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The sheer weight of the input of bloggers on the impact of the incidents of the night of the 28th is perhaps an accurate indicator of the effects of the chaos that reigned briefly on the night. It all went horribly wrong right from the outset – for Sri Lankans that is – from the weather, right on through to the end. And then with those deadly bursts of fire arcing through the night sky made even more surreal by the blackout and the absence of the action on the blank screens all over the city, it seemed that the signs were inauspicious, to say the least.

The gathering at the Birthday Boy’s rooftop, giant screen all set up for the finale, gathered momentum with the aperitifs and selection of inebriants adding to the states of mind. The re-run of the earlier matches was muted and the sound replaced by music more appropriate for partying and spacing out, until of course the rain-delayed beginning of play, when things slowly started to unravel.

The fire raining across the blacked-out sky was clearly visible from the rooftop and the sounds of anti-aircraft fire clearly audible to us all – even above the sound of the radio commentary that persisted in conveying the promising partnership between Sanath and Kumar. Some of the folk present were in positions to access immediately what exactly was going on, so it wasn’t long before reasonably accurate information was received – and the night went on.

What is really amazing is that, in spite of the first aerial attack on the Air Force base close to the airport and then the panic reaction a few days ago, no effective deterrent or reaction has been effected by those in control of Defence. This in itself is a shocking indictment of the system that prevails and has exposed Sri Lanka’s Defence capabilities as being perhaps the most pathetically ineffective system ever heard of. Any country with even a modicum of self-respect would immediately take steps to rectify this situation and usually, any self-respecting Secretary of Defence would resign, clearly signifying that he/she was out of his/her depth. But here, the story is different, for clearly ‘self’ takes precedence over ‘country’ and what we will get is not a refreshing (or at least ‘hopeful’) change of structure, but another litany of excuses or red herrings to divert attention from the real problem – the problem the people of the country brought upon themselves and the problem that will persist until the people of the country finally realize that ‘enough is enough’ and do what needs to be done to restore some sanity and stability into our fast disintegrating lives.

So, soon the contingent will return from Barbados, from the splendour of their five-star accommodation and first-class flight and we can be certain of the pious platitudes and tiresome clichés that will flow from the mouths of the hierarchy, but will there be any admissions of failure? Any apologies to the people who depend on these administrators for their protection? Any solutions for future attempts? And are we supposed to grin and bear it? What exactly does one do to catalyse a change? People Power? Is that a dormant force, a sleeping giant that will never awake from its somnambulant stupor, or could this force be jolted out of its apathetic doldrums?

And as we wended our way homeward at dawn, the sense of disappointment at the result of the match combined with the depression brought about by the state of our nation were thankfully dulled by the effects of the party, so sleep quickly engulfed the consciousness.

Waking up at 5.45 am to be ready to leave for the east coast at 7.00 am after watching Sri Lanka thrash the New Zealanders and getting to bed at close to 4 am was no mean feat, but leave we did – at 7 am, on the dot! Avid, my main man concerned with the tsunami-related work we have been involved with since December 2004, had to leave Nuwara Eliya an hour earlier to be at Flowerbook at 7 am, which meant that he had even less sleep than I did, having also watched the match to its end. Maybe it was the excitement of the outcome for him – and for me as well, combined with the effects of the little help from my friends that kept the head buzzing well into the morning, but we kept wide awake and chatted for most of the way to Monaragala, where we stopped for brekkers before heading off to Komari.

We met the Sheriff at our office in the village and together set off to view the completed homes – nearly 700 in all, set in three different locations reasonably close to each other. One was in the old village, where the residents had their homes either rebuilt or repaired and the other two locations one slightly north and the other slightly south of the old village due to the constraints brought about by the buffer-zone bullcrap that eventually petered down to 65 meters from the original 200 meters.

