For Neda.
A voice:-
Once strong and sweet with melody,
Now silent,
Not just the voice of one,
But many,
Their song silenced by the few.
Be brave,
Do not falter,
For she will not fade,
Her life and beauty resonate,
She stands now,
No longer on the blood stained streets,
But on the pavement of our minds,
She sings now,
No longer cloistered underground in dark,
But in the brilliant light of six billion hearts,
A voice:-
Once strong and sweet with melody,
Never silent,
If we will sing its song.
—–
I had to write this. I had to write something. I’ve been so moved and affected by the unrest and injustice in Iran. But witnessing the death of Neda Agha-Soltan, even second-hand, is not something I can brush aside and forget. Her passing is something I cannot, and will not forget. Remembering her and all of those who have struggled in the name of lofty words like Freedom and Equality and Justice, is the very least that we can do.
—
Untitled – David Gear
On the shoulders of giants,
With the feet of infants,
We stand,
Watching from afar,
In perpetual dawn,
We lament our lost treasures,
While their dead they mourn,
Unforgivable indifference,
Breeds persuasive malevolence,
Inaction by any other name,
Murder by any other hand,
Casts the same pall shadow,
Across faces forlorn,
We dine on the sacrifice of others,
While their dead they mourn.
–
My good friend Dave wrote this, his current feelings regarding the situation in Iran inspired it and I found it very enjoyable so I’ve posted it here with his permission.
(David Gear is a local W.A. journalist here, but his passion for politics and history will no doubt make him a fantastic feature writer one day. )
Good night, sweet dreams.
Whispered in the night,
In the dark recess of my mind,
Are fears, unconquered,
Of what is known and what is lost,
Fragments of space and time,
Played out like children’s lullabies.
And I am a ghost,
Floating down familiar passage ways,
Watching the process,
Hearing the protests,
But mute to speak my mind.
“Running over the same old ground”
But I’m just walking along,
That ground beneath my feet,
Learning to find strength,
In the eyes of the strangers on the street.
Sometimes what you want,
Is never what you need,
And sometimes what you need,
Is something no one else can provide.
—
I went for a walk last night, after the witching hour and watched the lightning through my father’s old binoculars. There was a storm in the sky and a storm in my head. But even though a thunder storm is frightening, there’s a dangerous beauty about it. I feel like my life’s a bit like a storm at the moment. A lot of uncertainty, but I think it’ll be followed by something as majestic and powerful as the lightning that splits the sky.
Or at least that’s what I hope.
Work.
Right click.
Copy.
Left Click.
Right click.
Paste.
Left Click.
Send.
Left Click.
Add.
Left Click.
OK.
Left Click.
Close.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Oh. Monotony. The most regular of all my work mates.
Reminder
I worry at the bruise upon my arm, and its twin, which rests on the plump flesh of my thigh. My thumb presses into each of them in turn. The result is like a jolt of electricity, an awakening. The pain is all at once sharp and dull, and as I sit on an unmade bed and investigate these purple blemishes on my pale skin, I feel a strange sense of relief. Upon pausing for contemplation I wonder why I am so prone to this sort of behaviour. (And not just me, it happens to everyone.) An ulcer on the inside of my cheek must be prodded at by my tounge, a graze upon my knee must suffer the caress of my fingertips.
It’s a reminder, and this is why I subject myself to it. The sudden flurry of activity from my nociceptors as they carry the simple message of “ouch” from my bruise to my dorsal root ganglion is proof that I am alive. Not just that I am alive, but also that I am awake, and the events that transpired to leave me with these violent marks were not a dream, but a real and very physical occurence. It forces me to confront this fact, and deal with it, instead of shying away from it.
And confront it I will. Every time I apply pressure to my bruises I can remind myself where they came from, how they came to be there. And I can use these reminders to change the way I will approach the rest of my life.
Eventually, the reminders will fade, they will heal. Because it is true what they say, that time heals all wounds. But even when my skin is no longer coloured by them, the memory of them, and the memory of the pain that lingered long after I acquired them, will keep me strong, and remind me not to make the same mistakes as others.
Realizations at the kitchen sink.
I’ve got about 4 hours before I absolutely have to sleep tonight. I made myself a cup of tea with just a smidgen of honey in it. I plugged in my headphones so that the soothing refrain of 90’s rock songs won’t wake my 7 and a half month old nephew and I sat down, with the full intention of working on one of the many assignments I have to do. All of which are overdue. None of which I actually care about.
What do I care about? Quite a lot of things at the moment, but I suppose there are a few things in particular I care about more than others. I was thinking about this earlier, as I washed the dishes from dinner, what is it I care about? Today was a hard day. A very bad day all things considered. I was feeling quite low in spirit, but then as I scrubbed saucepans and baking dishes I resolved to think about the things I care the most about. And it surprises me what those things are.
