Where Is The Green

A car park with a solitary groaning tree. Not the most magnificent specimen of it's kind this one. It oddly looks forlorn and lonely. 

Forbiddingly derelict, it labours under the yoke and choke of dust; urging by it's mere sight to be left in peace. A closer look would probably reveal that it's yearning, earnestly thirsting for water, yet with little success. Not too green a space I suppose.

I walk on. I come to a bridge. Down below a yawning artificial river trickles by. It is as if it is ashamed to be, for it's raison d'être, the rainy season, has come and gone. 

The fury of this residential drainage contraption, the pride and gusto of it's torrential flow, has long since petered out. Utterly weathered dry to little more than muddy broth. 

The bridge above though no bigger than a modest footpath, stands imperiously - domineering and impetuous - laughing down at the wiggly smudge of a river that occasionally licks it’s foundations. 

Besides these two antagonists, right there on the river side, a welcome shock of exuberance resonates. Lush, green grass grows wistfully, waving to all caring passersby, swaying with every gentle kiss and whisper of the wind.

Without a care in the world and tucked within the grass, unseemly weeds burst forth with boastful flourish.  Undisturbed by either grazing herds or diligent mowers, they too grow joyously and resplendent. 

But alas! Modesty has no room on the river bank. Abundantly nourished the plants too seem to proclaim their ascendancy on the dying dehydrated river.  Yet these are no more than mere weed and rogue grass. They are unwanted, besieged and utterly insignificant in this wilderness of residential flats. This is green space too - I suppose.

Detached by the daily runs for the mundane exigencies of existence, I pretend I have no relation to these green blots and their daily play for survival. I own not the landscape plants nor do I plant the wily weeds which grow of their own accord.

Road side bush and woefully ignored decorative plants, is what I dourly enjoy and have for green space.

M Wycliff,

Nairobi.

PS: This incomplete piece of writing was actually something written out of context - I was meant to write something completely different. Instead of killing (by deleting) this orphan article of mine - am giving it transcendent immortality in this here humble blog.

The Wailing of the Wailing Wailer: Humble Pies Require Crappy Recipes

After a year's hiatus from FX (forex for all slow people), it was with slight apprehension and uncertainty that I embarked again into that uncertain world of jaw smashing risk, quick returns and a tantalizingly El Dorado like surreality. 

My apprehension was borne out of the fact that in a year's time I had hardly transacted any trade. Could I do it as fluidly as I could a year ago? Will it take me another couple of painstaking weeks to get back the innate understanding of the rhythms and cycles of the unforgiving market?

These were the questions playing on my mind. Eating away at an already severely depleted self-confidence. But alas! Riding a bicycle was as far a remote aphorism as I can think of to describe the natural re-entry I enjoyed. 

But that is getting far ahead of ourselves. 

There were, to say the least . . . on a psychological level, ego-murdering hiccups. To begin with I opened a completely different demo account to the one I initially intended, which belies the troubling premise I no longer knew even the most basic of basics!! I could not remember which account was for what!!

Since it was a demo account, after realizing my mistake, I decided to go along with it. It is the validity of analysis rather than account fritter features such as leverage, capitalization and minimum lot size that I was most interested in.

 But loe and behold, my first two trades went completely awry, I had completely ignored everything my very own charts were telling me. Or even more troubling, perhaps I no longer knew what the heck I was analyzing. 

To make matters worse I had executed spot transactions on the spur of the moment, I always use . . . and my entire repertoire of strategies depend on . . . pending orders!! Silly silly silly damn hubris laden mistake!! 

If nothing those two fairly painful trades, although not catastrophic quickly jolted me back to seriousness. I had to prove to myself or else call it quits!! 

The next two trades were methodical, rationally executed and mercifully - they swiftly (swiftly on a 30 minute time-frame is more like 10 hours of waiting, and 3 hours of pre-entry analysis) went profitable hitting and surpassing my own profit targets!!

 I was born to do this, I know it, I have proved it yet again, I humbly told myself, tired and battered but elated. The surging of the blood with exhilaration in my veins after such a long time evoked so many similar moments in the past. If it told me nothing, it reminded me how I immensely enjoy doing this, given that no real money was even involved!! 

I had been immediately hammered by the market, yet quickly managed to refocus and achieved what still thousands of people across the world are spending countless hours trying to get right. All in a little less than 30 hours. 

Watching the first two trades recouping the previous day's losses got me all emotional; the sheer mental exertion very nearly made me breakdown and cry. It was like some perfectly orchestrated symphony by Bach or Mozart. The icing on the dessert came soon after . . .  other transactions executed like clockwork . . . based on my own tearfully eked prognostications. 

It is a wonderful feeling to be so privately right again.

M. Wycliff,

2nd May, 2013