The sun’s gone to hell.
Six years without eyes and feet…
Of course it isn’t literal, but it is the truth. He has no eyes, he has no feet. He has no oppurtunity to see the sun or the sky, to walk through the grass. To experience the simple pleasures of walking beneath the moon and glancing up at the starlight.
I’m probably a bit behind the times, but I stumbled upon this article for the first time today.
What an ego we have here in the western world, sitting in our ivory tower, patting ourselves on the back and talking about how we are “champions” of human rights. Whose rights are we championing again?
There are hot tears of anger pricking at the back of my eyes as I type this. I’m so infuriated, so livid, after reading this article, and a slew of others which cover the topic. So a boy of 15 is taken in to captivity, he’s put in a cage and over the next six years subjected to various forms of torture… Oh I’m sorry, we call it “enhanced interrogation” now don’t we? I wonder if that helps the interrogators sleep at night.
Lets have a good look at that word. Interrogator. Now I know not everyone sees the world in terms of semiotics but what is that I see there? Wait, it’s only missing one letter. Do you see what I see?
How can a nation, how can nations for that matter, supposedly engaged in a “War on terror” justify their detainment of individuals in a place like Gitmo and not appear hypocritical? It is impossible. Didn’t we fight a war, a World War, to protect the rights of every individual. Didn’t we see the error, the injustice, of separating an individual from the wider world, of wiping them from the map? I thought that was why we had Tokyo and Nuremberg. I thought that was why we put Tojo and Goering on a stand, I thought that was why we vehemently condemned the actions of Lenin, Stalin and Mao. I thought we’d learnt something from history. Am I misled? Is my line of thought really just naive idealism?
When the Bolshevik’s and Dzerzhinsky were rounding up the whites they put them into dungeons and kept them like animals, deprived them of sleep, then made them dig their own graves. And what did the Bolshevik’s have to say about these techniques? They were necessary to glean the infomation needed to protect the state. Can we really hide behind an excuse like “national security” and use it as justification to torture people?
Oh sure, no one at Gitmo is being made to Dig their own grave, no bamboo stakes are being driven underneath their fingernails. But does the percieved severity really matter? Simulated drowning, sleep deprivation, prolonged constraint, exposure to severe degrees of hot and cold… can we really pretend these aren’t forms of torture? These are the methods used by the CCP in the Korean War against American soldiers to illicit false confessions. Psychological studies have proven that these methods of “interrogation” have caused individuals to abandon reality as they understand it. Furthermore, in the 1950’s, when these techniques were used against American soldiers, the U.S. Government deemed them acts of torture.
He was a kid, now he’s 21. It’s alleged he threw a Grenade and killed a soldier, if he did or didn’t is irrelevant. He deserves his day in court, a fair trial, like every other citizen of a modern democracy.
He deserves a chance to speak with his Mother, to see her, to hear her tell him that she loves him, that she’s suffering with him.
Yet he’s been deprived of those basic rights for six years.
Barack Obama says he’ll close the doors of Guantanamo. I certainly hope he does. Because as long as a place like that still exists we’ll never have any hope of living in a world without hate and fear. How can we ever expect others to abandon their violent and inhumane actions when we have yet to abandon our own?
The golden girl and the steel umbrella : Part One.
It was a blustery afternoon. A smaze of grey clouds hung over the city skyline like a wet towel slung over the shower door. I was running late by 8 minutes, having missed my first bus, and so I’d scarecely heeded the weather man’s forecast as I rushed out of my apartment door. Judging by the sky above me however, I was predicting a storm.
Even on such a miserable day, the city was still full of people. Most of them much like myself, absorbed by the world of work, coming each day to the temple of the city to pay homage to concrete gods. I could feel a frown tugging at the corners of my lips, a gust of wind whistled down the tunnel like terrace, its streets lined with steel, glass and cement golliaths. I felt the cold most of all on my chest, I mentally scolded myself for not wearing a scarf. I had a box full of scarves, all different colours and sizes, and yet I still managed to traverse my way through the whole of winter without a swath of wool or silk about my neck. Perhaps I was getting forgetful in my old age. Though that excuse only stands if twenty-something-but-not-quite-thirty can be considered “old”.