It was really satisfying to look at the newly established village at Selvapuram – the one south of Komari, and where not long ago was arid scrub is now a bustling village where the 160 new homes and gardens have taken on that ‘lived in’ look, the cucumber vines trailing over the fences typical for the area and unique to this part of the country. Vegetable patches had sprung up after the recent rains and chillies, manioc and other dry zone crops and recently planted fruit trees were evident in quite a few of the gardens. The little kades that have sprung up close to some of the homes appeared to be doing some amount of business and the whole feel of the place was quite changed from my past visit, just about a month before. The new roads and drains through the new settlement work very well, which is a load off the mind as they were established not according to UDA directives, but through experience, logic and commonsense, cost a tenth of what they would have and have turned out to be far more environmentally friendly that what was prescribed.

The old village of Komari, being the longer established one and where the reconstruction and rehabilitation was initiated earliest (370 new homes and 68 repaired), looked even more settled with virtually no trace of the massive destruction that overwhelmed it on that fateful day. The only evidence of change was the comparatively spiffy new homes that now dot the landscape – a far cry from the poverty-ridden and abjectly neglected village of the past. The new Community Center is being constructed and when done will have space for kindergartens, flexible space to be used for lectures, workshops, community gatherings and other village functions, the Gramasevaka’s office and right on top of the third floor will be the ‘tsunami-shelter’ that so many of the villagers demanded for their security, should another wave wreak havoc in the future. The ground floor is an open space with just columns holding up the rest of the building, so that in the event of another surge there will be no obstruction to the water which could surge through and not knock the building down. The grills surrounding the sides will serve as hand and foot-holds for the villagers to climb up to the top.

The most recently established part of Komari is at Kallugolla, barely a kilometer north of Komari where the last 79 homes have now been completed and will soon be ready for handing over to the beneficiaries. The roads and drains will get going soon and then we will be out of there.

Returning for a late lunch to Ulle and our base that will soon be dismantled, the Sheriff, Avid and I had a well deserved afternoon siesta before tea and a ride to Panama to check on a kindergarten that we had established and to look at 15 homes in the process of being built for victims of the wave who, by some strange quirk of fate, were never assisted. The rumour is that the official in charge had used the funds to build houses for his friends and relatives. Fortunately we were able to find the funds at a rather late stage of our work and are now in the process of assisting these incredibly poor folk, who, to make matters worse, are considered low-caste and hence even less able to secure livelihoods.

Getting back to base for the evening, we stopped at the Community Center that we have constructed at Ulle and where the Sinhala fisher folk had taken refuge from marauding Muslim villagers from Pottuvil following the massacre of the Muslim loggers not many months back. This building will also serve the Ulle community for various purposes, as the one at Komari and will also serve as a tsunami-shelter – in the event. An additional 21 homes are also being built in Ulle for folk who were ignored by the hosts of NGOs that were falling over each other for beneficiaries in those early days of relief-distribution.

All done, we head back for the evening shower, beverage of choice, additional enhancers of the mindset and settle down to watch the Aussies smash the Afrikaners and set in motion what should be a enthralling finale to the World Cup.

The Sheriff’s contract is up, his work done and that period of our work in the east now fading fast. Memories of the saga persist – from the shock and awe of our first glimpse of the destruction soon after the wave hit, through the compassion felt for the victims, the tireless efforts of the folk involved in our work that ensured assistance in the form of cash, medicines, food and shelter, the surveying of the villagers to ensure that bogus claims will not be considered, interactions with the LTTE and the forces, the dangers encountered during shoot-outs when the office and co-workers were in the line of fire, frustration of dealing with the bureaucrats, the greed of the beneficiaries and all manner of other experiences that made the effort seem interminable at times, but in the end mostly good memories of great times have by far surpassed the negative impressions.

More of this work has to be completed – homes in Kayankerni (close to Kalkudah), Community Centers and other facilities like kindergartens and public buildings all the way down the coast are in various stages of completion and hopefully before too long will be completed. But Komari, for various reasons, has always been close to the hearts of a few of us that were involved and the contribution made towards its rebirth has made a change in the consciousness of those of us who were part of that saga.

