NEW DAY
REFLECTIONS
Shujon
My mother sweetly foils any attempts I make towards chivalry with her. Don't get me wrong; she appreciates it when I hold the door open for her, or pull out her chair at dinner. She likes it when I hold her arm when we walk on the street. But that is the extent of what she will allow me to do for her. If I try to take the smaller piece of fish at lunch or the less ripe fruit from the basket, or the harder mattress when we travel, or attempt, however slyly, to provide her a better berth than me on this journey that we are taking together, she laughingly brushes my attempts away; as if magically, the bigger piece of fish ends up on my plate, the riper piece of fruit is handed to me, the more comfortable berth is given to me. My mother does not see anything she does or gives up for me as sacrifice. Neither do I, as I have accepted that even though I am two decades away from being a child, I am and will always be, her child. She is programmed, like all mothers, to ensure the safety and comfort of her child. This is the way it is and it sometimes blinds me with its beauty. The selfless love a mother feels for her child, and the need for the child to bask and grow in that love: this is beauty, unadulterated and born out of the mother carrying and protecting life that grows in her during her pregnancy. This is beauty that may sometimes be blemished by a mother's struggle with her personal demons but that, nonetheless, provides succour to the child.
Being my mother's child, I have been the recipient of such beauty. Being the husband of my child's mother, I have observed this beauty. But I was not content with that, for I also wanted to be the source of it. When my wife was pregnant with our son, I wanted to join the biological connection my wife had with my son. I believed that if I continued to mouth the words 'we are pregnant' that I could somehow insinuate myself into my wife's and my yet-to-be-born son's biological unit. I believed that if I slept every night with my hand on my wife's pregnant belly and felt my son nudge his way around and explore his little universe, that I could somehow join in their silent conversations. I believed that I could come home after twelve to fifteen hour marathon runs on the partnership track at the firm that slowly shred my soul, pick up my new born son during the 'arsenic' hour (new parents will know what that is; the hours between 7 pm to bedtime when the little one's howls can wake the dead), and expect to have the same calming effect on him as his mother. No, I was sorely disappointed. I realised that I could not, can not and will not be able to give my son what his mother gives him. I was rescued from my disappointment by a friend, a veteran of fatherhood with three tours of duty to his credit, who told me that I, father, have my place in my son's world. I slowly discovered my place, my source of the beauty, not the blinding light that I had mistakenly sought, but as enduring. I now feel the magic of fatherhood, when my son now mimics me, wanting to be like his father in all things ('I like spicy chicken because Baba likes spicy chicken'). I feel blessed that I also am my son's pillar of strength, just like his mother, grandmothers, and all the other loved ones who surround him and provide him strength and guidance in his journey through life. I feel grateful that I too play a pivotal role in his growth into someday being a good man, a man whom he can be proud of.
My random reflections on motherhood and fatherhood today came about from two painful stories that I came across while connecting to the world around me. A mother, denied the God-given right to see her child and drink in his love. A father, excluded from his child's world and the honour of leading him down the righteous path. Like all stories that reek of brimstone, these too, I am sure, are partly based on moral and other justifications, and somewhat likely on resentments. The two individuals I am speaking about are folks who have written their own stories, and have made many an error in grammar and syntax in their writing. But should their mistakes, their fallibility, their flaws, deny them the love of their children? More importantly, should their imperfections deny their children the pillar of strength they are as mother? As father? I don't believe so. Dear reader, in a world where many a father and mother are taking divergent paths on their journey and in many a family where such stories are being written and told, play your part in making sure the child gets to walk with both parents. Please, for the love of and in the best interests of the child. Please.
This column is the last one on the editorial page in New Age...http://www.newagebd.com/edit.html
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Stream of consciosness...1
Stream….
We called them pinnarets
Fluttering of our eyelashes against each other’s faces
I was 16, you were 18, 20 some years ago
Lost on the streets of Kowloon
Pimps grabbing you, whores grabbing me
“Dew le Moh”, they shouted
“Fuck your mother”, as we laughed and pulled away
I knew no other girl like you, my twin
without fear, laughter so manic
it kept the tattoed triad thugs at bay
you found me that day, sitting by the harbor
a stolen bottle and Henry Miller in my hands
you asked for a swig, I looked up
and saw you
beautiful is an understatement,
Eurasian eyes that looked into me
Long black hair that fell over my shoulders as you reached for the Jameisons
Life pulsating from every pore
Henry Miller and 1920s Paris forgotten
With my own Paris beckoning me to explore Kowloon with her.
