I can remember a time when morality was defined by a thick dark line. I can remember days as a small child standing on the edge, slowly nudging myself forward until just the tips of my toes were touching it. A balancing act high in the air. I can remember too how it felt to slip. How fast the words rush past your ears as you plummet.
The earth was hard, that I remember very well.
What I don't remember is the first time I kneeled before the line and really looked at it, frayed in parts and soft to the touch. I choose not to. I store this memory somewhere between the thrill of claiming new ground and a fascination for the line itself.
What if I move it?
Can it be curved?
Does it work in pink?
Is it solid, liquid or gas?
The answer, is yes. Morality is what we ask it to be, and the line that defines it a self inflicted guide to the rest of our lives. A dangerous, thrilling adventure into who we think we are, and who we know we're not. Every mark leaves it's trace, but what do lines speak of morality when we can no longer see through our own lack of conviction? When memory becomes boxed with responsibility and left to gather dust on the outskirts of what was once right, and once wrong?
Perhaps it's time to find a new challenge. To get out the old dusty and sweep up the smudge, unbox the child and find there a beautiful, dark black marker. Draw it with conviction. This is right. This is wrong. This is how I fall.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, May 23, 2008
The Book Of Dreams
I have learned that trust is no more a foundation than the lightest touch or the deepest fear. That one basket cannot take on the shape of another or that of an egg. That eggs crack. That the lecithin upon which the heart must feed seeps willingly through the gaps in the weave until we find ourselves soaked in our own lack of ability to hold it together.
I have learned that the heart is strong but the lungs are weak.
This is the book of dreams.
I have learned that the heart is strong but the lungs are weak.
This is the book of dreams.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Acts of God
What is this word, "love?" This three letter poem we long for most. For me, love has always been the expression of colour, the decore to my mansion. I gaily fill its rooms with brightness, and the sweet scent of vanilla, and books. Fireplaces. Cosy corners that become a sanction when the weather turns, and the rain beats its force against the pane of the window. It is a safety, a warmth, a knowledge that there's a place to go when the outside world shies away, and the inside welcomes you in with open arms and a promise to not pass judgement.
Perhaps this is just a vision I had in a dream once, a long time ago, before I realised that the more I put in my house, the more there is to blow away when the wooden frames crack the windows, and the crisp wind of change comes to bite my face, extinguish my fire and leave me too cold. "Love" - the act of slamming doors, of judging nothing, of judging everything in the hope that you won't be judged. Isn't that what I'm meant to do? "For God so loved the world that he gave us his only son." Why have I never read this before, this act, "love?" Why have I never understood that so loving is nothing more than to loose a part of yourself, martyrdom, and a sharp nail through the bones of gentle hands? Love was always meant to hurt.
So here I stand, once more in the storms of reality, another door blown closed to lock me out. I think I'll pitch my tent and zip it shut, wrap myself in my sleeping bag and become a silouette to the light of my own torch. Its warm enough, it's quiet, and best of all, it has no windows, no doors, no cheap salesman selling insurance against acts of God. If love is nothing more than a slap in the face and a nail through my heart, I'm nothing more than a nomad, and nothing less than dust.
Perhaps this is just a vision I had in a dream once, a long time ago, before I realised that the more I put in my house, the more there is to blow away when the wooden frames crack the windows, and the crisp wind of change comes to bite my face, extinguish my fire and leave me too cold. "Love" - the act of slamming doors, of judging nothing, of judging everything in the hope that you won't be judged. Isn't that what I'm meant to do? "For God so loved the world that he gave us his only son." Why have I never read this before, this act, "love?" Why have I never understood that so loving is nothing more than to loose a part of yourself, martyrdom, and a sharp nail through the bones of gentle hands? Love was always meant to hurt.
So here I stand, once more in the storms of reality, another door blown closed to lock me out. I think I'll pitch my tent and zip it shut, wrap myself in my sleeping bag and become a silouette to the light of my own torch. Its warm enough, it's quiet, and best of all, it has no windows, no doors, no cheap salesman selling insurance against acts of God. If love is nothing more than a slap in the face and a nail through my heart, I'm nothing more than a nomad, and nothing less than dust.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Faith and Sex and God
For the most part this is a blog about finding the sunshine in life and being strong enough to know that all people are good until proven otherwise; it is my philosophy that life was made for enjoyment and that we are here for no other reason than to love and be loved. It would be downright arrogant to say that bad days and melancholia are for other people, or that everything is always hunky-dory; but I'm true to my Leo colours and will be arrogant, just for today. As a rule, I go out of my way to look for the good, even if I'm down and out and have to eat dry cereal by candlelight in the dead of winter for lack of payday, which has happened in the past. If I am frank with life, I enjoy it because I have learned to appreciate that it's a beautiful place to be in, that personal struggles are a state of mind, and that no matter which way things turn, everything equates to choice.