Seminal symbolism oozes out of this poet reading his ragged jagged paean to hypocrisy comin at me thru the hi-fidelity car speakers as we wend our way back to the city – Runa steering the innercooled suv, its exterior baking in the mid-morning solarburst.

Words comin at me – universal values devalued and deconstructed – a history of the world, condensed facets from gems of the intuitive postmodern mishmash reflecting values expressed through Rimbaudish lenses and Reganish cowboy movie realities. Each piece set to its own snaredrum, bass and odd synthetic sounds conjuring up hallucinogenic visions of the evening news – Believe us we’re British Congenitals or the Cosmetic News Network brought to you by the commercial claptrap that runs the universe of mindless morons glued to the fragments with which they piece together their individual universals.

Empty lines leap to life before mein eyes’ mind piece together the hypnotic slambamfuckyouman staccato of the yak bera accompaniment dissolving into sugared tones originating in Java, the Bahamas and the oh so familiar Monaragala – waay back from colonial times. Sugar. White gold. A world of hopelessly addicted consumers. The tinkle of fine china, the dainty tea sets set in Victorian gardens of the elite to the indentured slaves tasting the whipsnapped welts burning as the rivulets of sweat and blood trickle down those tributaries networked into those burnished skins out there in them cane fields.

Then on to the Rasta rap – the Guinea gangsta ghetto conjuring images of Watts, New Jersey and of Colombo ’83’s menacing madness, atavistic anarchy plotted and purveyed. Short term Sissyphus, the boulder crushing all behind it. Pump up dat frog, he say – gembata hulang gahanda.

Then back to the Bullshit Buyers Corporashun and the Brutish Council dat tell da maan – overstay yo welcom in dis furrin cuntry boy, an yo be transformed into a white nigga – jus aks me an I be tellin it like it is – it aint no good to stay in da whitey’s cuntry too long, an if yo be singin dat state department furrin office song, yo watcha ass, coz it be okay as long a dat song be da blues. An dats all – da blues, dig? Nuffin else. Yo only get ta sing da blues – if yo black dat is. Dat – or finger da maan – I don be bowin an scrapin to no mothafuckah – an skin color don hav nuffin do do wit it.

A break for lunch – the inner cool evaporates instantly and the air outside makes the epidermis contract, so it’s back to ignition on, cool air blasts relief. Ham ‘n cheese and lettuce and tomato on white bread will have to do for now. And the sound comes on again:

It’s the Congenitally Neurotic Network announcer’s toiletbowl white toothy smile telling viewers he’ll be back after the commercial break. The war in Iraq and Afghan lands takes a commercial break. Gotta sell them deodorants and beauty products to keep them faceless masses free of blemishes – the war will go on, don’t worry, you won’t miss no axshun – just stay tuned.

Burn baby burn. Dere aint no end to dis madness – not until dat gonzo journal keeper rakes up dose words dat remind bout Marti Sandino Harriet Malcolm Che Angela Zapata Guzman  Fidel – or a young suicide bomber in Vavuniya.

Another news break for the weather report. A hurricane south of Slave Island – colonial relic of ossified mindsets. Firestorm in the Palk Strait heading for – you guessed it – Killinochchi. Donner und Blitzen in the east, so all you refugees stay in your tents – getting struck by lightening is baaadasss – much worse than getting whacked by AK47s controlled by mercenaries and them guardians of the masses.

Back to war – Kabul under siege. Brit troops in freeforall frenzied orgiastic ritual with Taliban prisoners. Investigators are being flown out and in and out and in again. Amnasty un Intenshunal refuses to play ball – unless they are tennis and signed. And Chappel and Ranatunga on display with their heads up each other’s asses. Dis shheeet be freaky maaan – dat posishun be a new one even fo da Kama Sutra.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the poet’s voice eases into a carboverdant aria seeping in Caesaria’s eulogy to the kaleidoscopic journey through the caverns of his mind – and faaadddeees aaawwwaaayyyyy….