We held hands, ran through the streets
I took you to my friends, a Fillippina street walker
Who would feed me and buy me booze while I watched her kids
While she worked.
The kids loved you, and my friend told me to be careful
“she is beautiful, she can make you madder than you are,”
“take you to a place where you can not come back.”
I laughed; I was invincible
I wanted love, adventure, and you were it
I took you to my friend Chin’s, on the east side of Chunk King
He made us soup, while he fixed himself with the best White money can buy
You looked on, unfazed; I smiled, falling hard
A woman without fear, a partner in adventure
We walked deeper into the everlasting night that was Kowloon
Past the pimps, hookers and junkies
To the Go Go Bar where I could drink for free
With a mattress in the basement, with my books next to it
On nights when I could not go home to Hong Kong
This was my home; and now it was yours
This is where you taught me how to give pinnarets
Butterfly kisses, prayers to the gods
This is where you taught me how to speak
Without words,
How to love with a touch
How to draw without chalk,
how to paint without colours
How to know each other in silence
How to be a man with a woman.
Next morning, I woke up with a note next to me.
It was unsigned and said “I Love You.”
I was happy, ready for another day.
Walking the streets, making friends and learning life.
I have not thought of you for 20 years
Until today; it must be the rain, making day into night
It must be because I miss my wife, a woman as beautiful as you
As mad as me, someone who stayed after the night
And who taught that I needed no other.
I think of you and I am happy
Lived a life without regrets
Maybe
Except one,
I wish you had signed your name on the note
For, in the magic of that night
I forgot to ask your name.
To you, my nameless one
I pray you are happy
As I am.
We called them pinnarets
Fluttering of our eyelashes against each other’s faces
I was 16, you were 18, 20 some years ago
Lost on the streets of Kowloon
Pimps grabbing you, whores grabbing me
“Dew le Moh”, they shouted
“Fuck your mother”, as we laughed and pulled away
I knew no other girl like you, my twin
without fear, laughter so manic
it kept the tattoed triad thugs at bay
you found me that day, sitting by the harbor
a stolen bottle and Henry Miller in my hands
you asked for a swig, I looked up
and saw you
beautiful is an understatement,
Eurasian eyes that looked into me
Long black hair that fell over my shoulders as you reached for the Jameisons
Life pulsating from every pore
Henry Miller and 1920s Paris forgotten
With my own Paris beckoning me to explore Kowloon with her.
We held hands, ran through the streets
I took you to my friends, a Fillippina street walker
Who would feed me and buy me booze while I watched her kids
While she worked.
The kids loved you, and my friend told me to be careful
“she is beautiful, she can make you madder than you are,”
“take you to a place where you can not come back.”
I laughed; I was invincible
I wanted love, adventure, and you were it
I took you to my friend Chin’s, on the east side of Chunk King
He made us soup, while he fixed himself with the best White money can buy
You looked on, unfazed; I smiled, falling hard
A woman without fear, a partner in adventure
We walked deeper into the everlasting night that was Kowloon
Past the pimps, hookers and junkies
To the Go Go Bar where I could drink for free
With a mattress in the basement, with my books next to it
On nights when I could not go home to Hong Kong
This was my home; and now it was yours
This is where you taught me how to give pinnarets
Butterfly kisses, prayers to the gods
This is where you taught me how to speak
Without words,
How to love with a touch
How to draw without chalk,
how to paint without colours
How to know each other in silence
How to be a man with a woman.
Next morning, I woke up with a note next to me.
It was unsigned and said “I Love You.”
I was happy, ready for another day.
Walking the streets, making friends and learning life.
I have not thought of you for 20 years
Until today; it must be the rain, making day into night
It must be because I miss my wife, a woman as beautiful as you
As mad as me, someone who stayed after the night
And who taught that I needed no other.
I think of you and I am happy
Lived a life without regrets
Maybe
Except one,
I wish you had signed your name on the note
For, in the magic of that night
I forgot to ask your name.
To you, my nameless one
I pray you are happy
As I am.
Stream of consciosness...2
I see you, smiling
covering your mouth
hiding
teeth, destroyed
by the syrup we craved
believing
that it will connect us
make us feel
help us touch god
free us from the chains
of society, being good boys
trying
to run away from ourselves.