I care about myself, much more than I ever did previously. Suddenly I have a deep and staunch desire to go and take what I want from life. I have some sort of resolution that I was lacking before, something that grips tightly at my heart and head and buoys me up when I start to sink beneath the raging waters of doubt. I am determined now to achieve the goals I set for myself. The desire is backed by reason, and opportunity and I cannot ignore it.
I care about creating my own happiness and peace of mind. Forging the sort of self-reliance which I have been struggling to attain my whole life, but to date have not quite managed. I don’t want to depend on others. That is not to say that I won’t play the game of give and take, that I won’t turn to others and let others turn to me. It is simply to say, I want to be able to deal with my emotions without that. Because once I can master my emotions, there is nothing in this world which can hold me back.
I care about laughing. As much as I can, I want to laugh until I cry. So that my sides hurt and my breath comes short and sharp to my chest. I care about sharing this laughter with others, and enjoying it in my solitude. I care about facing each day with a smile, and still wearing it as I close my eyes when that day ends.
I care about adaptability. I care about being able to reinvent myself when I need it, being able to cut my losses and start afresh with no regret and no sorrow. I care about letting go. L e t t I n g g o .
I care about feeding my passions. Not letting those things that make me inquisitive and creative fade away. I care about keeping them alive, and keeping myself alive by that act. I want to always seek, always reach, to always ask for answers.
And in learning what I care about, I’ve also learnt what it is I do not care for. I don’t care for callous words, or over-acting. I don’t care for assumptions, and conclusions hastily jumped to. I don’t care for judgement being passed, nor do I care for phony charity, only offered to ease the guilt of the giver.
I don’t care for doubters, and nay-sayers. I don’t care for blockades in my road, I don’t care for fear. I don’t care for lies, inventions of the mind which satisfy some insecure neurosis. I don’t care for demands, or insinuations. I don’t care for safety nets which are full of man size holes.
I don’t care for people who neglect the present in favour of a glorified past or an imagined future. I don’t care for people who don’t have the spine and the dignity to voice their opinion to my face.
But I do care for a lot of things. And I won’t be letting the things I don’t care about put a stop to them.
It takes one, to know one.
It wasn’t really the day I actually met my internet therapist. Because we had already met previously, on countless occasions, brief encounters which were nothing short of being average and run of the mill.
But the day I realized that I had met an internet therapist was the 29th of November. It was a nice, warm day, and because I’ve always been the sort of person to enjoy the best of both worlds, I had taken my laptop outside so that I could better appreciate the gentle breeze and the bright spring sky. I was seated, cross legged with a perfect view of the cotton-candy-clouds which littered the wide blue canvas above me, and I alternated my gaze between the crisp LCD screen of my laptop and the poetic, almost cliched vista above me.
I was not happy that day, that is a fact I remember vividly. I was actually quite miserable. However I’ve often been told I’m an excellent actress and so those in my vicinity would have never have guessed as to my actual disposition. However, perhaps to someone attuned to the nuances of a person pretending, it was not so difficult. I assume that is the case because, this internet therapist managed to suss me out quite quickly. He seemed to have no trouble discerning I was unhappy. Despite being thousands of miles away from me, never having seen my face or heard my voice, and barely knowing me even on the abstract level that one comes to know people on the internet.
He, of course, instantly reminded me of myself. Because I asked the same subtle probing questions to people I came to know online. I also offered my honest and sagacious words, even when not asked to impart them, if I felt it would help an individual. I have always been one of the ‘bleeding hearts’, you know the sort of person who feels it necessary to help strangers and friends alike? I dare say it’s very arrogant of me, but I’ve always been of the opinion that my advice will be beneficial to people, even when it isn’t the advice they would like to hear.
My internet therapist is of the same mindset. Albeit, often our method of delivery differs, our principles, our reasons and the rationalization of those reasons are almost identical.
It was like a strange sensation slowly creeping over me as I sat there, taking my gaze away from the screen to find some sort of solace in the natural world around me. I was disturbed that someone who was all but a stranger to me had managed to pin point my feelings so accurately and with such apparent ease. But I was also relieved at the same time. Because it was a sweet release to be honest about feelings I had kept hidden and sheltered away from the people I interacted with in my everyday life.
Of course, I was not satisfied to sit idly by and be analyzed. And so I turned my own critical eye on this fellow, and was surprised to discover how easy it was to understand him in turn.
People often tell me the internet is not “real” and the people who dwell within it’s open boundaries are not “honest”. While this may be true in some instances, I think I can safely say in this case, the opposite is true. It was because of the internet, that me and this former quasi-acquaintance were so honest with each other. It was the vast and faceless simulacrum which were were communicating via that allowed us to project such a true reflection of our inner personalities.
He and I are kindred spirits, in that we both desire to reach out and help others, even the remotest strangers. And we use the World Wide Web as our consulting room. We don’t have degrees in psychology or counseling. Neither of us are qualified to give advice in an office with a comfortable chair and a large desk. But we are willing to give advice from the comfort of our own homes, we are both willing to listen and be honest when people need it most.