I let my eyes skim over the bustling crowds, sliding over the familiar profiles of suited men and women, clutching briefcases, nursing manila folders close to their chests. Like so many ants, gathering what their queens needed and dutifully bringing it back to her. My bored gaze skipped from one person to the next, barely taking the time to notice any details of face or figure, I was so absorbed in my own hurried, frenetic thoughts I almost didn’t notice her. But then, it’s rare to see a figure so striking, so my pace slowed to an amble and I allowed my head to pivot upon my neck to properly take in the stunning visage of a young woman. She stood at the edge of a patch of grass on the opposite side of the road. At first it was her dress which caught my eye. It was a vibrant gold, cinched tight at the waist, but with long, elegant sleeves much like one would see on a kimono. The fabric almost seemed to ripple in the wind, as if the woman was wearing the surface of a lake, tinged golden by the rays of the sun. But the sky above me was bleak, and the weak beams of light which did break through the clouds were pale and colourless. Almost at a stand still I regarded the woman with a sense of awe. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, straight and smooth and the colour of flax, like a sheath of silk suspended over her skull. The strangest thing of all about this enchanting young creature was the object which she clasped in her slender hand. It was an umbrella, and there was nothing unusual about that, in weather like this most people carried an umbrella to keep their hair dry, but there was something distinctly odd about this umbrella. It shone, even in the limited light offered by the sky, a spangle of silver, as if it were made not from waterproofed fabric, but from some thin sheet of metal. It’s folds were so precise, their symmetry was so perfect, so exact, it put the skyscrapers surrounding it to shame. And the way she held it, not like some simple device created to keep heads and faces dry. No, she brandished the umbrellla, as if it were a sword, and she a strange samurai who would use it to slice through the rain clouds over head and banish the droplets of condensation from the sky completely. She noticed me watching her, and seemed to bow her head to me, as if to confirm my fanciful thoughts. My shoulders stiffened and I quickly looked away from her, focusing my eyes ahead on the pedestrian crossing. How embarassing that she should catch me staring. I looked about to see if any of the others walking along the sidewalk had noticed her, but they all seemed to busy, to wrapt up in their own heads to pay her any mind. I didn’t dare look back at her over my shoulder. I had wasted enough time gawking. Now I was sixteen minutes late. I picked up the pace. Power walking is an important skill, even for a marketing consultant like me.
As I was about to turn the corner and make my last mad dash toward the man made Zenith which housed my humble office my memory decided to kick-start its engines. I had an afternoon tea business meeting with some potential clients. Of course, I’d had it penciled in my diary for a month, and yet I still hadn’t prepared anything. Cursing my forgetfulness I hurried on past my turn and towards the central shopping mall, there was a supermarket there, I’d grab something quickly and then jog back to the office building. It wouldn’t take me long, five, ten minutes, maximum.
The store floor was packed with people, each manevouring there silver shopping carts, or swinging their bright red and green baskets as they perused the aisles, searching for whatever goods they felt they “needed” in their fridge and pantry. I made a beeline for the biscut aisle. Hoping that there, amongst the chocolate chip cookies and vanilla wafers I could find a suitable offering for my afternoon tea. The shelves stretched out before me, a horizon of colourful packages. I pursed my lips, taking little notice of nutritional value, searching instead for something tasty and at least a little impressive. Finally I found a pack of chocolate and almond Italian biscoti. Rushing, always rushing I grabbed it from the shelf and spun swiftly on my heel.
There, blocking my path, like some metallic spectre she stood. I felt a shiver run up my spine, the golden woman, had she followed me? She still clutched her umbrella, holding it to one side as if she were ready to parry an attack. Her eyes were two bright yellow jewels, the iris of each flecked with fragments of sapphire. Involuntarily I bit my tongue and stepped back. The smallest of smiles crossed her lips, she reached her free hand forward, its flawless, ivory flesh reaching toward me. I opened my mouth, my mind already forming a protest, but to my surprise she reached above my head. Plucking from the shelf a box of plain crackers. She brought it towards her with a fluid grace, it was as if it were some delicate piece of china and she was gingerly fetching it to carry it to its place at the table. I closed my mouth again, feeling stupid, what on earth had made me so paranoid? I was worrying too much about being late for work. The golden woman gave a gentle bow of her head and moved away, gliding across the supermarket floor like it was ice. I stood for a moment, watching her move, the box of crackers in one hand, and weilding the steel coloured umbrella in the other.
