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Long time no see! My routine has been shaken over the past couple of months, in the aftermath of the end of term, the holidays, the wrap-up of a work project, the endless paperwork for my Master’s enrolment. However, the truth is: ever since I heard of what digital gardens are, the idea of keeping a simple blog started to feel uninspiring. I’m far too Deleuzian for that.

Speaking of which, I wish I were enjoying his and Guattari’s Mille Plateaux better. So far, it’s been gruelling. I’m already familiar with most of their ideas; they’re preaching to the choir. Also, much like their L’anti-Œdipe, the book still feels overtly Freudian, despite their critical stance towards it. And, at times, their defence of schizophrenia borders on an unwarranted romanticisation of mental illness.

By contrast, Byung-Chul Han’s Vita Contemplativa has been a short, delightful surprise, as it weaves together philosophical interests of mine that rarely overlap: Heidegger, Arendt, Deleuze, Foucault, Patristics, Zen, Thomism, Marxism. It also explores a subject I’ve grown rather fond of: silence, festivities, contemplation, the drive to ornament. All things that make life sweet and unproductive.

Free time was not meant to be killed. When murdered, time becomes but a dead weight in the psyche. Time is not to be killed, but lived, lively. It need not, it should not become just another slot in a calendar to be filled with potentially random activities. It’s an escape from all measurable dimensions of efficiency and productivity. Only through such time are experience and culture formed.

A while ago, an interviewee on a documentary mentioned how freer the seaside cities felt. There, he argued, people could turn their backs to the urban life with its watches and metrics. They could sit under the sun and feed on its warmth. They could touch the millennia on the sand beneath their feet. They could gaze at the infinite blue sky and its mirrored aquagreen image.

We are one with the world. We are a community, an ecosystem. Men are of immense age, to quote Jung. It takes time to realise and achieve this emotional plenitude, to reach this spiritual fulfilment. And although time is needed, the opposite can be said about effort. A book, a cup of tea and a room with a view should suffice. A painting to lose yourself in. A buzzy crowd. The woods.

I wanted to talk about the last couple of months in this post, but I got carried away. Hope you enjoyed the ride either way. Jæja… Do know I feel happy and loved. And, to quote No Doubt’s Sparkle, I just want you to be happy, too. I finally hung that Venetian flag I’d meant to buy months ago. I was gifted notebooks that are works of art themselves. I’ve walked round. Studied a lot. Changed glasses. Met new people, parted ways with others, visited friends. That is all to say: they live. But so do we.

Life may often bore us with its ever-so-graceful adagio pace, only to give it a twist soon after and have everything happen to us all at once. Fortunately, the stale waters of my days saw their stream resume its course tenderly; springs of fresh impressions. It began on a wearisome Sunday, when, to shake off its blues, I went to the cinema. There, I realised my city was holding a Ghibli Studio film festival.

The festival was already midway, but luck was on my side and I got tickets for most of my favourites. In true Ghibli fashion, the screenings took me with heartfelt joy to unexpected places all round the city. That’s how I caught one of the rare sessions of Ocean Waves, in a building by my favourite beach. It was the first film by the Japanese studio I had watched. The big screen only made it better.

Like the protagonist from Whisper of the Heart, I was subjected to a handful of happy little accidents[1] that filled my life with meaning. It made me think of Dale Cooper, a character from the series Twin Peaks, and his overall optimistic outlook on spontaneity. Don’t plan it. Don’t wait for it. Just let it happen, he would go, beaming, before ordering a coffee as black as a moonless night.

Speaking of letting it happen, the drizzly weather of late prompted me to check 10,000 Maniacs’ song Rainy Day. I have no discipline, so I ended up listening to the whole of Love Among the Ruins, Wishing Chair, and Our Time in Eden. I came across the band during a critical part of my move, and haven’t stopped listening to them since. Heck, I left my city to the sound of Hey Jack Kerouac.

It was different this time, however. For as soon as These Are Days came kicking in, I knew indeed life was rushing over me with desire, and that I am blessed and lucky, and the world is warm, and we are blooming. I felt struck by that radical millennial optimism: when we knew things weren’t exactly falling into place, that it would take some work, and yet we celebrated any reasons we might’ve had to.