In the light of my theories about the nature of love and the human need for it, I have reached a point where some things need to be reflected on, and said for the sake of saying. I don't consider myself to be a Christian; I do however try to follow the basic Christian principles and the general guidelines to living by the way of Christ. It's important for me to make this distinction because I often feel that the Bible, or in broader religious terms the book of the prophets, is taken too literally. By this I mean no disrespect to people who read it word for word, but in my understanding of religion books like the Bible are a combination of historical fact, translation, interpretation and a basic myth to teach morality to society.
I choose to follow the teachings of Christianity because they bare the closest resemblance to the way I like to live. According to my beliefs there have been prophets throughout history, one of which was the man who is now spoken of as Jesus. I don't believe that Jesus was holistically born of miracle to a virgin, or that he was the immortal son of God, and for these reasons I would consider it inappropriate of me to call myself a Christian. I do, however, believe that a prophet existed around about the time of the Biblical stories, and that he had what appeared to be "Godly" or miracle-making abilities. I choose not to comment on my belief in the miracles, perhaps some are historical fact, perhaps some are adaptations of historical faith. What is important is the message behind the scriptures - the Ten Commandments, and the teaching that we should love and be charitable towards each other. These are the foundations on which I have built my life.
It is unusual for me to speak of religion in terms of right and wrong, but a recent encounter with raw Christianity has led me to question the fundamentals of the faith, and as a result I have had to be more black and white about my standings. As with all things scientific, for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. This applies to everything, and brings about the presence of temptation, or the Devil. In a modern society the ways of the old find it increasingly difficult to survive, and here I speak directly of the relationships between men and women. It is no longer sufficient to say that sex out of wedlock is inappropriate; arranged marriages are a rarity in most contemporary cultures, and as men and women gain equal rites so sexuality has become acceptable to a point where sex is no longer just a means to procreate, but an expression of love. I would go so far as to call it an art form, and under the right circumstances a vital part of being human. Religious or not, we are after all, human.
The issue of temptation is what has led me to question my take on the morality of sex and the supposed temptation that it presents itself as. Sex is a matter of choice, but it is not the basis of all interpersonal relationships between men and women. The Bible teaches to love unconditionally. In black and white, that means love unconditionally, not love because you are married and can now have sex without feeling guilty about it, or love until the prospect of sex goes away. It means love unconditionally... there is no sex in unconditionally however you choose to spell it. In addition to the general belief among strict Christians that sexual temptation is the work of the Devil, there is also belief that the Devil tries to isolate people from their God. People are busy, find little time to be true to their faith, are faced with temptation and alcohol related social lives which all amount to the same thing; temptation, and a pull away from the purity of the Christian faith.
If a man turns his back on his oldest friend in the name of God, to protect his faith from the temptation of sex, however distant, does that not amount to isolation in the name of God? Is isolation not the exact tool of the Devil whose work he fears? In a faith that teaches unconditional, charitable love, is turning away from established love in the name of Christ and his teaching of love any different to self-sacrifice to the hands of faith, and if so, is self-sacrifice any different to flying a plane into the side of a building in the name of a God who asks it of his people, to protect his faith from the threat of evil?
Love is love... it asks nothing, requires nothing, takes nothing, all the rest of the world is the work of the mind and the fears it creates. I cannot stress it enough - the only requirement of God is to love.
In the light of my theories about the nature of love and the human need for it, I have reached a point where some things need to be reflected on, and said for the sake of saying. I don't consider myself to be a Christian; I do however try to follow the basic Christian principles and the general guidelines to living by the way of Christ. It's important for me to make this distinction because I often feel that the Bible, or in broader religious terms the book of the prophets, is taken too literally. By this I mean no disrespect to people who read it word for word, but in my understanding of religion books like the Bible are a combination of historical fact, translation, interpretation and a basic myth to teach morality to society.
I choose to follow the teachings of Christianity because they bare the closest resemblance to the way I like to live. According to my beliefs there have been prophets throughout history, one of which was the man who is now spoken of as Jesus. I don't believe that Jesus was holistically born of miracle to a virgin, or that he was the immortal son of God, and for these reasons I would consider it inappropriate of me to call myself a Christian. I do, however, believe that a prophet existed around about the time of the Biblical stories, and that he had what appeared to be "Godly" or miracle-making abilities. I choose not to comment on my belief in the miracles, perhaps some are historical fact, perhaps some are adaptations of historical faith. What is important is the message behind the scriptures - the Ten Commandments, and the teaching that we should love and be charitable towards each other. These are the foundations on which I have built my life.
