Month: January 2014

Who will talk at TED2014? The speaker lineup, revealed!

TED Blog

SpeakerLineup-Blog (1)TED2014 is our 30th-anniversary conference, and the speaker lineup is — in a word — thrilling. Speakers will touch on topics ranging from technology, entertainment, design and education to climate change, architecture, music, physics, parenting, typography, fireflies and the Golden Gate Bridge. Randall Munroe of xkcd will talk about his passion for What If questions. Yoruba Richen will talk about the fastest-moving social justice campaign in history. Wendy Chung will offer a scholarly overview of what we know right now about autism. And Chris Hadfield of NASA will put down his guitar long enough to talk to us about life in space — and back on earth.  Some speakers on the lineup will look back and reflect on things that have happened over the past 30 years. Other speakers will look forward and predict: where are we headed next?

These speakers will be writing “The Next Chapter” of…

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Don’t Date A Girl Who Travels

She’s the one with the messy unkempt hair colored by the sun. Her skin is now far from fair like it once was. Not even sun kissed. It’s burnt with multiple tan lines, wounds and bites here and there. But for every flaw on her skin, she has an interesting story to tell.

Don’t date a girl who travels. She is hard to please. The usual dinner-movie date at the mall will suck the life out of her. Her soul craves for new experiences and adventures. She will be unimpressed with your new car and your expensive watch. She would rather climb a rock or jump out of an airplane than hear you brag about it.

Don’t date a girl who travels because she will bug you to book a flight every time there’s an airline seat sale. She wont party at Republiq. And she will never pay over $100 for Avicii because she knows that one weekend of clubbing is equivalent to one week somewhere far more exciting.

Chances are, she can’t hold a steady job. Or she’s probably daydreaming about quitting. She doesn’t want to keep working her ass off for someone else’s dream. She has her own and is working towards it. She is a freelancer. She makes money from designing, writing, photography or something that requires creativity and imagination. Don’t waste her time complaining about your boring job.

Don’t date a girl who travels. She might have wasted her college degree and switched careers entirely. She is now a dive instructor or a yoga teacher. She’s not sure when the next paycheck is coming. But she doesn’t work like a robot all day, she goes out and takes what life has to offer and challenges you to do the same.

Don’t date a girl who travels for she has chosen a life of uncertainty. She doesn’t have a plan or a permanent address. She goes with the flow and follows her heart. She dances to the beat of her own drum. She doesn’t wear a watch. Her days are ruled by the sun and the moon. When the waves are calling, life stops and she will be oblivious to everything else for a moment. But she has learned that the most important thing in life isn’t surfing.

Don’t date a girl who travels as she tends to speak her mind. She will never try to impress your parents or friends. She knows respect, but isn’t afraid to hold a debate about global issues or social responsibility.

She will never need you. She knows how to pitch a tent and screw her own fins without your help. She cooks well and doesn’t need you to pay for her meals. She is too independent and wont care whether you travel with her or not. She will forget to check in with you when she arrives at her destination. She’s busy living in the present. She talks to strangers. She will meet many interesting, like-minded people from around the world who share her passion and dreams. She will be bored with you.

So never date a girl who travels unless you can keep up with her. And if you unintentionally fall in love with one, don’t you dare keep her. Let her go.

Culled from http://www.lovethesearch.com

The Brown Hour Hand

The morning was cold, yet the sun had risen thoroughly from its slumber. Laying awake for the past few minutes, haggling with my thoughts the prize of the journey I was to embark on. I had just a picture. A fruitless journey I was told.

The path to the painted house was still virgin. It had no trail of footstep on it, yet the stench of a thousand crowd filled the dry leaves as I trempled on cautiously.

A lonely walk through the woods. Ferocious looking woods.

A picture in hand as a guide, a thought of home tumbling in my head to keep me sane. I kept staring at the picture of an old painted house in my hand, nothing to remind me of familiarity. Not even nostalgia.

Half an hour. An hour. Two hours gone by and still no painted house. Only birds painted by mother nature’s brush of fate roaming the air for food, water or mate. As I endured the ache on my feet, a wooden structure few meters away could be seen in the distance. Old, yet firm to the terrestrial ground.

Standing 3 meters away, the painted house didn’t seem how it was described. It was hugely painted, yes. But it had a halting look that scared birds away. It had mahogany trees surrounding half of its field, hinting a forest habitat of some kind. And hackberrys shooting out baring no fruits like it was barren out of habit.

I was in the field and I could hear an habanera playing in the air. Was it me, or was it what my senses could hear. It sounded soothing at first, yet irritating. I haven’t heard that melody in a hundred month. A hackle was also laying in the field. Who was been lazy? How often does such lazy sight hop into light? I pondered. The field was looking haggard like the last person that worked on it had hunger as a serious demotivator.

Still, it didn’t seem to me that the description I had was right.

Walking towards the house, I felt a heave of familiarity at the close sight. The house was painted, yes. I stared closer at the picture I had in hand and it almost looked the same as the house in front of me. Only for one missing piece. I raised my stare 7 feet above my height and there it was, the brown hour hand.

Eureka! I was home.

Pages Of A Yesterday

****** Chapter 5 out of the present day. ******

The day was sublime with an illuminating zeal of a 5 year old yawning from the prior night’s dream. Detached from reality with the moonlight sneaking through the window as a guide throughout the night.

Mother came calling for her young 5 year old lad. Leaning against the door frame, tiredness painted on her face. Plausible excuse for the first Saturday of the month.