I see you, laughing
my sweet, sweet brother
forgetting
to cover your mouth
as you tell me of your love
share with me your joy
fill me with your happiness
finding
peace, god and yourself
no more
running away
just hold her hand
look into her eyes
finding
last 25 years not wasted
just a detour
to the happiness today.
covering your mouth
hiding
teeth, destroyed
by the syrup we craved
believing
that it will connect us
make us feel
help us touch god
free us from the chains
of society, being good boys
trying
to run away from ourselves.
I see you, laughing
my sweet, sweet brother
forgetting
to cover your mouth
as you tell me of your love
share with me your joy
fill me with your happiness
finding
peace, god and yourself
no more
running away
just hold her hand
look into her eyes
finding
last 25 years not wasted
just a detour
to the happiness today.
Friday, November 9, 2007
connecting with a dot who has moved off the page
I recently wrote an article on a dot who has taken leave of the material plane to become another dot in the night skies...thanks to my time in Land and the rejuvenation of my relationship of the country of my birth, i have been blessed with a new appreciation of and a renewed relationship with my father, although he no longer walks the land he loved as "amar desh"...i wanted to share this article with my friends (it will be published in the New Age and Holiday newspapers on his anniversary--Nov. 10th)...
REMEMBERING ABBA
It has been almost two years since Abba, the late A.Z.M. Enayetullah Khan, took his last breath in a Toronto hospital room surrounded by we who loved him and many others who came to pay their respects to a man who dedicated his life to the people of Bangladesh. As I remember Abba, a man whom I can now unabashedly acknowledge as a giant in our public arena while still cherishing my image of him as the funny, sometimes self-mocking father to his youngest child, I feel intense gratitude. I am grateful for the life Abba has given me and my childhood which he ensured was happy notwithstanding the curve balls I asked life to throw at me. I am grateful for the family he has given me which serves as an unbreakable safety net for my occasional trapeze act. As I remember Abba, I am especially grateful to him for his legacy, a legacy not of bricks, mortar or coin, but a legacy much more valuable, a legacy of his values and public service shared with me daily by family, friends and random people of Bangladesh.
In almost every interaction I have had with acquaintances or strangers in Bangladesh (or with Bangladeshis in foreign airports, restaurants and parties), I am blessed with a reminder of the reach of Abba’s pen and the lives he has touched. Strangers have come up to me and quoted lines from something Abba wrote or said on television. Strangers have shared with me the early years they spent bunkered in the Holiday office battling the establishment with ink as their ammunition, youth and courage as their armor. Strangers have regaled me with his virtue in his stint at high public office, which virtue hopefully may again be seen in our present and future leaders. Most importantly, strangers have embraced me with their stories of Abba’s warmth and friendship. To the hundreds who were with Abba in Toronto and the thousands who remembered him publicly and privately in and out of Bangladesh, Abba was sometimes a mentor, sometimes a leader, but always a friend.
In the last few days, I have been gifted many opportunities to appreciate Abba’s legacy and the many ways he connected with and inspired people. A foreign embassy official, seeing Abba’s name on my application for a visa, shook my hand and quoted me a few lines from an article Abba wrote quite some time ago. My cousin, Titas Khan, shared with me that even when Abba’s life was taking its last bow, they developed an ardent bond bridging the years spent apart when Abba spoke to him of his love for his siblings and his family. Titas bhai’s wife and my bhabi, Minnat Khan, marveled at how Abba, barely out of his mid 20s at that time, walked away from a prosperous career to pursue his dream of opening an English language weekly, The Holiday, which dream he made into reality with the help of others including my mother, Masuda Khan. My cousin, Aneek Khan, spoke to me of some of Abba’s characteristics that Aneek aspires to, including never speaking ill of people and reflecting the respect and friendship a person has shown him, regardless of whether or not such person is in society’s or the establishment’s favour. I recall how Abba inspired Titas bhai and Minnat bhabi’s son and my nephew Fawaz Khan, who spent time with Abba by his hospital bed doing crossword puzzles with him. After Abba’s death, Fawaz wrote a piece about Abba that makes anything I have written pale in comparison.
