. inspired to grow new leaves from my tired and dry tree. inspired to bear fruits that may lead to fantastic new things. my hope is that from this home - lives can shine, friends can re-unite and share, and we can connect in ways that our busy and bedraggled lives just don't allow.

to creation, lifelong friendships, and whatever new friendships may come out of this enterprise.