« A very populous city can rarely, if ever, be well governed.» ~ Aristotle

When it comes to good governance, size is everything.

According to the textbooks, the old empires collapsed when they got too big. The Roman, the Abbasid, the Han, the Tang, the British…why is that?

And while you think about that, consider this:

Unless the government of a geographically large state runs on a mechanism of terror, like in modern China, size will one day work against the distribution of control.

  • English: The bigger is a country, the harder it is to control the population.

•*¨*۞*¨*•

In consequence, the absence of control invites instability, and eventually chaos.

Chaos can be good for creative wildebeests young, creative folks. But it’s not so good if you’re trying to raise a child or approaching your retirement. Hence, the necessity of being under additional free floating fear.

Machiavellian as it sounds, it’s only logical: Fear controls wildebeest the general population’s behavior and, consequently, his welfare too.

•*¨*۞*¨*•

Of course, we know how mechanisms of terror will eventually burn itself out. Like what happened when the Soeharto regime weakened.

And that’s okay too; because when the Roman empire broke down, the Islamic empire rose. When the Islamic empire fell, came the industrial revolution.

And we know how grateful we are for 3Gs innernerding.

•۞•

Moral of this brain burst?

If you are patient and open-minded enough, time will explain and fix everything that size and power could not. Duh.

A modern democracy is a tyranny whose borders are undefined. - Norman Mailer

Once upon a time in Africa, there was a district of Wildebeests run under the administration of a pride of hungry lions.

You can imagine what a regular day was like for a wildebeest in that district. You graze and mate and breed in volumes. And sometimes you get eaten by the lions.

One day, a group of wiser wildebeests said that it’s about time they started running things on their own. They said this at the most opportune moment: A female wildebeest had just lost her baby to a hungry lioness, while everybody just stood staring in terrified paralysis.

It helped knowing, too, that the administrative pride was breaking apart: The head lion was getting too old, too fat, too maneless and too hyperbloodpressurized to control his lionesses.

That night, the wildebeests “coup de tat”-ed the lions, kicked all them out of the district, took over the administrative office, and started running things on their own.

Free from the free floating anxiety of being eaten by a lion. And lady liberty couldn’t have been more pleased.

Or was she? Because that was when wildebeest hell broke loose.

You see, it has been noticed that subjects of torment behave exactly like how their tormentors were. But wildebeests aren’t carnivorous, so they didn’t eat each other. They were just worse.

  • In the absence of lions, there were more wildebeests than grass, so resources had to be controlled.

  • A mama wildebeest would have to pay with her own milk to graze on a certain spot in the district.

  • Older wildebeest can keep the right to graze by voluntarily offering themselves cultivate the grass.

  • The younger wildebeests were subject into Wildetary Training, because in the absence of fear, they grew deviant and bored and destructive.

  • And it goes without saying that the administrative wildebeests corrupted their absolute powers absolutely.

Within a decade from the fall of the lions, the district fell off the circle of life: It went bankrupt.

Moral of the story? A bad lion is better than no lion at all.

If this blog is a marketing place, then LISTENING is what I’m trying to sell.

I reckon you’ve never met someone who doesn’t enjoy attention. I’ve never heard anyone saying, “Don’t listen to me.”

Listening can be a merchandize and craft. Multibillion dollar industries are built on professional one-to-one listening: in psychotherapy, private classes, counseling and massage, to name a few.

Some of us only need to be listened to in order to be saved. Like how this guy found out when he listened to young people behind bars. He said,

We need to listen to what they have to say because it is often more important, more thought provoking and truer than anything we, as their seniors, have to say.”

But why should you listen to others if nobody listens to you?

Because listening gives you a glimpse of someone else’s journey at an intimate level. You exchange respect. You boost egos. You would be in a state of unconditional loving. You diagnose more accurately, and troubleshoot faster.

Dude, that’s a lot of problems getting fixed just from active listening. Did you say you wanted to be a superhero? Then listen.

Besides, the more stories you know, and the wiser + humbler you become, is the more people wanting to hear what you have to say.

And you would love that, won’t ya?

I’ll leave you with DEVIL FINCH:

listen


PS. So when can we hangout again?

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.” ~ Henry W. Longfellow

You know what Michael Jordan, Mozart and Einstein have in common?

The drive to fail.