And us? We’re safely back to the madness…

This is a first, but Java thought it would be worthwhile reproducing this examination paper put out by the British Educational authorities in keeping with the changing times. Check it out. Hope you can make the grade.

For the unaware, there is a slight difference between private schools and comprehensives in Britain. The Department of Education has realised this and has revised the secondary Maths Exam papers accordingly.

Attached are the most recent maths exam papers for your reference.


Name _____________________________


Gang Name________________________

1. Simon has 0.5 kilos of cocaine. If he sells an 8 ball to Matt for 300 quid and 90 grams to Ollie for 90 quid, what is the street value of the rest of his hold?

2. Damon pimps 3 bitches. If the price is GBP40 a ride, how many jobs per day must each bitch perform to support Damon’s GBP500 a day coke habit?

3. Crackster wants to cut the kilo of cocaine he bought for 7,000 quid to make a 20% profit. How many grams of Strychnine will he need?

4. Trev got 6 years for murder. He also got GBP350,000 for the hit. If his common law wife spends GBP33,100 per month, how much money will be left when he gets out?
Extra Credit Bonus: How much more time will Trev get for killing the slapper that spent his money?

5. If an average can of spray paint covers 22 square metres and the average letter is 1 square metre, how many letters can be sprayed with eight fluid ounce cans of spray paint with 20% extra paint free ?

6. Liam steals Jordan’s skateboard. As Liam skates away at a speed of 35mph, Jordan loads his brother’s Armalite. If it takes Jordan 20 seconds to load the gun, how far will Liam have traveled when he gets whacked?


(If longer please continue on a separate sheet)
School _______________________________________________

Daddy’s/Mummy’s Company ____________________________

1. Harry smashes up the old man’s car, causing x amount of damage and killing 3 people. The old man asks his local Chief Constable to intervene in the court system, then forges his insurance claim and receives a payment of y. The difference between x and y is three times the life insurance settlement for the three dead people. What kind of car is Harry driving now?

2. Fiona’s personal shopper decides to substitute generic and own-brand products for the designer goods favoured by her employer. In the course of a month she saves the price of a return ticket to Fiji and Fiona doesn’t even notice the difference. Is she thick or what?

3. Tristram fancies the arse off a certain number of debutants, but he only has enough Rohypnol left to render 33.3% unconscious. If he has 14 tablets of Rohypnol, how is he ever going to shag the other two thirds?

4. If Verity throws up 4 times a day for a week she can fit into a size 8 Versace. If she only throws up 3 times a day for two weeks, she has to make do with a size 10 Dolce & Gabbana. How much does liposuction cost?

5. Henry is unsure about his sexuality. Three days a week he fancies women. On the other days he fancies men, ducks and vacuum cleaners. However he only has access to the Hoover every third week. When will he stand for parliament?

Someone sent me this attachment that opened to reveal a series of photographs of a Black (as in African) woman with the most astounding butt I have ever seen – one that is even more protuberant than Serena Williams’ is – and that’s saying something, right?

A nice ‘ass’ (or arse, butt, bum, buttocks, bottom, posterior or whatever your preference in terminology may be) is usually an integral part of the whole that makes a body attractive, and in most cases, desirable. From the miniscule research I have conducted on this subject, mostly consisting of friends’ views, it appears that the protuberant ass is the one desired more than any of the other shapes, and what’s more, most of them declared that the more protuberant the ass, the better!