It is unusual for me to speak of religion in terms of right and wrong, but a recent encounter with raw Christianity has led me to question the fundamentals of the faith, and as a result I have had to be more black and white about my standings. As with all things scientific, for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. This applies to everything, and brings about the presence of temptation, or the Devil. In a modern society the ways of the old find it increasingly difficult to survive, and here I speak directly of the relationships between men and women. It is no longer sufficient to say that sex out of wedlock is inappropriate; arranged marriages are a rarity in most contemporary cultures, and as men and women gain equal rites so sexuality has become acceptable to a point where sex is no longer just a means to procreate, but an expression of love. I would go so far as to call it an art form, and under the right circumstances a vital part of being human. Religious or not, we are after all, human.
The issue of temptation is what has led me to question my take on the morality of sex and the supposed temptation that it presents itself as. Sex is a matter of choice, but it is not the basis of all interpersonal relationships between men and women. The Bible teaches to love unconditionally. In black and white, that means love unconditionally, not love because you are married and can now have sex without feeling guilty about it, or love until the prospect of sex goes away. It means love unconditionally... there is no sex in unconditionally however you choose to spell it. In addition to the general belief among strict Christians that sexual temptation is the work of the Devil, there is also belief that the Devil tries to isolate people from their God. People are busy, find little time to be true to their faith, are faced with temptation and alcohol related social lives which all amount to the same thing; temptation, and a pull away from the purity of the Christian faith.
If a man turns his back on his oldest friend in the name of God, to protect his faith from the temptation of sex, however distant, does that not amount to isolation in the name of God? Is isolation not the exact tool of the Devil whose work he fears? In a faith that teaches unconditional, charitable love, is turning away from established love in the name of Christ and his teaching of love any different to self-sacrifice to the hands of faith, and if so, is self-sacrifice any different to flying a plane into the side of a building in the name of a God who asks it of his people, to protect his faith from the threat of evil?
Love is love... it asks nothing, requires nothing, takes nothing, all the rest of the world is the work of the mind and the fears it creates. I cannot stress it enough - the only requirement of God is to love.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Beautiful Melancholia
In the world of melancholia it is always autumn, never cold enough for falling leaves to bare the trees, never warm enough for birds. As each leaf turns to brown and gently cascades to the floor, so another is born in its place; it too will turn, and so the forest remains in a constant state of decay, and growth, and decay. The weary traveler may take refuse here, for it is beautiful, glowing gold to the touch of the sun and the warm water light of afternoon, when one may stop to rest in the shade of the trees and the earthly smells of the undergrowth.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Spaces Between
For something greater than the page, or the stories we choose to tell, it speaks of the spaces between....
Casualties of War © http://gilad.deviantart.com
Casualties of War © http://gilad.deviantart.com
Friday, November 9, 2007
Gaming 101
Wise men say that change is as good as a holiday. I disagree. Holidays are as good as a change, but in order to change one cannot regress to the ordinary. One cannot return to the past.
Maybe I’m just nostalgic? Maybe I’m just not ready for change?
In these days of unquestionable answers and questions far from answered, I find myself at an unusual loss for words. It's as though something has sucked the ink from my veins, replaced it with vinegar to dissolve the pages on which I write my story. All that remains in the void of my mind is a single vision of life, and the game it demands we play.
It takes on the shape of a puzzle box. A cube; as wide as it is high, marked by a thousand sanded blocks, coloured, of course. All things are coloured where I’m concerned. The pieces are shaped by the vague, cut down and blasted to perfection, each side smooth, every edge sharp. No two pieces the same.
The rules of the game are simple: build a perfect cube.
So the question I find myself most willing to ask is this: Why, in the thick of the game when the base is built and the lower half of the box assumes a state of perfection, is it always necessary to have to undo what already works to make room for something else, for the greater good of the game? Why do I have to take my heart apart to make room for the everyday? Why do you have to take the everyday apart to make room for your heart?
The rules of the game are simple: build a perfect cube.
Maybe I’m just nostalgic? Maybe I’m just not ready for change?
In these days of unquestionable answers and questions far from answered, I find myself at an unusual loss for words. It's as though something has sucked the ink from my veins, replaced it with vinegar to dissolve the pages on which I write my story. All that remains in the void of my mind is a single vision of life, and the game it demands we play.
It takes on the shape of a puzzle box. A cube; as wide as it is high, marked by a thousand sanded blocks, coloured, of course. All things are coloured where I’m concerned. The pieces are shaped by the vague, cut down and blasted to perfection, each side smooth, every edge sharp. No two pieces the same.
The rules of the game are simple: build a perfect cube.
So the question I find myself most willing to ask is this: Why, in the thick of the game when the base is built and the lower half of the box assumes a state of perfection, is it always necessary to have to undo what already works to make room for something else, for the greater good of the game? Why do I have to take my heart apart to make room for the everyday? Why do you have to take the everyday apart to make room for your heart?
The rules of the game are simple: build a perfect cube.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
For You...