There’s an article on NPR that talks about tapping the inner genius in all of us. The article conveys that, more than genetic gifts, success and expertise are practiced. The thing that the “gifted and talented” are blessed with is the mulish steadfastness to endure hours and years of discomforting and deliberate practice.

This is what [Anders Ericsson] calls deliberate practice. He's put a name on the type of practice that…[is] not as comfortable as just kind of going out of there on the golf course and kind of doing what you can already do. You are kind of pushing yourself to some discomfort.

Every beautiful creation out there is the result of someone’s drive to fail, their discomfort. That’s what genetics cannot cheat at. That’s why you can’t steal authenticity. When it comes to actual results of giftedness, it’s the hours SPENT IN FAILURE that makes the difference.

It’s the drive to go to the gym to lift dead weights, to sit on a chair to write garble, to commute to the office and back unnoticed that is the best of luck: Having the patience and strength to endure unpleasantness…

…so quit complaining and go get 'em already.

94650920

The Passionate Do Not Go To Heaven

In all the religions, philosophies and codes of business conduct, displays of passion is discouraged. Not feeling too much is mature/formal/decent. And it’s for good reasons too.

Buddha started with blaming want as the source of all suffering. Jesus and Muhammad said, “Don’t love something too much, lest they be harmful to you, and vice a versa.” And Yoga, as one of the practices of Hinduism, presses on letting go of ordinary self to achieve the higher self. And atheists would go as far as letting go of God, forcrissake.

In formal and spiritual societies, the lesser you feel towards something is the better. Detachment seems to be God’s idea of a heaven on earth. The less you want, is the less you feel, is the closer you are to God/Self-Actualization/Spiritual kind of Awesome.

AND ALL OF THAT IS GOOD, IF IT’S NOT KINDA WHACK.

Something doesn’t seem right with religions and daily practice. The best things we create come from passion. The best love we make are passionate. The most hurtful words are said in passion. The saddest moment in life are in loss of the fruit of our passions.

Putting it simply, you can’t live on a numb emotional slate.

So was the evolution of passion a mere spiritual mistake?

Isn’t there a passion that is approved by both prophets and corporate bureaucrats?

Living on passion is like a sick emotional roller coaster ride. Because sadness sucks the life out of you. Anger burns you out of focus. Pride numbs your awareness. Shame stops learning, and subsequently halts all productivity.

So I guess the only thing left is love.

Don’t roll your eyes. I’m not talking about hormonal love.

I’m talking about a simple and undeniable kind of love. The kind that trickles in daily worship and steadfastness. The kind that is not expressed in things or words or romantic getaways, but with gentle submission to its demands.

I’m talking about the love that started all this. The kind of love that makes you want to keep writing everyday, whether or not anybody reads. The kind of love that stopped you midsentence when you were about to say something hurtful to someone beneath you. The kind of love that reaches beyond life and daily living.

The kind of love, dare I say, that trumps every other kind of emotion and want and suffering.

And if I’m angry, or sad, or lonely because of this love, this simmering passion, then the fault is not in the love, but my own. Because we’re loved as much as we are willing to give, right?

Don’t take me word for it. Try it yourself.

"We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them." ~ Kahlil Gibran

We, the privileged, choose our sufferings.

Most of us (online) are privileged enough to choose what/how/where to spend our time and energy. If you can have the luxury to perform in social media, then you probably have your basic needs fulfilled.

We are blessed to choose which school to go to, which man/woman to marry, which company to work at and what hobby and pet project to distract ourselves with.

In other words, we choose our sufferings.

When we make our choices, whether in a career, or building a house, or buying camera lenses, we keep in mind that out of our chosen sufferings, we are going to create something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something worthwhile, if not to the world, then at least to ourselves.

Because that’s what actualization and ibadah is, right? Transcendence.

But We Forget

The problem is, after a while of working on our sufferings, we tend to lose focus. We tend to forget why we got into those projects in the first place. And the object of our fancy rules us instead.

We become too engrossed with materials that we forget to share. We get too deep into brand schools that we forget the purpose of education. We might get too bogged with rules, that we forget the first reason they were created is to help us control our lives.

And in turn, we become bitter about our chosen sufferings. And in turn, we forget that we can – at any time – take a break and reassess our positions. Sometimes we even forget why we got into these things in the first place.

So Don’t Forget

It’s okay to be passionate about our chosen sufferings. It’s why we chose them in the first place, right? Just don’t forget to take a step back and remember the big picture from time to time.