Steatopygia is a condition that is caused by an accumulation of fat around the ass, which, is said to be a genetic characteristic originating with the Khoisan tribals of the sub-Saharan regions of Africa. The reason for the accumulation of the fat would most probably have to do with the storage of energy for these hunter-gatherer tribes to survive during the extended periods that they had to endure without a regular source of food. Interestingly, we are told that a study of their Y-chromosomes reveal that they belong to the oldest human lineage which could well have diverged from the evolutionary tree of over 100,000 years ago. This characteristic has now been genetically transferred to other tribes such as the Bantu, the Bushmen of the Kalahari, the Pygmies of Central Africa and possibly others. However, it must be very clear to those who admire nice asses, that the genes have spread all over and now innumerable descendents of Africans all over the world have been blessed or cursed (depending on how extreme the condition is) with the asses they have that reflect those steatopygic origins.

Here’s a bit of what ‘Wikipedia’ has to say about it: ‘Steatopygia would seem to have been a characteristic of a population which once extended from the Gulf of Aden to the Cape of Good Hope, of which stock Khoisan and Pygmies are remnants. While the Khoisan afford the most noticeable examples of its development, it is by no means rare in other parts of Africa, and occurs even more frequently among Basters of the male sex than among Khoikhoi women. It is also observed among females of Andamanese Negritos.’

There is another very interesting condition that usually accompanies Steatopygia and that is (dig this!), ‘…it is often accompanied by the formation known as elongated labia (labia minora that may extend as much as 4 inches outside the vulva)’. Four inches – shit! Is this a bonus or what? I know, ‘different strokes for different folks’, so maybe some of us are put off by four-inch labia, but then some of us are even more turned on by this phenomenon (again, I stress, research courtesy of friends!).

The steatopygic ass is not confined to females, and although we are told by the scholars that it is more prevalent in females than in males, there are plenty of males with nice asses, as most admirers will agree. Of course the labia is confined to the female gender and one wonders if the male’s steatopygic ass is also ‘often accompanied by’ an elongated male organ that replaces the female’s elongated labia? Don’t know if the research has been done on this aspect, but it sure will be an interesting bit of information, don’t you think?

I know Java’s had extensive experience with Black Americans during his sojourn in the States, so when I asked for his view this is what I got:

Sheeet maan, dose Black butts be da very best, an dat’s not all dere be to it eider – yo be talkin bout all dat odder addishunal sheet, right? Weelll maaan, I can’t tell yo ass bout som of dose speriences front of dis audience, but nice butts aint all dere be to it – dere’s plenty more – dose butts be jus da ‘com on’ signal.

I’m not exactly sure of what he meant by that, but rest assured the stories will be worth hearing, so let me work on it and then maybe….?

Watching the match the other night made me wonder about the element of ‘luck’ involved, not just in relation to cricket, but also in general. As Wikipedia puts it, ‘Luck can be defined as a chance happening, or as that which happens beyond a person’s control. Luck is also regarded as superstition, but it can be interpreted in many ways’.

Usually ‘luck’ refers to matters that are beyond one’s control, so the adage ‘you make your own luck’ would be in direct contradiction to this concept. However, there is always a case for arranging factors that could possibly lead to maximizing potential for the best possible outcome in any given scenario, but the chances that would determine the outcome would, in the end, depend on that element of ‘luck’.

We are informed that there are different ‘types’ of luck – luck as lack of control, luck as a fallacy, luck as an essence and luck as a placebo and the analysts have broken these down to elements of each type. For instance, luck as lack of control has been broken down to ‘constitutional luck’, or ‘luck with unchangeable factors’ such as the place of birth or one’s genetic makeup. ‘Circumstantial luck’ refers to ‘accidental’ causes and ‘ignorance luck’, which could only be assessed and identified after the event and may reveal one’s own part played in the ultimate outcome.

Luck as a fallacy is the view that ‘luck is probability taken personally’, which is typical of a Rationalist’s thought process, where the rules of probability and sticking to empirical values are of prime importance. So the Rationalist would argue that ‘luck’ is nothing more than a result of inferior reasoning or wishful thinking of those who think that because a result is sequentially connected, it is connected in other ways as well.

