Tuesday, May 24, 2016


Oh Memory, What are you?
Just the glimpse of the corner of a wall
Or a bush or a pattern in the air
Bringing on a rush of longing for a feeling
Long swept aside or so I thought
On a terraced wave of suppressed anxiety.

Can you not intrude on my present, please?
When all I want is not to cringe and berate myself and lie awake
When I am engaged in relating to the here and now
Completely uninterested in the then and there
And the who and how.

Oh Memory, If I could so much as resist a whiff
Of the better times
And the warmer people
And the unalloyed love
And the greater passion
Of times past that should remain there
And not in the now.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Blunt Force Trauma on the Global Body Politic

When a group of physicians initially diagnose a victim of a non-penetrating trauma attack, they are not looking at forecasting the inevitable scars that will appear on the outward appearance of the victim - the sizable welts and contusions that form on those parts of the body that has most absorbed the impact of the attack, even though they do offer clues as to its severity. They are, instead, frantically looking at whether any of the major organs have been debilitated as a result of the attack - specifically, the areas such as the bowel, spleen, liver, and/or intestines, and whether the damage requires immediate surgical intervention to stabilize the victim.

The damage being done today on the common perception of the roles; politics, government, and leadership plays in each of our lives is not being given a similar consideration, as we read long-form dystopian visions of a future where plastic-maned madmen running all-powerful governments threaten allies with dismemberment from critical alliances because of the colour of their skins or the tones of their voices. Most of us are of the understanding that representative democracy is most often reflective of a compromise between impossible choices modern societies face - another large-scale real-estate development, for example, being sanctioned in a world increasingly unable to cope with our occupancy of it, in the hope that we will have eventually evolved enough to see ourselves as part of a sustainable and self-sustaining ecosystem, not as its ham-handed destroyers. But when the facade falls away, when the particularly loathsome manifestation of individual greed is revealed for all the world to see, when we are stunned in response to the sight, when we reflect on the history of civilization and all that we've been through as a culture to get to this period, when a man clearly in need of a clinical psychiatrist is being considered as the potential leader of the free world, what is it that restricts what needs to be said and done? Every nation on earth, whatever its history, will recognize in the person of Donald Trump a familiar figure in their own politics: a power-hungry, obnoxious, facile, and ultimately destructive figurehead of a system gone, quite horribly, wrong. Every nation on earth is framing laws, putting strictures on, and restricting the opportunities for; the elevation of such figures to their highest offices. Sometimes the battles are long and hard and are momentarily lost, but the war has never ended, anywhere. If there is one unifying factor among all of the world's dogged everyday battlers it is the contempt for the values that Donald Trump professes - a proselytizing zeal for xenophobia, and a proud malice that targets those less fortunate than oneself.
And here we are making fun of his hair, and his foreign-policy gaffes, and his outstanding ignorance of the issues that matter to the 99% of the population (of the world) that he stands markedly outside of, due to the fortunate circumstance of having being born into wealth. Why are we not seeing that continuing to treat his campaign as a legitimate expression of democracy is hurting us from the inside out, tearing apart those vital organs of society that have been, with a lot of effort, keeping us from tearing each other to pieces in the streets?

An unequal world needs the sceptre of genuine aspiration to continue being. We cannot succumb to fantasies that fly in the face of all we know and have gained through painful and excruciating experience of war, famine, disease through many generations that lived through their troubled times hoping against hope for a better world.

We need to shut Trump down, just as we need to shut down Modi, Cameron, the assorted tyrants in the Middle-East, and other silk-tongued-and-robed purveyors of hate in the rest of the world.
In a world abundantly capable of total and absolute self-destruction, at the expense of all the other things we could have been totally and absolutely capable of and are not, can we afford to be complacent?