And soon after, another round of happy accidents. Afraid of going alone, just hours prior to the gates’ opening, a friend called and invited me to a concert her plus-one wouldn’t be able to attend. Her treat, she told me. The performance was outstanding. The band did an impromptu a cappella cover of The Beatles’ She’s Leaving Home, which, given how fresh my move still is, had me in tears.

We took the same cab back home. Just as we closed the doors, These Are Days started playing on the radio. Serendipity, as another dear friend would point out. We gazed at the city to the sound of Sade’s War of the Hearts and Joe Jackson’s Steppin’ Out. Perhaps it was the music, or maybe the night lights, but that was the moment it hit me. I am living the realisation of a past dream.

Some days later, I stayed at my parents’ so that we could go to another concert, by a folk artist who’d marked my earliest childhood and in whose work I found a haven from madness during the pandemic. And it was there, alive still after such a traumatic period, singing along and screaming from the top of my lungs, that I also realised how happy I am for being alive. We shall get by, to better times.

This piece was written sometime ago, but I forgot to publish it before.

1. To quote zen master painter Bob Ross. ↩︎

Have you ever noticed how people nowadays seem so keen on justifying their choices, tastes, actions, personality traits, and anything else that subjectivates them? Not rarely, they present the rationale behind their value judgments in poor axiological fashion, searching for some kind of ethical, aesthetic or spiritual superiority. And they do so under the pretentious guise of an objective critique, healthy commentary, or something of the sort. Yet they have neither critical nor scientific basis to back their claims, which are no more than that: opinions of little to no value, born of prejudice or poorly formed judgments. Just like this text unapologetically is.

No, you are not necessarily healthier because you prefer tea to coffee. You are not more psychologically mature because you are an introvert. Your soul is not more sensitive because your favourite season is autumn, whatever that means. Eating more vegetables than average does not make you more of an adult than others your age. The mere act of reading 60 books a year won’t make you smarter. Reading should not even be considered a more enlightened way to interact with stories or the news. Although there are differences between reading something and learning things from a video or experiencing a narrative through a game, those differences are qualitative rather than quantitative.

It feels as though we are always after some excuse to feel special, different, unique. Of course, such egotistical beliefs run well within the parameters of contemporary ideology. As it turns out, the market of identity and subjectivation yields immense profits while also keeping people divided and unorganised against the actual structural forces that oppress them and impoverish their lives. Everyone wants to believe they are special. The thing is, when everybody is exceptional, no one truly is. So you might as well find solace in company and camaraderie.

Besides, to believe yourself unique at the apex of instant, mass-media society is boldly naïve. After all, even with algorithms that dictate our lives and are tailored to our particular expectations, variety can only go so far. The options we have to entertain ourselves are countless, albeit not infinite. Moreover, most people, it seems, don’t stray far from the latest craze in what they watch, read, or listen to. Quite unremarkable. Do you know what would be marvelous, however? Refusing to justify your existence, now the ideology manifests itself as a neoliberal rush for individuality through the lens of social media and self-promotion.

Life is an end in itself. It needs no meaning nor excuses. Live. Enjoy what you like. Do what you do. Be accepting of who you are. Go a little David Lynch: refuse to elaborate. Refuse to engage with daily doom and gloom, with hateful speech, or with opinions irrelevant to you. Refuse to be exposed so frequently to that kind of discourse. Refuse to overshare, to scream into the digital abyss in search of comfort from some parasocial relationship that trades your anxiety for likes. Refuse to be the entrepreneur of your own self: give your relationships and tastes no purpose, no excuses, no reasoning.

Broadly, reclaim agency over what you share and think. Over what you spend your time with. Over the thoughts and opinions you are exposed to. Reclaim what truly matters in your life, beyond what the algorithm and its billionaire owners deem important. Stop caring about what others believe is meaningful in their little echo chambers. Seek actual community. Find your own interests. Pursue them. Act, even if it’s something as small as realising you’re being distracted. Then, perhaps, you can start thinking about who you really are, other than what you consume or what an Internet feed tells you. Then, perhaps, you will find things you can fight for. Or, more importantly — live for.