Half way down the sitting room, a new sense of excitement grips the air. Its Cardbury Bournvita time! Running from couch to couch, trying to dodge an imaginary lava, just to have the front couch. Voltron: Defender of the Universe.

Voltron was my hero at age 5.

After the evil King Zarkon and his witch, Haggar from planet Doom create their robotic beasts to terrorize the kingdom of Arus, I quietly whisper for the Voltron Force and magnificient Voltron to come defend the universe once again.

The plastic animation of the Aqua Fighter, Turbo Terrain Fighter and Strato Fighter to form the mighty Voltron was always the most befitting scene to my young mind. Its promising. Its ecstatic. Its exciting. Its Voltron: Defender of the Universe.

****** Today’s chapter of the present day. ******

Looking back in retrospect, the grasping thought of attaching to a robotic hero wasn’t childish. It is a young lad finding his path into the future. Being a leader. An alpha. A Voltron to all King Zarkon and the witch Haggar of today.

I am my own Voltron. Find yours. Its a rare victory when you find it.

A Hault From The Sky

Tick tack. Tick tack. The hour hand of grandma’s old pocket watch hit a slow pace and said 9pm. The night has come to a gradual close. The skies full of serene darkness, lowering its gaze on the earth with the friendly help of the stabbing eyes of the bright moon. Fireflies parading anxiously in the tall grasses, searching for a mate that recognises their beeping light. The cold wind kissing the tender skin with chills of comfort as I sit outside yearning for the precious vocals of the nightingale. A nightingale lost in Africa.

At the far distance, there is a fire burning in the field with 4 men chattering in circle about what seems to be an engaging conversation. A lie. The truth. A hearsay. Or a lousy affirmation only drunks with 9 kids, whose heights from afar are close to been described as human staircase, would give. Two little girls with an impossible excitement, screaming as if to say “make way, convoy coming” can be heard running nearby wearing just pants to go deliver an errand. Wearing pants in a cold wind. A sight only seen in days of sheer excitement.

A light from a window caught my eye, a family about to have dinner. Maybe its the lust for food or the beauty of family dinner that coaxed my legs, its hard to say. I walked with an ambitious gait of a diplomat, stood few meters from the window and smiled as the sight infront of me brought a soothing touch to my senses. The table was neatly placed underneath a colourful table cover that made the plates, tumblers, jugs, flower vase and cutleries stand at ease with a picturesque appeal. A mother in a lovely native dress made from old fabric moves the meal from a nearby room, probably the kitchen, to the dinning. Every movement she places, to and fro, is acompanied by a nocturnal smile. The father replies back with a gesture that looks 80% a smirk rather than a smile. All because his left ear is been entertained by a silver plated radio set he bought 2 evenings ago. Three children hungry to be served an evening meal. An anxiety creeps into their taste buds, ready to do ample justice to what mother spent her entire evening hour preparing. She seems pleased at this sight.

A horn suddenly dusts my reflex, making me jerk up a bit. Then reality dawns helplessly on me. Grandma is waiting to give her grandson a butter hug. Warm. A 52 minutes walk into the dark, empty road beckons me. Wish I was one of those kids running towards their errand with just pants on screaming excitedly “make way, convoy coming.” How wonderful life would have been, if that was the case.

Tears Of The Unknown

Darkness crawling out from a weary mind, tears of the unknown ready to devour itself. The lust of a sad heart, precise in pain and hurt ravaging her virtue.

Folded by the corner of her thoughts, legs and arms squeezed together like an imaginery bone and meat debating for a gospel merger.

Four winters ago the agony was born. A mother’s touch. A father’s chilvary. A brother’s tease. A sister’s playmate. All swept away by the blurry eyes of a drunk think tank.

Four winters ago, four souls was lost. Leaving a todler alone to the sight and smell of cruelty, aunt cruelty.

The tears flow with ease, a wail that whispers soulful pain, tears of the unknown ready to devour itself.

A two inch friend came calling by, a colourful being. Colour, once an ugly cocoon. A smile was brought to life.

Her weak feet came alive and she saw herself in the mirror of the butterfly.

A split second euphoria engolfed her sadness and a knock banging on the door haulted it.

Faster her heart beat. Cruelty was born.

This Time Around I Am Staying

THIS IS THE SECOND ATTEMPT AT BLOGGING AFTER I DELETED MY FIRST BLOG.

Now I didn’t mistakenly delete the first blog – I’m not part of the #TeamBlameItOnTheDevil that usually do things out of cognitive motive to satisfy the desires of the body, then say “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it. The devil made me do it. It was a MISTAKE.” – actually I deleted the blog on purpose. I made few posts that lasted for a while. I got tired. I lost my vibe and I chickened out of blogging.

Its hard to believe but I actually did. I chickened out of the sheer experience of transforming thoughts into words. Hmm! Lame right? Yes, I know.

The story of how I’m CUMing the second time into blogging again isn’t far fetched. The truth is I got a wake up call. Boredom woke me up, self reflection and the spirit of “never giveup” inspired me and two friends gave me the nudge that I needed to get started.

With this first post that is inline with my goal for 2014, which is of course not a New Year Resolution but rather a goal, I don’t intend to stop blogging. No matter what happens, even if I’m somehow called upon to debate whether Stella Oduah’s PhD is fake or not, I’m sticking to a blogging experience for the year. And its all because THIS TIME AROUND I AM STAYING.