Luck as an essence has to do with believing its association with the spiritual or supernatural and that it could be influenced through prayer, the performance of rituals and/or avoiding certain practices. I guess that here in Sri Lanka, most of us are familiar with the endless rituals at Kataragama or any temple or kovil, where incredible numbers of folk perform all manner of rituals in attempts to influence events, or to get lucky with what they want as a desirable outcome. This type of ‘luck’ is based on superstition and also on faith, although from observing many individual cases it doesn’t appear that failure of receiving a desirable outcome has much of an effect on the believers.

Luck as a placebo is when the encouragement to believe in luck as a fallacy may result in a positive attitude that will alter one’s mental outlook positively. Both Sartre and Freud felt that belief in luck had more to do with a point of psychological influence over events in one’s life, leading to belief that personal responsibility is less to blame for a result. This view posits that those who take their misfortune to be ‘bad luck’, would be found to be those that had more risk-prone occupations or lifestyles, whilst those that considered themselves to be ‘lucky’ to be in good health and in a state of physical and mental well being, were those that were leading lives that included taking care of their health, bodies and having satisfying social relationships.

So ‘luck’ has many faces and these depend on who is doing the perceiving and in the end we find that ‘luck’ is a pretty nebulous entity, left to the individual to interpret. But getting back to cricket, how much do you think ‘luck’ will play a part in the end result? And will calling correct at the toss of the coin be the element of ‘luck’ that will play a major role in how Sri Lanka fares?

Transmutation is the name of the game, he said. The Alchemist put aside his ingredients, turned off the burner, reached for the doobie that was held out to him and took a long deep drag.

Java looked around the large room that the Cherry Lady had brought him to earlier that evening, in wonder. The slightly curved ceiling was a deep translucent shifting shade of blue with the constellations of the northern hemisphere glimmering deep within. The amberish lighting illuminated the wisps of misty white as they drifted across towards the far end of the simulated evening sky. Three of the walls were literally crammed with esoteria – formulae, astrological symbols, runes and other hieroglyphics – chaotic, yet with an amazing harmony that made it into some surrealistic work of the highest art-form. The remaining wall was filled with books on shelves – wall to wall and ceiling to floor. The room itself was comfortably warm and inviting, with rugs and carpets, cushions and well upholstered sofas and chairs. The Alchemist had his paraphernalia off to one section of the room on a long worktop with a basin at one end. Glass jars full of all sorts of unidentifiable substances, mortar and pestle, an antique weighing scale, specimens of plants – some in various stages of being dried and others in liquid and more, with a very large crystal oval which seemed to be floating in the corner, shooting off the colours of the spectrum as it caught the light in its twirling facets.

Maaan it be like som kinda psychedelic trip – witout droppin nuttin. Yo hear me? Cher be bringin me to dis cat she say she know from dose days in Hampstead when she be livin by da heath and he be her neighbour in dose flower-power days.

The Cherry Lady had recently returned after a long trip to, as she described it, all those fabulous places I’ve wanted to visit and some that I wanted to return to. The windfall from the the secret agent man, Leon, had made it all possible, so she had travelled in style, savouring the best of the best. Then almost as soon as she returned, she received the message from The Alchemist and although she didn’t elaborate too much about it, said she had to get back for a few days and wanted Java to join her. And Java, being Java, hadn’t the heart to turn her down.

The Alchemist blew a cloud of smoke out of his face and passed the doob. He was taller than medium height, with long greying hair and a slightly whiter beard. His face was kind and reflected what Java took to be wisdom. He wore a Japanese kimono with the sleeves rolled up and Java was struck by his hands that somehow moved in an almost liquid manner – like they danced maaan, was how Java described it. His fingers were neither long nor elegant, but were more like a ‘worker’s’ hands – strong, but attractive in shape and artistic in a strange way. He wore an earing, a silver bracelet on one hand and had a gold cord with an amulet around his neck. The Rolex around his wrist was in a broad leather band with silver studs in it. Obviously well off, he looked the part – or so Java thought.