I’ve moved on my own recently, and at long last, I’ve got to decide everything. It’s a blessing and a curse; heaven knows decision fatigue is much too real. And that is perhaps the reason any happy little accident also feels sweeter. Even something as ordinary as finding the perfect match of softener and disinfectant for your laundry can feel like the scientific discovery of the century.

Now, I’m not sure if washing your clothes with liquid disinfectant is such a popular practise elsewhere. There’s no consensus in my country, and most people seem oblivious to the possibility. Yet, it is a life-saver for clammy stinky furries like me. Or anyone whose sweat and the stench of their armpits linger on their fabric longer than regular washing powder could help.

That doesn’t mean you should go adding bleach to your washing machine. Although it is a disinfectant, it would stain most pieces. Rather, think proper laundry sanitisers. Often, those scented floor cleaners will also work wonders. Well, at least in my country. In other places, I wouldn’t know how to figure out whether it’s fine to use such chemicals on your clothes.

In spite of those notable exceptions, however, most safe disinfectants are odourless, as they are meant to be added along the softener. Even when that is not used, sanitisers may help further clean fabric. They will also give them a refreshing smell — not as lasting or strong, but a pleasant touch nevertheless. And, mind you, there has been a growing number of people turning against softeners.

I don’t particularly hold any grudge against them, so I use both laundry boosters. Because I am no austere minimalist monk, I like buying them scented. And let me tell you: mastering the fragrance combination is rather a tricky task. This is why, as soon as I noticed how nice my garments were when I matched a citrus disinfectant with a woody softener, I wrote this wall of text.

That perfume was so good, it would make a Ghibli character give one of their content side smiles. I’ve grown tired of floral aromas. They can get easily wearisome for me, with their over-the-top sweet smell that often verges on cloying. On the other hand, that sylvan essence I found has a much fresher ring to it, reminiscent of evergreen pines and Adriatic lemons.

Ah, the little joys of adult life! There’s nothing quite like it.

Are you neurospicy and looking for a pet? Or maybe you have taken it to the next level and are looking for a neurospicy pet??? You came to the right blog post. And since I am all in for accessibility, that also includes you, who may simply be into funny texts about parrots. Yeas, even if you are an oh-so-tedious-neurotypical. The title says it all: I’ll give you evidence parrots are freaking awesome companions for those neurodivergent at heart.

Just like us, parrots can be quite expressive in their own whimsical ways. You think cats are random? Joke’s on you, because in a British accent the cockatoo. Yes, that was meant to be a joke about how cockatoos are random too; perhaps even more so. Anyhow… From our little buddies, the budgies, to the huge ass claws of the macaws, it’s guaranteed — there will be an idiosyncrasy to match yours.

Do you need the TV on to focus? Or maybe the steady spinning of a fan? Whatever your white or background noise needs are, the parrots can provide them. Best still, they are portable. And I assure you, walking your bird out will look way more badass than if you had a dog or a cat. Think pirates, save the commitment of a peg-leg.

Best still, if you train your parrot well enough, you won’t have to deal with people trying to talk to you. One murderous vicious peck and, I assure you, nobody will be approaching you just so they could pet your winged friend. You’ll be left alone more often than if you had any noise cancelling tools on you.

Do you have to pass as a neurotypical, but your need for stim is so bad you just can’t (and shouldn’t, mind you) shut your mouth? Well, birds are just what you need, then! Like a bird’s mask, you mask your echolalia by pretending to train them. Or maybe you aren’t even actually pretending — you just want your fluffy fellow to learn how to whistle your favourite tune, so you won’t be alone on your daily humming rumination.

Now, not all parrots are green, but they sure as heck are more ecologically viable than ye AI of choice. As a meme I saw a while ago mentioned, both birds and the AI assistants will hallucinate the complete oeuvres of hogwash, will steal their vocabulary from randoms, and will sound like they know what they are saying, even though they have the faintest idea.