Many others shared with me stories of Abba’s ideology tempered with his pragmatism, and his world view enhanced by his optimism. I believe that Abba’s pragmatism and his optimism are his greatest legacy for the people of Bangladesh, for he believed that Bangladesh would succeed in spite of the mistakes made by its helmsmen and women. He had great faith in its people. In his writings, he imparted to the readers his optimism about the country’s future beyond the immediate gloom. His belief in the country, and the belief and actions of others like him, are bringing many of us who left the country to come back. The present course of the country I believe would be viewed by him with qualified optimism.
As I remember Abba, I remember to be grateful for who I am and where I am in my life.
REMEMBERING ABBA
It has been almost two years since Abba, the late A.Z.M. Enayetullah Khan, took his last breath in a Toronto hospital room surrounded by we who loved him and many others who came to pay their respects to a man who dedicated his life to the people of Bangladesh. As I remember Abba, a man whom I can now unabashedly acknowledge as a giant in our public arena while still cherishing my image of him as the funny, sometimes self-mocking father to his youngest child, I feel intense gratitude. I am grateful for the life Abba has given me and my childhood which he ensured was happy notwithstanding the curve balls I asked life to throw at me. I am grateful for the family he has given me which serves as an unbreakable safety net for my occasional trapeze act. As I remember Abba, I am especially grateful to him for his legacy, a legacy not of bricks, mortar or coin, but a legacy much more valuable, a legacy of his values and public service shared with me daily by family, friends and random people of Bangladesh.
In almost every interaction I have had with acquaintances or strangers in Bangladesh (or with Bangladeshis in foreign airports, restaurants and parties), I am blessed with a reminder of the reach of Abba’s pen and the lives he has touched. Strangers have come up to me and quoted lines from something Abba wrote or said on television. Strangers have shared with me the early years they spent bunkered in the Holiday office battling the establishment with ink as their ammunition, youth and courage as their armor. Strangers have regaled me with his virtue in his stint at high public office, which virtue hopefully may again be seen in our present and future leaders. Most importantly, strangers have embraced me with their stories of Abba’s warmth and friendship. To the hundreds who were with Abba in Toronto and the thousands who remembered him publicly and privately in and out of Bangladesh, Abba was sometimes a mentor, sometimes a leader, but always a friend.
In the last few days, I have been gifted many opportunities to appreciate Abba’s legacy and the many ways he connected with and inspired people. A foreign embassy official, seeing Abba’s name on my application for a visa, shook my hand and quoted me a few lines from an article Abba wrote quite some time ago. My cousin, Titas Khan, shared with me that even when Abba’s life was taking its last bow, they developed an ardent bond bridging the years spent apart when Abba spoke to him of his love for his siblings and his family. Titas bhai’s wife and my bhabi, Minnat Khan, marveled at how Abba, barely out of his mid 20s at that time, walked away from a prosperous career to pursue his dream of opening an English language weekly, The Holiday, which dream he made into reality with the help of others including my mother, Masuda Khan. My cousin, Aneek Khan, spoke to me of some of Abba’s characteristics that Aneek aspires to, including never speaking ill of people and reflecting the respect and friendship a person has shown him, regardless of whether or not such person is in society’s or the establishment’s favour. I recall how Abba inspired Titas bhai and Minnat bhabi’s son and my nephew Fawaz Khan, who spent time with Abba by his hospital bed doing crossword puzzles with him. After Abba’s death, Fawaz wrote a piece about Abba that makes anything I have written pale in comparison.
Many others shared with me stories of Abba’s ideology tempered with his pragmatism, and his world view enhanced by his optimism. I believe that Abba’s pragmatism and his optimism are his greatest legacy for the people of Bangladesh, for he believed that Bangladesh would succeed in spite of the mistakes made by its helmsmen and women. He had great faith in its people. In his writings, he imparted to the readers his optimism about the country’s future beyond the immediate gloom. His belief in the country, and the belief and actions of others like him, are bringing many of us who left the country to come back. The present course of the country I believe would be viewed by him with qualified optimism.
As I remember Abba, I remember to be grateful for who I am and where I am in my life.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Dots. Lines. Shapes. Forms. Images. Reality.
Dots. LInes. Shapes. Forms. Images. Reality.
Dot.
Arrive at Land. First person I meet there is Keshav.
Within the first five minutes of arrival at Land being told by Govind, "Ohh, you're one of us!"
I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long time. I actually sleep that night.
I meet Doc.
Line.
The Taj Hotel in Bombay. The catharsis that had been waiting for 24 years. And a walk that followed the catharsis..at dawn, in the rain with Doc and Keshav.