My love, in the deep worlds where velvet shadows play to the hands of time, we seek verity. Hand in hand we string the hearts of dragons, within me light to shine a thousand stars; room for only one. In our closest hour, in the quiet of night where dreams reflect a face, a dream? my light will light the way; will spill through you to the darkest folds and the subtle science through which we've found our hearts.
Come close; be warmed by my fire in whose smouldering heat you may sleep soundly, safely tucked away from the prying eyes of night. It is a beacon of hope, no more than a lighthouse to the windswept seas of uncertainty, but to the lighthouse, a passion - use it freely; make it your own, but when darkness melts the sky and fires no longer burn for fear of getting old, make sure that somewhere, deep within, your light can light your way, can spill to the dusty recess of your mind where verity awaits, and love can set you free.
Come close; be warmed by my fire in whose smouldering heat you may sleep soundly, safely tucked away from the prying eyes of night. It is a beacon of hope, no more than a lighthouse to the windswept seas of uncertainty, but to the lighthouse, a passion - use it freely; make it your own, but when darkness melts the sky and fires no longer burn for fear of getting old, make sure that somewhere, deep within, your light can light your way, can spill to the dusty recess of your mind where verity awaits, and love can set you free.
Friday, November 2, 2007
A Muse
The old cliché is that time waits for no one, that the world only stops when the last breath drops us like photographs to the scrapbook of history. Time, in its purest form, in all its constructions and solid walls built to contain the things we feel, waits for no one.
But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Ink of Nostalgia
The power of a story lies in its end, in the final words that preserve meaning in a glass jar to serve up on toast at the start of the next. As the last dribble of ink bleeds through these pages I am reminded of the quiet of the middle - what does it speak of middles when the fondness of memory lies in beginnings, nostalgia in the gentle flow of tides that wash away the scenes, the plot, the characters?
Stories are defined by a series of lasts. The last line, the last page, the last chapter; the last kiss; and so it is in all things that bear the resemblance of importance. As endings approach, and final words parade their magic for all about to hear, middles take on new shades of grey, defined, of course, by the colour of the page. In these times the stories become a series of maps to mark the places we've been; flags in the spaces we cling to when the winds of change flap the pages to the start of a new story.
Real stories, as legends tell, read only from their middles. It is said that he who begins where he finds no beginning, and ends where no end begins, will fall through the fabric of time, ink in his veins. In the fold of the spine, in the pages torn and yellowed, his old leather hands find wisdom stitched to the seams.
Stories are defined by a series of lasts. The last line, the last page, the last chapter; the last kiss; and so it is in all things that bear the resemblance of importance. As endings approach, and final words parade their magic for all about to hear, middles take on new shades of grey, defined, of course, by the colour of the page. In these times the stories become a series of maps to mark the places we've been; flags in the spaces we cling to when the winds of change flap the pages to the start of a new story.
Real stories, as legends tell, read only from their middles. It is said that he who begins where he finds no beginning, and ends where no end begins, will fall through the fabric of time, ink in his veins. In the fold of the spine, in the pages torn and yellowed, his old leather hands find wisdom stitched to the seams.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
THE MENTAL TIMES
SUNDAY, MAY 27th, 2007.
LOOSE LOGIC AND THE LOSS OF PLOT
Plot and Logic have once again run away. They are currently believed to be operating a small, illegal Karaoke Bar on a desert island somewhere close to Antarctica. Boredom is doing research to look for leads, but at the moment the only relevant information he has managed to find is the Great Escape of '83, in which Logic, Plot and Creativity were arrested for indecent exposure, and escaped from jail using nothing but a hairpin and a wad of cotton wool. They were found selling self-replenishing-un-editable ink to cartoon characters and comic heroes on the underground three years later! Creativity was promptly arrested, where he is still serving time in the Madhouse County Jail. Logic and Plot narrowly escaped thanks to the generosity of Sanity, who provided them a place of hiding until the danger had passed. The two have remained inseparable, and have since been charged with two counts of attempted treason against Sanity, and one count of possession of illegal artefacts. Although they are not believed to be dangerous, investigators have been warned to be on the lookout for quick wit and sharp reflexes.
Sanity and Intelligence have strongly requested anyone who may have information regarding their whereabouts to contact authorities immediately, and should make no attempt to capture either Logic or Plot single-handedly, as they may find themselves enticed into a world of illegal Procrastination dealing, and suffering long term musical impairment.
FRIDAY, JUNE 31st, 2007
PLOT AND LOGIC UNDER FURTHER INVESTIGATION
After a long disappearance Plot returned on Thursday 30 June carrying approximately 5 days worth of illegal Procrastination and a chicken pizza. He was promptly interrogated into the whereabouts of Logic, who is still reported to be missing. Although the pair have been travelling together for over a month, Logic allegedly took flight last Saturday, after a dispute broke out regarding the illegal Karaoke bar. He is rumoured to have sold shares in the business to the Antarctic Mafia, and was last seen performing ballet in the rain with Liver, wearing a bobbled hat and a pink tutu.