The major difference is that birds are cute, colourful, and won’t destroy the environment to foster capitalism’s speculation as they disguise their worthlessness and inefficiency as bugs instead of features. Birds can sing. Birds can give you some genuine affection. Birds can make you laugh out of the blue, because they are living beings, and not simple machines processing inputs. It’s a no-brainer.

Like I said, birds are colourful, and they killed the radio stars with their sonic abilities. However, to make them justice, they are the whole stimuli deal. They are full of textures, from their fluffy feathers — those alone can vary widely when it comes to tactile sensations — to their tiny sharp ticklish claws and funny beaks. One can only hope their cockatiel trusts them enough to let them touch their Benimaru Nikaido crest. Some tutors even take it a step further and like sniffing their friendos. Birds: adding the addictive to our ADD!

Many parrots can live well beyond a decade. Some even go past their hundredth year, and they hardly show signs of ageing. Granted, diseases are often harder to notice before it’s too late and they are way harder to treat, but a healthy bird should keep you company through numerous key events of your life. They will stay steady as changes go by. Not all pets get to stay as long, and certainly not with as much liveliness as that of a parrot.

So, all jokes aside, be sensible. Taking care of a parrot is a huge commitment. It’s expensive, birds need to be constantly entertained, they can get clingy, cleaning is an endless effort, and they have a considerable life span. So, even when it’s not a lifelong bond, they will still be a significant part of your life and will surely bring remarkable memories on the wing.

In loving memory of Julius “Juju” Julensen III, the cockatiel, the first of his name.

Away from Slateport, battling the few trainers at the beginning of Route 110 and the end of Route 103 proved harder than anticipated. Fortunately, Marquis the Surskit was nearly at level 22, so somewhere along the Trick House’s first challenge, she evolved into Masquerain. To my surprise, her evolution came with a whopping movepool upgrade: Air Cutter. This ROM hack must be using OR/AS learnsets.

When Marquis was still a Bug/Water-type, facing Grass-, Water-, Fighting-, and Electric-type monsters was a nightmare. And those are all fairly common to stumble upon at this point in the journey. Yes, it had been a weeny little ordeal. But how the tables had turned! When she became a Bug/Flying-type with a somewhat powerful STAB attack, I smashed all the other opponents on Route 110’s grass path — my rival included, at long last.

Wally had a similar fate when I arrived in Mauville City and noticed the blockade on the gym entrance. That depressed asthmatic boy with a bunch of dreams stood no chance against me. It’s sad the writers treated him so poorly. He’s easily one of my favourite characters in the series, and I wish we could see him more often throughout the game. Had it not been for his absence, I wouldn’t have resorted to that much yaoi fanfic.

Erm… Anyhow… As I was saying, I became unstoppable. The gateway to my beloved Verdanturf, the ever-blossoming Route 117, was yet another killing floor. It’s such an oxymoron, given that it’s also home to the Day Care, where Pokémon come to life. I had been most eager to find it so I could catch a Volbeat and breed a Sableye that knows Moonlight. However, I had to put it on hold.

You see, when I checked Bulbapaedia and found out that the phantom might also learn Recover, it seemed necessary to re-examine my priorities. I could catch an Abra back in Route 116, which is just a short trip away through Rusturf Tunnel. Then I’d have to evolve it into a Kadabra, train it all the way up to level 31, breed it with Sableye, and ta-da! I’d have a self-adjusted ghost that knows how to heal itself with psychology! No more haunting trauma dump.

With a new plan devised, my team and I, we marched across the countryside under the moonlight. And that’s about it for today’s adventure.

Some weeks ago, after watching a couple of AOKCraig’s videos on Pokémon and falling in love with his accent, I felt a strong urge to play some of the games again. At first I thought about the remakes for Game Boy Advance. However, I’d played Kanto so much it didn’t sound as enticing. The last region I’d visited was Johto, on a ROM hack called Pokémon Crystal Clear. Then it hit me: why don’t I try to find a fan-improved version of Emerald?