The big picture is this: That we all want to create something beautiful from our chosen sufferings. Let’s not be bitter/angry/greedy at it. Let’s do it out of love and kindness and humility.

Let’s not forget that.

“After a while of looking at the first man, God said, 'You know what, I've a better idea.' And He created woman.” ~ Hning

Once upon a time, there was a stone cutter. Tanned and tired and nearly crispy from the days he’d spent under the sun, carrying rocks from the river, to the stone-gathering place.

One day, he looked up to the sky and said, “I don’t want to be a stone cutter anymore. I want to be the element that bothers me everyday. I want to be the sun.”

And his wish was granted. The stone cutter became Sun.

As sun, he was cheerful and warm. He dispersed heat and made plants grow and even enjoyed the idea of drying laundry.

But then the monsoon season came and nobody paid much attention to him anymore. So he wished he could become Water.

As water, he cycled faster than the sun. He reached deeper into the secret grottoes of the earth. At some point in his travels, he was struck with solid, unbending stone. And he realized that there is an element stronger and more stubborn than the waters: Rock.

As rock, he was sturdy. Mighty. And all bearing. He let the world go around him. And he could stop them if he wished. But then a part of him began to chip. A part of him was being taken and broken and clubbed to smaller, undistinguishable pieces.

Looking at his wounds, he who was cutting him apart and - in another place and time - brought his shade and food. The same person who did and dried his laundry. Who gathered his drinking water. Who was cutting the stones in his place, since he quit doing his job as stone cutter.

As much as he changed, he couldn't be altogether sturdy, flexible, flowing, warm and annoyed. But as a man, he was already granted with the one flimsy ability to command the most powerful force of nature: The Wife.

"Diversity: the art of thinking independently together." ~ Malcolm S. Forbes

Nobody is better than anybody else. Simply because nobody is complete.

Anybody who is successful at anything, had made equivalent payments to achieve that success, by sacrificing some parts of themselves. Those sacrificial parts, somebody else picked up, and got better at doing than the former.

Even the folks who’ve had it rough are no better or worse than any of us. You know, the scandalous, the criminals and the Jewish-like. They’re there as example, and have plenty to offer. If we knew them well enough, personally enough…wait, if they are our brothers and sisters, we could only feel compassion.

If not curiosity.

For instance, I’m good at this unconventional lifestyle, but my conventional brother is better at making money. That money making brother is as uncultured as a water buffalo, and he can’t make movies. And the movie-making brother who’s been more famous and acknowledged than either of us, envies me for my unconventional lifestyle.

[It’s funny that, as siblings, we are the best storytellers to each other.]

Because diversity is a curious thing. It’s the brilliance in the stories we exchange. The other side of the moon. It’s the stories that refresh our views on our own qualities and reasons for contentment.

In diversity, we find the stories that would’ve completed ours.

A man came to the Prophet complaining: “I’ve lost my fortunes, and my body is like a secondhand car, running on unoriginal spare parts.”

“Dude, you think that’s bad luck? Wait until I tell you what good luck is,” chuckled the Prophet.

“Getting the 2012 edition, in upgrades?”

“Ha, wrong blog! Good luck is not in wealth and health; it’s not a brand new Lamborghini. Good luck is going through shit like yours and worse, then be granted the patience and endurance to stand firm.”

[Because the Lord isn’t Santa Claus, see? He’ll answer you in ways that He sees would fit you best.]

…isn’t that a priceless thought…

==========

Rephrased from here (Indonesian):

gold

"He does not possess wealth; it possesses him." ~ Benjamin Franklin

You know what’s the worst side about being the powerful man on earth?

For the record, let it be known that no man or king or jinn who was as miserable, as lonesome, as disgustedly powerful as King Solomon was.

Not only that was raised a king, also bestowed upon him powers that reached all kinds of the the Lord’s whims: Man, Jinn, Beast and Elements.

Since the Jinn could hear thoughts, all that Solomon needed was to think them and his wishes were granted. Since the Elements were under his command, all that he needed was flick his fingers and stones erected themselves into magnificent palaces, fire blazed and cooked, and the zephyrs carried him as far as his fancy. And back.

And man? Pah! The frailest, most predictable, and proudest of Solomon's subjects. Whether celebrity-struck or jealous, they would kiss Solomon’s feet, kicking and screaming.