Plot has been taken into custody for further interrogation, and is also facing charges of theft and sabotage against Diligence, who has accused Plot of stealing RGB from his workspace and substituting it with CMYK, widely known for its destructive properties.
Sanity and Intelligence have refused comment.
LOOSE LOGIC AND THE LOSS OF PLOT
Plot and Logic have once again run away. They are currently believed to be operating a small, illegal Karaoke Bar on a desert island somewhere close to Antarctica. Boredom is doing research to look for leads, but at the moment the only relevant information he has managed to find is the Great Escape of '83, in which Logic, Plot and Creativity were arrested for indecent exposure, and escaped from jail using nothing but a hairpin and a wad of cotton wool. They were found selling self-replenishing-un-editable ink to cartoon characters and comic heroes on the underground three years later! Creativity was promptly arrested, where he is still serving time in the Madhouse County Jail. Logic and Plot narrowly escaped thanks to the generosity of Sanity, who provided them a place of hiding until the danger had passed. The two have remained inseparable, and have since been charged with two counts of attempted treason against Sanity, and one count of possession of illegal artefacts. Although they are not believed to be dangerous, investigators have been warned to be on the lookout for quick wit and sharp reflexes.
Sanity and Intelligence have strongly requested anyone who may have information regarding their whereabouts to contact authorities immediately, and should make no attempt to capture either Logic or Plot single-handedly, as they may find themselves enticed into a world of illegal Procrastination dealing, and suffering long term musical impairment.
FRIDAY, JUNE 31st, 2007
PLOT AND LOGIC UNDER FURTHER INVESTIGATION
After a long disappearance Plot returned on Thursday 30 June carrying approximately 5 days worth of illegal Procrastination and a chicken pizza. He was promptly interrogated into the whereabouts of Logic, who is still reported to be missing. Although the pair have been travelling together for over a month, Logic allegedly took flight last Saturday, after a dispute broke out regarding the illegal Karaoke bar. He is rumoured to have sold shares in the business to the Antarctic Mafia, and was last seen performing ballet in the rain with Liver, wearing a bobbled hat and a pink tutu.
Plot has been taken into custody for further interrogation, and is also facing charges of theft and sabotage against Diligence, who has accused Plot of stealing RGB from his workspace and substituting it with CMYK, widely known for its destructive properties.
Sanity and Intelligence have refused comment.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
On dragons. On words.
Dragon wings will always beat to the rythem of the heart, and so it was, that all around I heard the rythmic sound of my soul, and the resonance of the silence it disturbed. Far below, in the depths beneath, there gleamed a golden lake, and an island, 'pon which I came to rest.
One day, on dragons' wings I flew, 'cross deserts, and fields and the gentle face of the moon where the stars sang to the beat of my heart, and angels came to play. You were there, you always were, but 'midst the sound of the soul and the song of the stars I failed to hear your voice.
It was too loud.
It always is.
Your words slipped past me, and with them, so did you, my frail hands too weak to hold you near. Below the moon there lies a golden lake whos depths to which you plunged, the sound that followed, silent. So here I stand 'midst the stillness of stars and the sudden sadness of loosing a friend. My dragon is quiet, tucked away from the prying eyes of the moon, her lone tear falling to the depths below to create there an island, 'pon which I'll come to rest.
One day, on dragons' wings I flew, 'cross deserts, and fields and the gentle face of the moon where the stars sang to the beat of my heart, and angels came to play. You were there, you always were, but 'midst the sound of the soul and the song of the stars I failed to hear your voice.
It was too loud.
It always is.
Your words slipped past me, and with them, so did you, my frail hands too weak to hold you near. Below the moon there lies a golden lake whos depths to which you plunged, the sound that followed, silent. So here I stand 'midst the stillness of stars and the sudden sadness of loosing a friend. My dragon is quiet, tucked away from the prying eyes of the moon, her lone tear falling to the depths below to create there an island, 'pon which I'll come to rest.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Beauty
It's a beautiful day!
Warmth sparkles on these snow-capped peaks, crystal rivers begin to melt as little fish dare their bellies at the sun. Here I sit. Alive! Breathing! My gaze awash with the golden tapestries of the valleys below as I see what it is I long for. A lone pool. Glistening with beads of infinite promise I must plunge to its depths to find there my perfect.
Refresh! Awaken my senses to the beauty within.
Warmth sparkles on these snow-capped peaks, crystal rivers begin to melt as little fish dare their bellies at the sun. Here I sit. Alive! Breathing! My gaze awash with the golden tapestries of the valleys below as I see what it is I long for. A lone pool. Glistening with beads of infinite promise I must plunge to its depths to find there my perfect.