While I had started out that conversation feeling miserable, by the time I logged off to start cooking my dinner I felt happier than I had in months.
I’ve always heard the saying “No man is an island.” Sometimes, you can feel completely alone in a room filled with other people, that is the nature of man. But that day I understood that truly, in the 21st Century, no man is an island. The limits of geographical location have been superceeded, replaced, by the boundless, limitless, boarderless realm of the internet. It’s a bridge between all of humanity, and it can connect all of us to each other, if we are willing to let it.
Superwoman complex.
It happens to everyone right?
You know, you take on more than you can handle, you make promises that you kill yourself trying to keep.
I do it without even noticing. I just get so wrapped up in what I want, I forget to think through the plan about how I’m going to get it.
I can hear an all too familiar voice in my head, (one I used to hear daily), saying “Don’t you think you should set a more reasonable goal? Aren’t you aiming a little high?”
I should. I am.
But I’m one of those people who can never back out of anything. I’ve always felt that it was preferential to crash and burn, rather than bow out gracefully and admit defeat.
So how hard will I have to grit my teeth to pull everything off this time?
I guess we’ll find out soon…
Questions, questions, questions.
Why don’t people ask the question?
Or, why don’t the right people ask the question?
Is it just the way of the world that the people you want to ask never will, is it your wanting that prevents it?
Should you just be showing anyway, regardless of if the question has been asked. Should you give away the answer freely? But no, I’ve always believed you should ask for answers. The act of asking its self is part of the answer.
How much do you give before you stop and say ‘No, I’m keeping this for me.’ Is there a correct amount? If you’ve given to much can you ever take it back? And if you want something in return, and no hand is giving it to you, should you steal it? (Zarathustra says yes.)
I’m so confused at the moment, and I very much fear I’m destined to live in this sort of confusion for the rest of my mortal life.
When are the meanings going to crystalize? (Maybe the answer is never, and that’s why no one asks for it. Because it’s too depressing.)
I hate it when I say things that I only half mean to people. When I say what I want to say, and not what I feel. Why am I so ashamed of my own feelings? Is it because I have to conquer them?
What’s the reward for the conquerer? And what happens to the conquered?
Ah. Questions, questions, questions.
Can’t you let me be, for just one day?
The illusory nature of time.
Time. Everyone obeys it. But it’s quite difficult to wrap your head around when you sit back and consider it on a philosophical level.
I’m considering it at the moment for two reasons.
1. I just read Nietzsche’s little epistle ‘Of the land of culture’ in Thus Spoke Zarathustra where he says (and beautifully I might add) ‘I flew too far into the future: a horror assailed me. And when I looked around, behold! Time was my only contemporary.’
2. I’m watching the minutes tick by while a good friend of mine sleeps, you see, it’s 5:30am on Saturday morning where he is, and for me (to borrow from Heidegger) being-in-time, it’s 8:30pm on Saturday night.
So I’m kicking back in bed, I haven’t even got dressed today (real classy of me) with a copy of Nietzsche open next to me and my eyes glued to the clock and I’m trying to make sense of time.
Time is so tied up with everything we do, it’s a ‘universal’ law that we imposed on the universe. Yet we consider it something so reverent and immutable, something we all have to live by. And we do have to live by it, humanity has to live by the laws it creates until it creates new ones (Thus spoke Zarathustra, yeah I know. Thanks Nietzsche.)
But it baffles me, and this is why;
Because the slow procession of ages which wears down a mountain is nothing like the minutes which fly by dutifully and orderly to keep us aware of how many hours the sun shines for, and how many hours we spend in the moons domain. Did we impose this order on time? Does it resent us for it? Would it rather be thought of us a more primordial, chaotic force? (I’m well aware of the fact that time probably doesn’t think at all. Don’t worry, I’m not quite mad yet.)
I’m watching the sun set here, and the earth has rotated and the sun is rising where my dear friend is sleeping. Of course, that’s just the way it is, I can rationalize my confusion away with loads of empircal evidence. But on some level, I still can’t wrap my head around it. Maybe it’s because I spend my time communicating with people on the opposite side of the world, without really considering the huge gap which exists between our respective realities. Or maybe it’s because I’m just in the horrible habit of over-analyzing every aspect of life and I’m looking for some meaning of time which isn’t really there.
In my head, grappling with my current train of thought, I keep coming back to Heidegger and what he taught me about being-in-time for Dasein. My sense of time is mine, and I impose it onto others, even when I know that there sense of time has to be different because of their geographical location. But my sense of time is all I have to understand the world around me right? And even if I shifted myself (and I gladly would now, and will when the time comes) to where my friend lays asleep right now, my sense of time won’t change. I’ll have the same sense of time, I’ll exist in time the same way I do now.
“The existential and ontological constitution of the totality of Dasein is grounded in temporality… Is there a way leading from primordial time to the meaning of being? Does time itself reveal itself as the horizon of being?”
I don’t know Martin. You tell me! I’ll be right here pondering it when you reach your conclusion.