Comin back to what yo said maan, bout transmutashun – aint dat bout turning metal into gold?

‘That’s right, but what I’m working on is not just on metal into gold, but also on other substances – refining them until they reach optimal potential’.

He reaches for two samples of some cuttings that lay on the table by him.

‘For instance, here’s a sprig of average quality Mint (Mentha spp.) and here’s what resulted after I made the transmutation’.

Maaan, I took a look at dem sprigs – one looked and smelled jus like dat Mint we use for dat lamb wit mint crust dat yo be doin sometimes, an de odder – sheeet, it be havin dis golden aura to it an dat scent be sweeter dan any mint I ever smelled. I be flashin on dat lamb wit dis mint bein use fo dat crust on it – mus make it be extra speshul. Den ma maan get out dis can full of flowerin tops of som ordinary weed and anodder can wit some after dat mutatin he done, an yo would’n believe da change! Fo shure he be makin dat base weed into a golden replica. Dat aroma – maaan! So he take som out and stick it in da bowl of dis weird lookin pipe, lit dat mudder up and drag. Den he pass dat pipe to Cher an den it com my way. An I aint sayin no more – cept dis cat be one very speshul dude.

So after visitin wit Da Alchemis and getting our heads in som wonderful spaces we walk down past de underground to dat lil ol restaurant roun da corner from da station an had ourselves som dinner. I be thinkin dat we could do a take-a-way so our maan could do som of dat transmuting of dat food!

Anyway, to cut out the superfluous, Java returned from his visit with the Alchemist with a nice sample of some ordinary weed transmuted into a golden super-variety. And I could see just what he meant.

It wasn’t really the best of times, nor was it the worst – I guess it was somewhere in between the layers of dissolution within the thought process that it dawned on Java. I couldn’t really respond accurately – for all the obvious reasons.

Heeey maaan, know what I be flashin on? How com yo don have me around all da time? Seem like yo jus call me up when yo feel like som company and den I sorta fade out when yo be wantin to play it straight like. Waaz up man, yo be embarrassed or sumpin?

What could I say? This whole thing is entirely beyond my control and most times it seems to me like Java forces himself out of my consciousness (or into it – I’m not sure which way it really works) and not the way he felt about the reasons for his manifestation. I can’t very well tell him he is a figment of my imagination, as he’s quite likely to tell me that it’s the other way around – that I am a figment of his imagination. And who knows, he may well be right!

Which got me to thinking – if I was the ‘figment’, then was I living in some kind of a parallel reality or universe? And was the duality part of it caused by the time warp that made the universes overlap in time and space? So would that make the both of us ‘figments’ of each other’s realities? Or was it some ‘Donnie Darko’ kind of trip that I was on?

Know what maan? I jus be tinkin dat I be da part of yo dat get into all dat sheet yo don wanna get into, so yo be usin my ass to get off on dem experiences. All dat astral travellin, dose trips into Wonderland an all dat odder sheet I be doin, be stuff dat yo be gettin into if not fo all dat condishunin dat make yo what yo be. Make sense to yo?

Shit! I don’t know. Maybe it’s possible. Anything could be possible – given that ‘reality’ is entirely dependent on the individual consciousness. Being at the center of the universe has been postulated by the philosophers and the concept could be easily grasped if one were to realise that the ‘maya’ that the Buddha described is the illusion around us and which is created at the dawning of that individual consciousness – and will end when that consciousness ceases to exist or when it evolves into another state of being – another ‘reality’ – whatever it is. So then does it follow that it is the mind that makes up the matter to perceive it in the manner we do, or is it the matter that fashions the mind as part of the matter?

Lissen up maan – check dis out.

Java’s reaching for some super-grade shit he picked up on his most recent foray to see Wanda the midget in that Netherland. He’s got the sound turned up on Floyd’s ‘Saucer Full of Secrets’ and as the music swells that sweet aroma wafts around the room and somehow the reality is crystal clear, with no contaminating thoughts to dull the moment.