Land. Ishan's farewell.
Another catharsis follows the farewell. This one is more intense than the first one.
More dots...more lines...forming
Shapes.
Doc's first program trip to the US in December 2006.
Jan. 2007, From the highest high to lowest low. Night Terrors. Flashbacks. Panic Attacks. Tremors.
Attempted OD.
Forms.
Feb 2007. Bangkok trip. Therapy with Doc on another level. Coming clean.
Connecting back with Keshav after his farewell.
Doing the program at home. With suport that was stronger and more dependable than if I had been on Land. A life that is not beautiful is no longer an option.
I want to experientially know happiness.
Images.
Ups. Downs. And the in-betweens. Feeling like maybe I could do it. Then feeling like I absolutely couldn't.
Returning to the basics again and again. "Fuck the feeling, do the right thing...Thought, feeling, urge, action...reverse it and eventually it'll feel good!" And if it doesn't, I'll just find Keshav and kill him!
Doing the right thing feels right. I don't quite know when it happened. But it feels natural. I'm not just doing it, I'm feeling it. Experienc vs. Concept. I experience it. Keshav's constant voice in my head stops. Or it pauses anyway.
May 2007. Sugrish is hospitalized. Neha leaves for India. And Intention theory kicks in automatically. I see the vision, I feel the vibe.
Doc returns. He tells me during the trip that I just got my farewell.
Reality.
Late July/Early August, 2007. Brutal week.
I want to give up. I'm tired. I'm not strong enough.
I'm told that I can't give up. That this day is just a dot. I listen. I don't completely understand or believe. But I completely trust. So I keep going.
August 2007. Ishan tells me about his slip. I don't slip. I don't fall. I hurt like hell, but I hold on. I hear Doc's voice in my head now. "Comfort others and you'll find more happiness than you can dream of".
I turn my focus outwards. Neha and I reach an amazing level of closeness.
I am gradually beginning to understand what was said to me weeks prior to this. About the dots....
I am able to focus in on what has been there all along, what I was too close to see....
Each dot is essential to this picture. Essential to my reality. Each dot is my marker on my journey. And as I continue on, I get a clearer view into and of my life.
It's like a painting by Monet. Get too close and it's messy, smudged, the colors don't work together, you have to strain to figure out what the artist was trying to create... it's just not easy on the eye.
Step away. Allow space and time for perspective. And get ready to have your breath taken away....the dots are in alignment. The colors are absolutely perfect. The chaos becomes the order.
I'm brought to tears by the beauty of this masterpiece.
I'm looking at it right now. My life.
Dot.
Arrive at Land. First person I meet there is Keshav.
Within the first five minutes of arrival at Land being told by Govind, "Ohh, you're one of us!"
I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long time. I actually sleep that night.
I meet Doc.
Line.
The Taj Hotel in Bombay. The catharsis that had been waiting for 24 years. And a walk that followed the catharsis..at dawn, in the rain with Doc and Keshav.
Land. Ishan's farewell.
Another catharsis follows the farewell. This one is more intense than the first one.
More dots...more lines...forming
Shapes.
Doc's first program trip to the US in December 2006.
Jan. 2007, From the highest high to lowest low. Night Terrors. Flashbacks. Panic Attacks. Tremors.
Attempted OD.
Forms.
Feb 2007. Bangkok trip. Therapy with Doc on another level. Coming clean.
Connecting back with Keshav after his farewell.
Doing the program at home. With suport that was stronger and more dependable than if I had been on Land. A life that is not beautiful is no longer an option.
I want to experientially know happiness.
Images.
Ups. Downs. And the in-betweens. Feeling like maybe I could do it. Then feeling like I absolutely couldn't.
Returning to the basics again and again. "Fuck the feeling, do the right thing...Thought, feeling, urge, action...reverse it and eventually it'll feel good!" And if it doesn't, I'll just find Keshav and kill him!
Doing the right thing feels right. I don't quite know when it happened. But it feels natural. I'm not just doing it, I'm feeling it. Experienc vs. Concept. I experience it. Keshav's constant voice in my head stops. Or it pauses anyway.
May 2007. Sugrish is hospitalized. Neha leaves for India. And Intention theory kicks in automatically. I see the vision, I feel the vibe.
Doc returns. He tells me during the trip that I just got my farewell.
Reality.