* * *

One day, on one of his extra-extravagant excursions, Solomon passed by a colony of ants. Like all ants, this bunch was busy toiling and working and piling food for winter.

The king asked the ants, “Guys, if you could take a break, answer this: What do you wish for?”

“Food, Your Majesty,” said the simple-minded ants, “That’s all we want, food for the winter.”

So the bored king thought, “Here’s something to do! Let’s feed the ants. How much could ants eat, right? Can’t be that much that the most powerful King on earth can’t fulfill.”

Hence began the task of feeding the ants. All of Solomon’s subjects (rolling their eyes) were ordered and complied to the act of gathering food for the ants.

The ants heard of this and gathered in one place. ALL ANTKIND. Soon, the first batch of food that Solomon gathered ran out. Whoosh. And the second. And the third and so forth.

Until there was no food left on earth but fed to the Ants.

Seriously, when the food on earth ran out, there were still more left ants unfed.

And the King of Man and Jinn and Elements fell to his knees, crushed under the mighty force of humility. For as mighty as he was, he could not feed mere ants.

Hence was his most potent, most sincere prayer upon all kinds and generations that followed: “Lord, grant no subject after me the the kind of power as I have been tested with.”

* * *

So you know what’s the hardest thing about being the most powerful man on earth?

No, not just the boredom. Nor the emptiness of convenience. Or the loneliness of knowing that those around you there because of your blitzy bling, and not for the blackness of your irises.

It’s smugness.

“When you are grateful fear disappears and abundance appears” ~ Anthony Robbins

My rich brother told me to make a list of all the things that I need. Knowing how short my imagination is, he knew he could fulfill all of them.

And I believed him.

So I gave him an ice cream on a stick. A kiss on the cheek. And nothing else.

Understandably, Ben gave me a crazy look when I told him that story.

“Don’t you need a new laptop?” he started. “Isn’t your scoliosis worsening every time you have carry that damned Tofuckba? And, girl, god knows how bad you need a new pair of shoes! ASK FOR SOMETHING!”

“But I was too scared to ask,” I said, “I’m afraid of easy come easy go.”

Ben yelled, “And easy come again!”

“No, Ben,” I said, “a laptop is a moral responsibility that goes hundreds of years back.  A laptop took the love and labor of dozens of generations. It’s more complicated than a matchbox.”

“So? They’re all paid for by now. Or dead. Or don’t know you! Why would they care what you do with YOUR laptop?”

I sighed. “Because  as soon as it comes under my watch, I’ll be accounted for it. I’ll have to answer to every hand that took part in sending it to my care. Imagine all those people one day ask what I’ve done with their invention? I’d like say that it served me very well. And a thank you.”

“But your bad back needs a smaller, better and more convenient laptop.”

I laughed. Then shuddered. “You’re making it sound like marriage for the wrong reasons. Does loyalty ring a bell in your head?”

Duck!”

“I’m afraid of abundance,” I said, “because I’m afraid of losing track of appreciation for things. Because, in this time of age, everything is heavy with that moral responsibility. The more convenient the gadget is the more love and labor have been assembled into it. The more people to answer to.”

“IT’S JUST A FREAKING LAPTOP!!”

Yet, when the bells in my ears stopped ringing that night, I remember seeing Ben fall in love again with his ultra-modern mobile phone.

“I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” ~ E. Hemingway

Remember that invention? Yeah, that unappealing box that holds short, thin pieces of wood, tipped with a mixture of fire-producing substances, and used to produce a flame. [Source: Encarta.]

Believe it or not, we could see the entire history of human civilization compressed in a matchbox. For, the easier it was to make fire, more advanced human civilization was.

  • Fire-making technology. I would not argue that Prometheus stole fire from the gods, but around 30’000 years ago, people used rock and flint to start fire. Around that time too, people found that rubbing two pieces of wood together furiously, would make fire. Thus, friction (or theft, by Prometheus) was the first genius.

  • Chemical engineering. Around late first millennia, someone in some Chinese court discovered gunpowder. And thought it looked pretty and used it to ward off demons. (Until someone else figured out a gun and then hell broke loose.) Anyway, a thousand years after the invention of gunpowder, someone else in France discovered the right chemical combination that sits on the tip of a wooden match.