For a moment, I forgot about my meeting, the time, the brisk jog back to my office building, and I lost myself in the curvature of her spine, the elegance of each tiny step made by the enigmatic woman garbed in gold. As suddenly as she had appeared before me, she melded into the crowd of shoppers and I lost sight of her. With a soft shake of my head I spurred my legs and feet to action and wound my way through the throng towards the checkouts, half-hoping I would catch another glimpse of the elusive golden beauty.
This is the beginning of a parable like short story that slipped into my brain on the bus today. I intend to dedicate the next few days to working on, and I may post up each part as they are completed.
Margaret and David gave the Dark Knight 4 starts tonight on The Movie Show, it’s not often those two give a film such a high score. Of course, I sort of expected it. Nolan has a real flair for the Batman franchise and I’m very much looking forward to watching the film. Hopefully I’ll catch on the weekend.
So. Here we are.
So.
Here we are.
I could go to the effort of typing up a lengthy introduction, telling you a mountain of boring facts and figures that “sum” me up, but that sort of thing isn’t really my style, it’s a bit to stifling, in my humble opinion, to try and record the details of your life like some sort of report.
After several years of studying literary theory I like to think I have become a bit of a “post-modern enigma”, that I’ve surrendered my identity to the simulacrum of the internet and the facets of my personality are left to others to re-construct, however they see fit.
However that doesn’t mean I intend to fill this here “blog” with nothing but existential questions and lengthy philosophical diatribes. They will crop up from time to time, when the menagerie in my mind makes an interesting suggestion, or when I come across an issue or idea and I feel the need to over-analyse it. There will be just as many posts on the mundane and mediocre aspects of my existence, trust me. I will tell you about myself, but in dribs and drabs. Little packets of information, much like the packets of data traveling from my desktop PC here at my work, to whatever technological medium you’re viewing this on.
Now, for the first data packet.
I have a thin, but still rather nasty cut running from the middle of the cupids bow on my top lip, all the way through to my plump bottom lip. It was inflicted upon me by my precious little chimera, Cat Benatar. (Yes, like Pat Benatar. But she’s a cat. Thus, Cat Benatar.) We were indulging in one of our favorite pass times, playing with a ball of wool, or for any readers in the northern hemisphere, a ball of yarn. She is quite protective of her little ball of wool. My Mother, who adamantly insists she hates cats, made her the tiny little ball of pink thread to bat around to her heart’s content, and to keep her claws away from the lounge. (I don’t usually stay with my Mother, but I am there at the moment, with my Partner and our kitten until our new living arrangements are finalized. It has been two weeks, and although I love my Mother, and her Husband, it has not been the easiest two weeks. Mother’s are notoriously difficult creatures to please.)
Ever since Mum presented little Benatar with this new toy a week ago she has hardly been seen without it. She picks it up in her mouth and trots about with it, from room to room, dropping it at the feet of whoever is present and then staring up with her amber eyes and making a plaintiff little “mew” sound until they resign to play with her. Well, last night, shortly after arriving home I was made subject to this adorable performance and decided to give in to the calico cat and sprawled myself on the lounge room floor and picked up the ball of wall and begin to indulge my beloved pet in a game of tug-o-war. Well the game got progressively more ebullient, and little Benatar got progressively more frenetic, until finally, one tug led to another and I had a tiny paw, needle like claws extended, rake across my lips.
Well there was swearing, and blood, and needless to say, the tug-o-war ended with Benatar the clear victor. While I, the wounded loser, slinked off to the bathroom to procure some toilet tissue to dab at the incision. When I was satisfied that the bleeding had well and truly stopped, (I’ve never been a fan of blood.) I decided to nurse my lip back to health by getting a beer. I’m a strong believer in adding a slice of lemon to beer. Even if it isn’t a corona. (Lime works well too!) So after I’d stuffed the lemon down the neck of the bottle I proceeded to take a swig.
Instead of enjoying the refreshing tang of citrus and lager, my lips were set ablaze with a stinging sensation. Alcohol does not mix well with open wounds, even if they are only sliver thin.
Today, the cut on my lip is raised, and my usually pale pink pout is red and puffy. I’ve attempted to refrain from touching it, but there is something about running your finger over a raised wound that is strangely appealing to my sense of touch… is this just me? Or does everyone subconsciously enjoy the feeling?
1:15pm. Fifteen minutes till my lunch date. Outlook express has just kindly reminded me with it’s chiming pop-up. So here is as good-a-place as any to end this first post. The weekend starts at 4pm. I’m hoping for adventure, we’ll have to see what the storm clouds bring!