There were a few responses to yesterday’s post on the ‘Morality-Quotient’ quiz and the stats indicate that a fair number of folk had checked out the post, but whether they bothered with the quiz is not known. I actually did it a second time around to see how consistent I was and where I’m at in relation to the thirty-two thousand and some that have taken the quiz. The second attempt got me the identical scores of 0.00 for Moralising Quotient, 0.00 for Interference Factor and -1 for the Universalising Factor. Pretty extreme, but consistent nonetheless! So there I was at the bottom-most left hand corner of of the box within the box in the diagram which said ‘fully permissive’.

I take this to mean that I am permissive – at least where my head is concerned. What I mean by this is that although I may not find it ‘immoral’ to screw a dead chicken, I would not consider the act to be attractive to me. In other words, I would never dream of screwing a dead bird – although, if someone else wanted to get into it, I would find that to be perfectly within the bounds of permitted behaviour. I also think that if siblings are in mutual agreement of getting it on with each other, it would be nobody’s business but their own. However, I couldn’t ever even consider having sex with a sibling – for whatever conditioned reason that determined that particular ‘non-desire’.

I guess that for me, the parameter would be ‘causing others harm’. What I mean is that for me, pretty much anything goes, as long as it doesn’t hurt others. If, for instance, a guy wanted to screw a live chicken or any other creature, and there was some objection on the part of the creature that indicated it wanted no such act perpetrated on itself, and if the guy went ahead and forced (raped) the creature, that would be immoral in my book – the same for an incestuous act if one of the two (or more) partners was not agreeable. Acts between mutually consenting partners, is for me, perfectly acceptable and is nobody else’s business – period.

My Moralising Quotient of 0.00 compares to an average Moralising Quotient of 0.23, which means that as far as the events depicted in the scenarios featured in this activity are concerned I am more permissive than the average folk out there – no big surprise.

The ‘Interference Factor’ indicates how one sees the need for societal interference in matters of moral wrongdoing in the form of punishment or prevention. And here again I scored 0.0, in comparison to an average score of 0.13, which apparently  indicates that I would not recommend any societal interference in any of the scenarios brought up by the quiz.

My Universalising Factor score of -1 compares to an average of 0.35, which indicates that I saw no moral wrong in any of the activities described in the scenarios presented, which also could mean that there is no way for the activity to determine the extent to which I see moral wrongdoing in universal terms – without regard to prevailing cultural norms and social conventions.

The quiz seemed to be pretty much ‘on the ball’, as far as I am concerned and for me, was an interesting exercise that confirmed what I thought about myself. And if you took the quiz, I’m sure that it would have given you something to think about – if you were honest with your answers. It may even catalyse a shift in values and that could well be a good thing.

I won’t even get into what Java’s score was, but suffice it to say…….weelll, what’s the use….

There’s this Lair I visit on occasion to savour the tasty tit-bits therein, where I chanced upon a quiz that determines your morality-quotient. So I tried it to check out where I stood in terms of the values determined by the creators. The questions were pretty far out.

Do you think, for instance, that if someone were to buy a frozen chicken, take it home and in the privacy of his inner sanctum, have sexual intercourse with the bird (after it thawed out of course) and then cook and eat it, that this would be an ‘immoral’ act? There’s more that will surely test the bounds of your permissiveness.

Obviously the results of the quiz are based on one’s values, which of course are based on the conditioning of the one answering the questions. The ‘objectivity’ factor will come into play for those that are able to get beyond religious and cultural conditioning and who will not be inhibited by ‘legal’ constraints. Incest is also brought into mix and is an interesting aspect of the exercise.

So go ahead and take the plunge, figure out where you’re at in comparison to all the others out there. Check out and give it a go.

Want to know what I scored? It’s pretty extreme – maybe I’ll tell you about it tomorrow?

See (

April 2007
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Ephemeral Ruminations by Java Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.
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