  • Woodcutting technology. Ah, that. From the axe on logs, to the steaming engines in the industrial revolution, to the electrical machineries that cut, and dried and laid the wooden sticks in its thin & short form.

  • Papermaking. How many people did it take to invent a damn cardboard box? Paper was invented around 2000 years ago. Papermaking machines were invented in 1800s by two enthusiastic brothers somewhere in Britain. The chemical quotations that broke wood into paper, was invented around 1850s.

  • Adhesive. Who knows, whether vegetable or synthetic or spit, someone somewhere had to calculate the right amount of glue that would hold the box together, without turning the cardboard into blubber.

All in all, it only took about 30 to 2 thousand years for the matchbox to exist in its modern day form. It took that much of time and effort and curiosity, across so many generations to create the simple, denigrate matchbox.

Isn’t that something?

“Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it.”~ Tori Amos

Meet Teppy; a fellow "coherent rambler" who writes personal, meditative, long-ish posts on her blog Walking, Talking Contradiction. On a recent post, she wrote about the secrets that our bodies keep.

Teppy was doing a yoga position that unwounded the knots around her shoulders and skull; “where I hold my tension (and where most of us do because of constantly sitting and driving around in cars slumped over).”

After while in that position, tears welled up from nowhere and everywhere. And when she couldn’t help it, she asked for permission. And started crying.

“[The cry] wasn't hysterical and it wasn't light.  It was a continuous stream of tears of recognition (with a smile across my face from relief of just letting myself do what I needed to do: cry).  Recognition of the pain I have carried around with me, of the negative words I have put in my head…”

Our bodies hear and listen and subsequently obey our words, remember?

* * *

I once massaged a proud, handsome gentleman who was in the advanced stages of his illness. He guided my hands to where it hurt the most. And when I touched him there, unfamiliar thoughts and feelings rushed into me.

“Lord, how could you do this to me? Lord, how I envy this healthy, youthful child. Lord, I’m spent.”

My hands, as they pressed and coaxed his knots to unwind, also released the pain and words they’d been holding. Those free thoughts of his, passed into me, and went straight into the ground beneath us, in tears. As I hid my face from them and cried quietly. For both of us.

[Maybe this is one of the reasons why I can’t/don’t want to keep secrets. I’m a masseuses. And a sucker for hugs.]

* * *

Now, if our bodies store secrets, and physical contact is like stripping (parts of) our masks, I wonder if that is the reason why collectivistic societies discourage unnecessary speech. And why individualistic societies crave so much privacy (the twin sister to loneliness).

Do the quantity of physical contact can reflect the quantity of words exchanged between people? Even abuse?

Colson asked a question that I’ve been wondering about all week. After writing every day for a month, where are we going next? Do I keep doing it, or do I just relapse and go back to “post when I can and feel like it”?

Before answering that, let me tell you that I’m wiiiiiiide open to suggestions. You can establish contact, say hi, or freely insult me on every popularly possible mean available here.

If there’s something you want me to talk about, or QUIT talking about, just say so. If there’s a topic you want to expand on, or a question you want me to address, well, say so.

Even if writing on those topics might make me as blue as an Avatarah. [Besides, blue is a fine color. You can’t fake the blues, man.]

That said, I’m going to blog a post everyday. Or try to. Inshallah.

And, correct me if I’m wrong, I have a feeling that my readers like articles on practical, unconditional and unromantic love. Also, stories about humanized prophets, and the prophets within all of us. So we’ll restart this daily blogging thing from there.

Okay?

Ever wondered what it feels like to post every day on a blog?

"Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." ~ Horace Mann

After a month of plowing for ideas, posting every day felt like a lot of things (including - but not limited to - “joyful shit”). But if there’s only one thing I’m allowed to explore, I’d say it sharpened awareness on both sides of my face: A) awareness to my surrounding environment. B) awareness to the chugging trains INSIDE my head.

Environmental Awareness

The urgent drive to post something of some value every day about made me on the constant lookout for ideas. Even if I can’t drive a hybrid car. And the mind frame lead to:

  • better time and self management
  • some eavesdropping & snooping behaviors
  • frequent camera usage (oh the wonders of a telephoto lens!!)
  • openness to try new things, like dressing up and showing up in public and double dating
  • smarter friends ==> smarter conversations ==> brighter ideas ==> awesome brainstorms
  • more constructive answers to “The Most Important Question of the Day”
  • improved listening (a.k.a. not just hearing) skills
  • more enjoyable bike rides,
  • easier smiles, noticed more kindnesses in others

Thinking Awareness

I’m more surprised about the things that happened inside my head. So please pay attention because this is (more) important.