Refresh! Awaken my senses to the beauty within.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Great Rescue
It's nice to know that there are friends you can call at 02:00 that will be there to bail you out of sticky situations. It is also comforting to know that these friends have learned to take me with a pinch of salt - I'm no easy force to contend with, and those that survive my rough seas find themselves in a highly respected circle of closeness that can only be claimed through sheer understanding of how its magic works. So it is, that I have one such friend who has offered his services as an-on call knight in shining armour! I don't consider myself someone who needs to be rescued, but paranoia at the hands of assault in my own bed has led me to appreciate the luxury of having an escape route when the need arises, as it dually did.
My flat is laid out with my bedroom against the passage that runs along our L-Shaped block, allowing me to be in tune with even the most secluded of noises that issue from below. Our gate has a padlock, and the front door merely slides open, unable to lock. This is a sound I have grown accustomed to in the wee hours of the morning when my housemates come home from their nighttime activities. Last night was no exception. Lying in a state of medium sleep I heard the familiar fumbling of the lock, the door slip open and movement in the passage. Fear struck like a cold brick with the stark realisation that no one had left the house that night, and that both roomies were sleeping snugly in their rooms.
Instinct has saved my life once before, so I picked up my phone, turned it to silent and sent a message to my knight as I heard the familiar sound of a zip, and of movement in my lounge. Listening to the bangs and the attempts at keeping quiet by the unknown impostor, I let know that there was someone in the house, and that I was stuck. Shaking, to say the least, I rolled over to pretend I was asleep, listening for the sound of a car, and a police siren.
True to his word, I was met within 5 minutes as the gate buzzed open. There was nothing for it but to leave my room to release the intercom, where I noticed the state of my front door. Locked from the inside, padlocked. Closed. I ran through a quick check of the house and went out of the front door to be met with quite a sight. There stood my knight in the downstairs car park, flanked by no fewer than 15 armed policemen, the bomb squad and a curious neighbour!
Realising my submission to paranoia, I apologised as they surrounded the building and came to my flat, where I had to politely tell them that I had been mistaken, and that everything did indeed seem in order. As I was speaking, I happened to glance over my shoulder back into the flat, only to see one of these officers shining a torch on my sleeping flatmate. Sometimes, these things happen. I sent everyone home, thanked my knight and returned to bed, hoping that it was a dream, or that, to save my sure embarrassment, everyone involved would wake to wondering whether or not the late night prowling of my flat block had in fact been real.
I have the nicest flat mate there is. This morning she brought me a cup of coffee on her way out, and politely asked if there had been anyone in the house last night because she had thought that someone had shone a torch on her, but wasn't sure. As I explained the story in full detail, so she began to giggle. Unbeknown to me, a mutual friend of my 2 housemates was sleeping over in the flat, and was due to arrive in the early hours of the morning after a night on the town. She had been a little tipsy, which explains her trouble with the lock and the banging, and had also unzipped a bag to find her pyjamas.
Looking back, I know that I have at least one friend to call at 02:00, and think that I should perhaps offer to buy him lunch for his efforts - there are not too many people that organised at such ungodly hours, so I'm quite touched. The whole story ended in a fit of laughter over morning coffee, when Jana politely passed the comment "Well, at least we know you have the flats security sorted!"
I can't say that I don't have an interesting life.
My flat is laid out with my bedroom against the passage that runs along our L-Shaped block, allowing me to be in tune with even the most secluded of noises that issue from below. Our gate has a padlock, and the front door merely slides open, unable to lock. This is a sound I have grown accustomed to in the wee hours of the morning when my housemates come home from their nighttime activities. Last night was no exception. Lying in a state of medium sleep I heard the familiar fumbling of the lock, the door slip open and movement in the passage. Fear struck like a cold brick with the stark realisation that no one had left the house that night, and that both roomies were sleeping snugly in their rooms.
Instinct has saved my life once before, so I picked up my phone, turned it to silent and sent a message to my knight as I heard the familiar sound of a zip, and of movement in my lounge. Listening to the bangs and the attempts at keeping quiet by the unknown impostor, I let know that there was someone in the house, and that I was stuck. Shaking, to say the least, I rolled over to pretend I was asleep, listening for the sound of a car, and a police siren.
True to his word, I was met within 5 minutes as the gate buzzed open. There was nothing for it but to leave my room to release the intercom, where I noticed the state of my front door. Locked from the inside, padlocked. Closed. I ran through a quick check of the house and went out of the front door to be met with quite a sight. There stood my knight in the downstairs car park, flanked by no fewer than 15 armed policemen, the bomb squad and a curious neighbour!
Realising my submission to paranoia, I apologised as they surrounded the building and came to my flat, where I had to politely tell them that I had been mistaken, and that everything did indeed seem in order. As I was speaking, I happened to glance over my shoulder back into the flat, only to see one of these officers shining a torch on my sleeping flatmate. Sometimes, these things happen. I sent everyone home, thanked my knight and returned to bed, hoping that it was a dream, or that, to save my sure embarrassment, everyone involved would wake to wondering whether or not the late night prowling of my flat block had in fact been real.