Sure, the 2005 game was impressive on its own, with its colourful detailed graphics and greatly improved internal mechanics. Its Advanced Generation epithet was only fair. Nevertheless, some of its little quirks annoyed me no end. There was no visual night and day cycle. The type of a move still determined whether it would be physical or special, hindering battle strategies. Not to mention version or trade exclusives, deterrents for emulator players like me.

When I mentioned I was looking for a ROM hack that could fix this, a very good friend whom I’d met on a web forum 15 years ago introduced me to Pokémon Modern Emerald. The more I read about it, the more it became clear that it had everything I wanted and more. Its settings were highly customisable, and added outstanding Quality of Life features, notably enhancing the player experience.

For instance, I picked up the hard mode, set all Pokémon to have perfect IVs, let the gym teams’ level rise progressively, and allowed the battle mechanics to be similar to the contemporary games. There would now be Fairies, the physical and special move split, improved learnsets and other small changes. Modern Emerald also allows for in-game Pokédex completion, a relief for loners like me.

They even added newer monsters, as long as they were part of the evolutionary line from Pokémon that already existed on the Emerald’s National Dex. That means the player need not settle for Roselia, Dusclops, Magmar, Magneton or Nosepass anymore. At long last, Masquerain could be on my team. The same goes for the sea serpents Milotic, Huntail and Gorebyss — there are in-game trades and we might turn off Feebas’ insane catching mechanics.

Anyhow, it’s clear I’m quite excited about it. So much so, I’m yet to make up my mind about my champions. I’ve been even considering using Pokémon as awful as Delcatty and Sableye. Who knows. Well, you will, if you keep reading here. I plan to keep journaling about how it goes. For now, it’s been less than optimal: arriving in Slateport city and pushing Team Aqua away was hard.

My current team is but a mild female Surskit called Marquis and a naïve transgender Kirlia named after Psyche, both at level 20. The two grunts’ Dark-type Carvanha rendered my queer Psychic useless, and all Marquis has is Bubble and Quick Attack. The battle against Roxanne was also quite the challenge, a little more so than facing my rival right after, back in Rustboro. Things are a little better now Psyche’s evolved, but Marquis’ poor movepool and low defensive stats are still troublesome.

On my way to Slateport, I caught both Sableye and Skitty, but I’m not entirely sure whether I’ll keep them round or not. The plan now that I’m bound to Mauville is to catch a Volbeat. It learns Moonlight at level 13, which means I could breed a Sableye that knows that move. Skitty is more complicated. I want mine to have Wish. However, to do so, I’ll have to find a Togetic during the late game, train it, and breed them. Eh, I reckon Kurt Cobain would have a lot to say about those eugenic plans.

Jæja, we’ll see about that. Stay tuned for more rock and roll!

Malaise-stricken midweek, I figured the deep emotional rift that had been gnawing at me for much of the last fortnight had to be stopped. Lackadaisical, all days felt like Sundays. Stale, stifling still-lifes of rotten motifs. Lest I risk ruining a hard-earned, functional routine, I sought some kind of psychological renewal in the evergreen artistry of the unconscious.

To rekindle my creativity, I decided to practise mindful, active listening. I developed that habit in my childhood, when I’d pick an album, put it on to play, and give myself over to the music. It’s got nothing to do with that trending mindfulness codswallop and its pseudo-zen corporate ethics. Quite the opposite. It’s a form of resistance against a fast-paced, criticism-starved, hyperconnected world.

Re-enacting such behaviour from my childhood was a kind of Jungian regression. That is, a dialectical inner work, fuelled by symbols and fantasies, in which to mull over beliefs and experiences to reach a fresher understanding of our reality. Through that art-driven introversion, we adapt our psyches. Such change helps overcome the issues that caused the regression in the first place.

And how did The Smashing Pumpkins’ Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness help! That gargantuan behemoth of a double album runs a tad over two hours. Enough time to lose myself in thought. To catch glimpses of its detailed cover art, a delight for Jungians and whimsigoths alike. To find haven from my insurmountable apathy in its bittersweet melodies, searing guitars, and emotionally loaded lyrics.