  • Conscious thought halts

    A darling of the tougher days. Days when all I wanted to say was “Why that baying, barking, bellowing son of a bleeeeeep…STOP!! I haven’t written today’s post. I can’t say that in my blog.”

  • Selective thinking

    (a.k.a. If I wouldn’t say it in my blog, I shouldn’t think it.)

    If an idea doesn’t work as a blog post, if it’s too emotional and self-centered, if I think that the majority of readers WOULD NOT APPROVE of that post, then maybe they’re useless. Or worse. So why indulge it? 

  • [PS: In a way, my blog rewrote my thoughts. My blog rewrote me. And I only have my heart for an “edit” button.]

  • Daily Love

    Whatever you call “it” (revelations, creativity, muses, geniuses, elves), it’s a long-term relationship. The way “it” came to me, reflected on how I’ve been treating that relationship, fair and square.

  • Daily Affirmations

    Try saying, working on and thinking the same thing every day, for 28 days, and see if something doesn’t give. And I’m not just referring to internet life. Something changed in the way I speak. In the way I handle crowds. In the way I see empty spaces. It changed ever so slightly, but I felt its weight on the side of my bed. Don’t have a name for it yet, but that something felt…right.

  • That said, blogging every day was also FUN, DAMMNIT!

    I loved the rush. I loved having someone to write to every day. Yes, I’m talking about you, Reader. It’s actually the best thing about writing every day; having your companionship. I only hope it was enjoyable for you too. Was it? When?

“Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.” ~ Voltaire

Think you’re stuck? Lemmie tell you about Oti.

The Cage

It mightn’t be so bad if was just a problematic knee, or elbow, or even both. It was ALL of Oti’s joints that refused to budge and bend. What Oti had was Marie’s disease: concretize cartilages and long bones that don’t stop growing.

If Oti slept with her head tilted to one side, and the bones grew during the night, she'd be stuck with that questioning tilt for the rest of her life. Seeing how many joints and cartilage areas we have, we can only wonder what it’s like: The skull, shoulders, vertebrate, jaw, ears, ankles…

And there was Oti, relatively young, extremely poor and consciously caged inside an armor of calcium for the span of her natural life.

The Freedom

But it wasn't always bad; because whatever soft tissue she had left, it was used in good service.

When her condition worsened, her siblings (all eight of them) took turns holding her in their arms. They held her every day to feed, and wash and let her sleep easier. She was like their common doll but with a heart and soul and kinship.

And you know what physical contact does to people. In the minutes when they held each other (Sibling: Oti's frame, Oti: her sibling’s heart), they walked in each other’s paths and felt better about the ones they had to return to.

When her jaw could no longer chew solid foods, she became lighter in weight and spirit. And funnier, because nothing broke the ice like a fresh steam of crap jokes (they couldn’t just leave her hanging over the toilet!). And fairer, because she had to hear all sides of a story at some point of the day.

And freer, because it’s just the thing that exchanging stories do.

The End

So when she died, they really cried.

Not merely for a sister’s passing, but also for the world that she created for them. They cried for the warm magic that stuck them together. And for the passing of revelations that had set her, and the loving arms that stiffened momentarily to hear them, free.

You know what it’s like. You blogwalk and crash into a paragraph – a mere sentence even – that makes your head start screaming ‘I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”

That’s how A L I’s blog struck. I think I got him from SaudiWoman. Can’t remember. I do remember, though, the questions that followed. “WTF? Who are you? Why do you sound so familiar? Why are you like this? And are you married? Oh.”

Reaction like that usually guarantee a satisfactory subscription. You just know that you’ll enjoy the rides he’ll take you on. It’s his treat.

Here, have a look at what’s making me go gaga:

relax

He sounds like a mash-up of Seth Godin brevity and practicality, with a Muslim-Zen’s sentimental spirituality. Yeah, yeah, that’s how I want to sound like: bite-sized big ideas.

Only he does it better. Naturally. Nicely. He does it in lesser words. And lesser pictures. And lesser tricks. Without missing a beat on impact.

I want to beat this kind of awesome. Amen.

 
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