I have the nicest flat mate there is. This morning she brought me a cup of coffee on her way out, and politely asked if there had been anyone in the house last night because she had thought that someone had shone a torch on her, but wasn't sure. As I explained the story in full detail, so she began to giggle. Unbeknown to me, a mutual friend of my 2 housemates was sleeping over in the flat, and was due to arrive in the early hours of the morning after a night on the town. She had been a little tipsy, which explains her trouble with the lock and the banging, and had also unzipped a bag to find her pyjamas.
Looking back, I know that I have at least one friend to call at 02:00, and think that I should perhaps offer to buy him lunch for his efforts - there are not too many people that organised at such ungodly hours, so I'm quite touched. The whole story ended in a fit of laughter over morning coffee, when Jana politely passed the comment "Well, at least we know you have the flats security sorted!"
I can't say that I don't have an interesting life.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Peace Treaty
It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to miss a person. For all intent and purpose, and for all the voices of reason that keep such close watch over the inner workings of love and trust, there is always one that disagrees. It's the voice of regret; the little voice that's there to remind me your happiness is not a conscious decision that can be bought with a promise to love you.
In battle, there are no winners, there are no grand ceremonies to celebrate victory, and there is no soldier unaffected by the cruelty of his actions. Each fights for himself, fighting the reflection of his own heart as he tries so hard to see it in the hands of the other. On so many levels, love is a joint decision. A treaty of peace to mark mutual respect, and an agreement to honour the boundaries between what is claimed and what runs free.
In battle, there are no winners, there are no grand ceremonies to celebrate victory, and there is no soldier unaffected by the cruelty of his actions. Each fights for himself, fighting the reflection of his own heart as he tries so hard to see it in the hands of the other. On so many levels, love is a joint decision. A treaty of peace to mark mutual respect, and an agreement to honour the boundaries between what is claimed and what runs free.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
On Life, Love and Everything...
What it all comes down to in the end is realising that life, although nicely presented on a silver platter, doesn't always come with serving spoons. Sometimes you need to just get in there and dig around in the soggy entree before your fingers are sticky enough to hold a firm grip on what you are really after - those cream covered peaches in the centre of the tray. Slippery, messy and dripping with juice so sweet that for the briefest of moments as they brush passed your parched lips the world itself makes sense, they can stop a man's bleeding heart.
It restarts of course, beat by beat... enriched by the sweet pap of love, and the incomparable milk of wonder.
It restarts of course, beat by beat... enriched by the sweet pap of love, and the incomparable milk of wonder.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Happiness
Maybe I'm just facetious, but being happy is a question of allowing yourself to not fear the guilt of genuine happiness.
It all started with my purchase of 3 small "Rough Guides to the Wonders of the World" books, and a comment that I will always travel, one way or another. What took me by surprise was the blatant cynicism with which this was met by my collegue, and the honest response of "Well, if that if that's what you think you will do than good for you, but reality and dreams are two different worlds. Good things don't really happen to people. People are bad. Paradise is solitude." Interesting.
What followed was a psychological trip to bitterness and loneliness, all because you are too afraid to let yourself enjoy the good in the world. I have seen this before. This continuous need to find things that make life seem harder than it is, or more complicated, or less inclined to accommodate a mere you in the depths of other peoples success. The impact of difference in perceived experience has seldom been clearer to me as it was during our virtual travels through the books of the world.
You love the look of Kenya, but could never go there, what if you caught Malaria, even with the little white pills? Europe looks like fun, but there are too many things to see, where would you start? The Australians are rude, New Zealand is bland, South America may just give you a tropical disease. The Middle East - fascinating, except for the risk of sunburn and dehydration in the scorching heat. You won't travel the world until you have seen your own country first. Fair Enough. You want to visit the Freestate, but won't go; Bloemfontein is for farmers and you are above the ranks of the flatness with which a Bloemfontein farmer goes about the business of living his life. No, farming won't do either, best stay in PE where you are protected from the possibility of being touched by this little thing called happiness.
I think what I'm trying to say, is that not wanting people to get close to you is not a fear of hurt, but a fear of being loved. A fear of getting Malaria is not the fear of sickness, but not catching it the fear of having to realise that you are blessed with good health. Regrets are not there to remind us that we have made mistakes in life, and that we are bad. Regrets are there to show us that there is more to the way of the world, and that there are multiple answers to the questions we force ourselves to ask for fear of having all the answers.
It turned out to be an interesting evening in the end. As I watched you drive away a usual smile broke over my face, making me fully aware of the enormity of the difference between us. You in your car, afraid to breathe in case you enjoy it. Me in my car, singing opera, watching the world unfold.