Late July/Early August, 2007. Brutal week.
I want to give up. I'm tired. I'm not strong enough.
I'm told that I can't give up. That this day is just a dot. I listen. I don't completely understand or believe. But I completely trust. So I keep going.
August 2007. Ishan tells me about his slip. I don't slip. I don't fall. I hurt like hell, but I hold on. I hear Doc's voice in my head now. "Comfort others and you'll find more happiness than you can dream of".
I turn my focus outwards. Neha and I reach an amazing level of closeness.
I am gradually beginning to understand what was said to me weeks prior to this. About the dots....
I am able to focus in on what has been there all along, what I was too close to see....
Each dot is essential to this picture. Essential to my reality. Each dot is my marker on my journey. And as I continue on, I get a clearer view into and of my life.
It's like a painting by Monet. Get too close and it's messy, smudged, the colors don't work together, you have to strain to figure out what the artist was trying to create... it's just not easy on the eye.
Step away. Allow space and time for perspective. And get ready to have your breath taken away....the dots are in alignment. The colors are absolutely perfect. The chaos becomes the order.
I'm brought to tears by the beauty of this masterpiece.
I'm looking at it right now. My life.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
So many amazing things have been happening to me recently so i thought i'd start off the dot-sharing experience with something that made me so utterly happy and amazed me all over again at how the universe conspires... :)
All summer, from July to September, i had holidays, and i kept thinking to myself that i would go for a weekend on my own for a little break and some reflection time, and i decided on Paris as the destination because its so beautiful, i really love it. But it never happened because the purchase of my flat had so many complications that i had to stay put.
Then one day a few months back i was missing someone so much - someone who had known about my Paris want, and we both made intention there and then on the spot to meet up in Paris one day in the future.
Then again this week i had holiday so a month ago i spoke to Keshav and was telling him about my plans to go this week for a day or two to wander by the river with my camera and poetry book and just enjoy some time there. But then two weeks back my Chachu had a major heart attack and passed away suddenly, and then last week i had a car crash and have been in bed with a back injury, so again the plan was put on hold.
And then what do i hear a few days back? That Doc and so many people i love are coming to Europe! And where? To none other than Paris! You can imagine how i felt! I was so thrilled! I immediately made an intention to go. And now the intention i made to meet my sister there will be fulfilled too. It never fails to amaze me how beautifully the dots all join up when you least expect it.
All summer, from July to September, i had holidays, and i kept thinking to myself that i would go for a weekend on my own for a little break and some reflection time, and i decided on Paris as the destination because its so beautiful, i really love it. But it never happened because the purchase of my flat had so many complications that i had to stay put.
Then one day a few months back i was missing someone so much - someone who had known about my Paris want, and we both made intention there and then on the spot to meet up in Paris one day in the future.
Then again this week i had holiday so a month ago i spoke to Keshav and was telling him about my plans to go this week for a day or two to wander by the river with my camera and poetry book and just enjoy some time there. But then two weeks back my Chachu had a major heart attack and passed away suddenly, and then last week i had a car crash and have been in bed with a back injury, so again the plan was put on hold.
And then what do i hear a few days back? That Doc and so many people i love are coming to Europe! And where? To none other than Paris! You can imagine how i felt! I was so thrilled! I immediately made an intention to go. And now the intention i made to meet my sister there will be fulfilled too. It never fails to amaze me how beautifully the dots all join up when you least expect it.
Monday, October 22, 2007
OK
For all those who know already...know!
Apparently random dots hm?
...there's this conversation which occured a few hours ago...with a friend-the BigDot...a fleeting, random, 'almost-not-registered-even' conversation...so at work...google blogger...three easy steps...account already exists...chose name...Universal Conspiracy...few seconds...chose link name ApparentlyRandomDots...set to post link to other dots...ok google/blogger says choose 'template'...scroll down options...see template called 'dots'...so here goes...
Apparently random dots hm?
For all those who know already...know!
Apparently random dots hm?
...there's this conversation which occured a few hours ago...with a friend-the BigDot...a fleeting, random, 'almost-not-registered-even' conversation...so at work...google blogger...three easy steps...account already exists...chose name...Universal Conspiracy...few seconds...chose link name ApparentlyRandomDots...set to post link to other dots...ok google/blogger says choose 'template'...scroll down options...see template called 'dots'...so here goes...
Apparently random dots hm?
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