Ten years ago or so that adage might have been valid. In an age of increased use of social networking sites such as the likes of Instagram such expression is starting to lose its essence.

Today a picture isn’t worth that much, certainly not thousand words. All one has to do is log into Instagram (the whole concept of posting pictures to ascertain how high it’ll score on the popularity scale is beyond me) or Facebook (I can live with this one) and all the other countless sites (I still refuse to join Twitter) and your news feed is overloaded with zillions of filtered, photoshoped, air brushed, purposefully one angled pictures of nothing in particular.

It is no longer about one’s artistic ability to capture a picture, a form of art that would convey to others everything associated with the picture least not the photographer’s ingenious. Now all you get is a lousy picture of someone’s mug and if you are lucky and the person can be bothered to explain as to why they saw the need to take such horror and commit it forever to the virtual world; then all you get is an idiotic expression (malapropism is intended) denoting that the person is either happy or sad; presented in the form of a parentheses indicated by a colon followed by crescents atop your 9 and 0 keys.

I mean seriously!!! When did human interaction reduce to such omnishambles? (Yay for omnishambles being 2012 word of the year and frankly the only good thing to come out of that year). But why is the person happy, how are they happy, what was the process of reaching such happiness like, are there different stages of happiness that they ought to share with us, will there be another ‘selfie’ that will portray the next stage of happiness and so on and so forth…!!! You see answers to such penetrating questions (at least to me) will never be known. Let’s be honest here once you press that upload button those “selfies” aren’t YOURS. Ask Zuckerberg I am sure he can furnish you with the intricacies of his latest privacy policies.

Don’t get me wrong I do appreciate a good picture be it a selfie (ideally of Will Smith, then hey I am drooling sister) or that infamous picture of Sharbat Gula with her piercing bluey green eyes that commit to your soul.  Whilst such pictures do epitomise aptly every diminutive data of such visualisation – you know I will be digesting every detail in a Will Smith selfie and rightly so (NB: I am only hoping assuming that he does take selfies, imagine if he didn’t what a travesty! Focus woman Focus). Nonetheless, as I bring my parentheses to an abrupt halt: It is safe to say that I am a sucker for a different type of art – the word format!

There is just something about words that are so fixating and fascinating. A word to me is worth millions of pictures. There is a whole conundrum of things that come with words; from etymology to connotations and unlike a picture words evolve over time. The wicked witch of your parent’s era isn’t so wretched anymore. Wickedness is indeed something to be celebrated these days. To quote Julian Sorrell Huxley “words are tools which automatically carve concepts out of experience.”

So when basterdised English words such as selfie infiltrate into the Oxford Dictionaries Online and is heralded to be the THE word of 2013 it renders me speechless. If words are tools that carve concepts out of experience then the only understanding I have of this word is pouty images of Kim Kardashian. I can already foretell future generations encumbered with the etymology of the word selfie: “a word that was made popular by people {twats} who saw the need to contravene the virtual world with endless pouty pictures of their faces and derrières and sometimes simultaneous glowers of the two”. Surely this is a crime against our future generations, no? A downright insult to our good counsel…?! Am I the only rational thinking human being who is nonplussed by it all? And no I firmly refuse to acknowledge the various selfies that appear in this post underlined in a squiggly red line wanting me to verify them and subsequently add them to my dictionary…hell NO!

…..and the score at the end of that is: duck face luminary Kim Kardashian – One, good counsel of men and women- nil! Quackity quack quack. The saga surrounding the preservation of the English language from impurities continues….

“Every spoken word arouses our self-will.” So utilise those words carefully (and those selfies too!)

Sharbat Gula

Photographer: Steve McCurry Source:

Photographer: Steve McCurry

Dies Solis

I have an avid appreciation for the invention of the seventh day of the  week. I am told God created the world in six days and rested on Sunday… and rightly so… I too like to follow suit. Whilst my Monday – Saturday aren’t particularly about building the world but rather one that is concerned with sustaining endangered communities (homosapians and otherwise) albeit getting paid for it. As you can imagine sustaining anything of any nature takes a rather strenuous toll on you thus Sundays are for doing fuck all- nothing! Coming to think of it even basic interactions amongst one another should be banned well at least with me!

Sunday is my Sabbath, a day of abstinence from any form of human interaction, work and the general idiocy that occurs Monday – Saturday. This day is solely dedicated to promoting and enhancing secular values of solitude, sanity and self-preservation. On any day I do not appreciate waking/ being woken up early. Those extra seven minutes in bed in between various alarm snoozes are just so darling.

Yup you guessed it I am NOT a morning person. Night person..? Oh yes I have pulled through few mean all-nighters in my lifetime. At my best I managed an all-nighter writing 15000 dissertation due the following day. Obviously at the time I thought this was ingenious and pioneering that a human could produce that many comprehensible words, syntax intact whilst tackling plausible issues put forward in my thesis.

In retrospect, however, this has left me wondering WHAT IF I persecuted this piece of work like any normal functioning human being months in advance..?! The possible (and probably the most truthful) answer that I would have achieved higher marks than I did haunts me. Nonetheless, in my defence this reckless ingenious act could only concur that I am still an extra ordinary human with an extraordinary abilities (blowing my own trumpet and all that beautiful jazz). Needless to add that those extraordinary abilities only surface after the 9pm watershed.

Suspending my frivolous digression and coming back to the topic at hand… What was I even blabbing on about?! Damn you fish memory (scrolls upwards to refresh one’s senile memory).

Oh yes Sundays! What a delight they are to endure but what an endurance they become if the machination for a lazy Sunday aren’t upheld. The only effort I am prepared to undertake on such a day is lifting my arms to grab the remote control beside me to press the pause or the fast forward buttons. Which makes me wonder how people got through life without the invention of the pause and the fast forward buttons because frankly, I don’t want to waste my prevailing laziness on enduring nonsensical advertisements about equally nonsensical things. In the words made famous by a hypochondriac African-American with a deliberating bronchitis caught in a house fire “ain’t nobody got time for that”!!!

I couldn’t have possibly put it better myself. I would have reconsidered the double negative syntax in which the phrase is presented in, but hey … that is Americans for you! (I am only saying). Nonetheless, she gets my countenance.