It all started with my purchase of 3 small "Rough Guides to the Wonders of the World" books, and a comment that I will always travel, one way or another. What took me by surprise was the blatant cynicism with which this was met by my collegue, and the honest response of "Well, if that if that's what you think you will do than good for you, but reality and dreams are two different worlds. Good things don't really happen to people. People are bad. Paradise is solitude." Interesting.
What followed was a psychological trip to bitterness and loneliness, all because you are too afraid to let yourself enjoy the good in the world. I have seen this before. This continuous need to find things that make life seem harder than it is, or more complicated, or less inclined to accommodate a mere you in the depths of other peoples success. The impact of difference in perceived experience has seldom been clearer to me as it was during our virtual travels through the books of the world.
You love the look of Kenya, but could never go there, what if you caught Malaria, even with the little white pills? Europe looks like fun, but there are too many things to see, where would you start? The Australians are rude, New Zealand is bland, South America may just give you a tropical disease. The Middle East - fascinating, except for the risk of sunburn and dehydration in the scorching heat. You won't travel the world until you have seen your own country first. Fair Enough. You want to visit the Freestate, but won't go; Bloemfontein is for farmers and you are above the ranks of the flatness with which a Bloemfontein farmer goes about the business of living his life. No, farming won't do either, best stay in PE where you are protected from the possibility of being touched by this little thing called happiness.
I think what I'm trying to say, is that not wanting people to get close to you is not a fear of hurt, but a fear of being loved. A fear of getting Malaria is not the fear of sickness, but not catching it the fear of having to realise that you are blessed with good health. Regrets are not there to remind us that we have made mistakes in life, and that we are bad. Regrets are there to show us that there is more to the way of the world, and that there are multiple answers to the questions we force ourselves to ask for fear of having all the answers.
It turned out to be an interesting evening in the end. As I watched you drive away a usual smile broke over my face, making me fully aware of the enormity of the difference between us. You in your car, afraid to breathe in case you enjoy it. Me in my car, singing opera, watching the world unfold.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
An Aquired Taste
"You're an aquired taste," he slipped in casually. As with all matters of the heart, a little too casually.
I have always avoided that word, "aquired," as though it covers all manner of sin. Aquired friends, aquired taste, an aquired affinity for the unknown which makes me string my heart across bustling cafe-lined streets, and the tiny space between head and heart where even the best forget to breathe. For all the people who have lined my streets with their hot cinnamon buns drenched in icing-sugar, buying their cheap souviners from the local trade stalls, none have stopped to listen to the subtle sounds. The quiet that resonates in the cracks of the walls and the cobblestone pavings that hold it together. Some have grown to love the taste of lust as they sip Chardonnay on the banks of my heart, chatting in stark animation of worlds that exist beyond my horizons. Others are waiting. Waiting for the right time of day, the right light; Perhaps the right way to look at me, the right way to fully appreciate the crispness of my air and the intensity with which I colour my world.
It's ironic. I pride myself on the openness of my heart, and the free assosciation with which its' residents carry out their daily lives. There are no price tickets hanging in shop windows, no sale signs, no menu's, no servants, no cheap wine in cardboard boxes. No competition. People grow to love this place with it's little chalets, its singing birds and shaded side-walks. Ironic that this is my downfall. Maybe I let them all in in the hope that one day, just once, someone will walk through my gates and call me home, without needing to aquire a taste for the quiet sounds in the cracks of my walls, or the intense hues with which I paint my world.
I have always avoided that word, "aquired," as though it covers all manner of sin. Aquired friends, aquired taste, an aquired affinity for the unknown which makes me string my heart across bustling cafe-lined streets, and the tiny space between head and heart where even the best forget to breathe. For all the people who have lined my streets with their hot cinnamon buns drenched in icing-sugar, buying their cheap souviners from the local trade stalls, none have stopped to listen to the subtle sounds. The quiet that resonates in the cracks of the walls and the cobblestone pavings that hold it together. Some have grown to love the taste of lust as they sip Chardonnay on the banks of my heart, chatting in stark animation of worlds that exist beyond my horizons. Others are waiting. Waiting for the right time of day, the right light; Perhaps the right way to look at me, the right way to fully appreciate the crispness of my air and the intensity with which I colour my world.
It's ironic. I pride myself on the openness of my heart, and the free assosciation with which its' residents carry out their daily lives. There are no price tickets hanging in shop windows, no sale signs, no menu's, no servants, no cheap wine in cardboard boxes. No competition. People grow to love this place with it's little chalets, its singing birds and shaded side-walks. Ironic that this is my downfall. Maybe I let them all in in the hope that one day, just once, someone will walk through my gates and call me home, without needing to aquire a taste for the quiet sounds in the cracks of my walls, or the intense hues with which I paint my world.
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