But I digress. To quote a Star Wars character, a great leap forward often requires first taking two steps back. Sometimes, such is the case with Jung’s regressions. Especially when this process is driven by rich imagery and symbolism. Then the arts become more than a mere accessory for self-expression, but rather a means to individuation. Everchanging, life-affirming force. I feel anew. I feel again.

Recently some acquaintances have scrutinised my gaming habits just to be let down by the non-existence thereof. As to the whys and wherefores of my lack of ludic endeavours, it all boils down to me maturing into an absolute bore. Be it for physical, psychological or ethical reasons, playing nowadays will seldom ever please me.

My poor spatial awareness has always rendered me at an absolute loss when it came to three-dimensional games. The plethora of 3D platformers, first-person shooters and even RPGs brought about by the rise of Sony and Microsoft in late 90s put me through a never-ending nightmare. Luckily enough, Gameboy and NeoGeo were also available.

Then I grew older and realised, as the meme goes, that our bodies are temples. Mine, however, is in ruins. Nearly chronic motion sickness and soft tissue rheumatic disorders have severed my ability to play games that have fast-paced animations or flashy colours. Those whose mechanics relies on motor coordination are also a no-go for me.

Some other of my issues with gaming stems from the time restrictions most of the working-class faces. There are far too many hobbies I hold dearly and prioritise over gaming: reading; actively listening to music; watching cinema, series or animations; writing, meeting friends. Even doing some chores feels more rewarding than playing.

Nowadays, clean clothes, shining cutlery, fresh bedsheets and dust-free rooms certainly pleases me more than knowing I beat a machine, defeated a thirteen-year-old online, or obtained whatever virtual achievement I might be granted within those games. Again, that’s only because playing is often the least of my entertainment priorities.

Another thing that bothers me is… Think ducks. They can walk, swim, and fly, but they don’t really excel at neither. For me, games are like ducks, in that they are a multidimensional medium: there are visual, narrative and interactive aspects to them. But what’s the use, when none of those are as well-developed as within other media?

Besides, the way so many games are productivity-driven feels discouraging to me. There are goals to accomplish, roles to fulfil, ranks to attain, procedures to follow so we can succeed. It doesn’t help that numerous gaming communities seem dedicated to playing them with efficiency and efficacy. Talk about self-micromanagement!

That ethos is not unique to the gaming world. There is a regrettably rising amount of people taking pride in their binge-watching, binge-reading habits. But I’m speaking for myself, and that doesn’t happen to me. However, when I’m playing, I don’t feel carefree or at leisure; I feel burdened. Most games feel to me like a labouring activity.

Labour is common to artistic undertakings, like writing. My issue with gaming is that there’s not much room for me to practise creativity or self-expression. It feels I’m a passive art consumer, as is the case with reading or watching TV, but rather than enjoying myself, I’m going through the physical and mental distress involved in any work.

The work involved in physical exercises keeps me healthy. My daily job keeps my subsistence. Playing, however, won’t make me any richer or healthier. It rarely ever makes me happy, nowadays. I can’t really play anything with wild mechanics, I don’t have much time, I can’t relax, and I like other media better. So, I thought to myself: why bother?

Sure, every now and again there is an exception to that rule. I’m still quite picky about what I ever play, and I mostly end up not playing anything. However, don’t get me wrong: games are a respectable artistic medium. I’m just acknowledging the personal limitations that keep me from enjoying it as much as I do with other media.

If I didn’t know better, you’d have me say the way today’s feeds, playlists, watchlists and what-nots are geared for our liking has strongly undermined the rate we witness serendipity… Or however else you might call it: synchronicity, fortune, fate, confirmation bias.

Thankfully, I’m not one to fall for such a loser’s speech. If anything, the staleness brought about by our giving in to the clockwork gods only makes unforeseen findings shine brighter, as the lower likelihood for them to happen makes the few times they do be even more meaningful.

It’s almost as if they were evergreens amidst the otherwise man-made landscape of a town: their being there is clearer, louder, than it would be in the woods. And thus living is not anymore about withstanding mishaps, but staying wide aware as to acknowledge all of their meanings.