Monday, January 18, 2016

When the elephant forgets

We all know about the pervasive generic belief that society always progresses, always advances in ways that are both subtle; with effects that are felt positively much much after the fact, and revolutionary; promising change to the ways we do things here and now, almost immediately imposing on us the burden of adapting or being relegated to the dark, seminally unfashionable class of every society's own version of neo-Luddite.
Does this idea ever transcend the subjective aspects of our experience of life i.e. in a personal sense viz. in how we understand human sexuality and personal expression, and communally viz. in how we use new technology to enhance our understanding of our place in the unbound, countless, and varied iterations of human community?
To focus on our sense of family, for example, is to feel lulled into an effortless belief in the sanctity of perpetual forward motion. We grow up in a social unit that either feeds our self-belief or challenges us to constantly prove just how valuable we are. We grow up as contributors or scavengers depending on our place in the social order of things, and always tend to hitch our star to the widely held wisdom of the crowd: 'It Could Be Worse'. In the process, unless we are victims of severe personal calamity, incorrigibly self-centred, or resolutely fatalistic, the default sentiment on our deathbeds is that we have lived our lives, honourably or not, in a world that is more expressive than our parents' ever was.
Could we be wrong?
I do vaguely remember a very happy childhood, followed by a measure of tragedy and relative hardship as a young man, and am now surrounded with very adult, grown-up problems in a world that bears absolutely no resemblance to the one I knew as a child, from memory. Every time there is an eruption of frustration, a rupture in the normal psychological order of things, a build-up of stress, I fall back, almost psychosomatically, into that comfortable expression of medicated relativism: It Could Be Worse. But what if it never was? Is it a myopic refusal to face the uniqueness of the circumstances of our lives? Could all the comfort and privilege a middle-class existence in the modern world affords us have not actually brought us progress?
I am constantly sensitive to the lack of a basis for comparison when my wife and I tackle a seemingly intractable issue in our family life. But, perhaps there was a time when a similar issue was tackled with relative ease in our parents' lives without a similar measure of drama and heartache, and we don't know about it simply because they're not around any longer to ask, and even if they were, it would be bad form to ask for help.
This asking for help is what I am getting at. If we have bought into this myth of continuous and self-perpetuating progress in everything, then have we also lost faith in age-old solutions to seemingly modern problems? And if so, can we ever think of the past in the same terms as we think of the future, as a hoary place full of incandescent wisdom waiting to be uncovered and enhance our experience of the present.
Modern life is a great big sky full of endless possibility, but it is also a claustrophobic, dark, and cold den of hopelessness. Perhaps we will not feel so alone if we retain a little of the sense of where we came from, and that it indeed was what led us to who we are today.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Season's Greetings

Things one remembers, does, feels, and grudgingly accepts during the holidays:

A German friend telling me that Ben Kingsley's performance in, 'Gandhi' (1982) was disappointing because he expected the portrayal to exude more cheer and goodwill.

An Australian friend laughing at my face when I told her I write in English.

Recounting all the memories I thought I shared with a Norwegian friend, animatedly, only to be met with blank stares.

Expecting sure and calamitous disaster from an impending gathering of close family members, knowing the only simple way to ward it off is to not say anything at all to anyone, just smile self-assuredly.

Looking at my growing gut with displeasure and foreboding.

Thinking about the relentless passage of time, and thinking about it again.

Reading a travelogue published over One Hundred and Eighteen Years Ago, and revelling in the topically contemporaneous dystopian humour.

Reading blurbs about books published over the last year by writers I enjoy reading, without wanting to read any of the books being so blurbed about.

Thinking about how good it would feel to be at a particular beach, at a particular time of day, among particular people right about now, when none of those things actually exist any more.

Being grateful for my life and my people.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

What do mass shooters think?

I had a dream last night.

I was angry, frustrated, depressed, maniacal, and violent. I got hold of a gun. I thought of all the people I wanted to kill, whose bodies I would riddle with bullets and feel satisfaction at having done so: all the people in my life who humiliated me, hurt me, pitied me, didn't love me back, didn't give me a chance, spoke behind my back, worked to undermine me among my friends and family, doubted me, loathed me.
I thought of all the people who I hated without ever having met: the recruiters sitting in their offices passing on my resume to the rejected pile because of my antecedents, my lack of the right qualifications, my strange name on the front page. The parliamentarians passing judgements on what constitutes a fair-go, a chance at assimilation, an equitable society for all with a level playing field. The politicians who say I am not warranted to feel offended when someone casts aspersions on my race, my ethnicity, my foreignness, that I don't really belong here, that I should be grateful for the very fact that I am here, that my life is worth less than the closest white person's.
I thought of the people I had met professionally: the clients who interjected constantly through my presentations to take credit for some input or another even though it was the first time they were encountering the idea, the smirking colleagues who feigned compassion with my circumstances when they were actually laughing at my misfortune, the school teachers and university lecturers who implied that I didn't fit in, that I wasn't the right sort of clay to be moulded, that I had an attitude problem that wouldn't stand me in good stead.

I thought of my father who died when I was nine. I thought of my mother who died when I was twenty-nine. I thought of my wife.

I thought of all those who would be affected if I killed someone. Their friends, colleagues, daughters, sons, wives, mothers, fathers.

I thought and thought and thought.

I then turned the gun on myself, put the barrel in my mouth, and fantasised about the blood splatter that would be left on the wall behind my head when I was done.
I then thought of my daughter who will turn five next month.

I woke up.