Afterglow

I have ideas - brilliant, sparkly, glowing ideas. And then I forget them and all I'm left with is an afterglow, and the knowledge that something bright and shiny passed briefly through my mind, but now is gone.

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I have no ambition only a headache

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I have no ambition only competency

I have no ambition to recommend me to power, no desire for conquest, no megalomania. Nothing in common with those many mighty leaders we remember in the course of our history. I have only competency. Simple, plain proficiency for the task at hand. Though I do not dream of personal glory, I will make good choices, grow this country and benefit it, for that is in the job description, and that is what I do and what I have always done. I do what is right and I do my job well. And if that is enough for you to choose me as Dictator-in-Supreme for our nation, then I will humbly accept your choice. And if not, then I will continue in whatever task you or the new Dictator-in-Supreme will give me.

Your servant.

The True Value of Tears

Mrs Dewbridge was flustered. A prospective customer had turned up at her small production unannounced, and from the look of him, his business might finally give her the chance to overtake that trumped-up Mrs Mulberry. She eyed the tall stranger appraisingly and ventured a self-depreciative comment.

“We’re only a small scale production here, sir, but I believe you’ll find our produce of the finest quality.”

“Yes, well, we shall see. You should know that I am surveying other producers as well as I have been having…” he hesitated, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “supply issues.”

Mrs Dewbridge struggled to contain her glee. She knew it! Mrs Mulberry was finally having the supply issues she herself, Mrs Dewbridge, had forecast.

“Ah…” she nodded her head for a moment with an expression I’m sure she fancied gave her a knowledgeable and sympathetic air but in reality made her look more like she had swallowed her bottom teeth. “Yes, I understand some once-reputable outlets are experiencing shortages for which they failed to prepare although they cannot say these shortages were not foreseen. We, however, have refined the harvesting method somewhat so as to guarantee not only long term production, but also consistently higher output per unit with abundantly superior quality.”

“Oh really?” The stranger sat forward slightly in his seat and, encouraged, Mrs Dewbridge became somewhat loquacious.

“Indeed. As I’m sure you know, ever since Gainsborough made the remarkable discovery of the power of tears, there has been much debate as to the best way to harvest this self-replenishing resource. The error our competitors made is a small one, but fundamental to the reason for the superiority of our produce.”

Mrs Dewbridge paused until the customer bid her to continue and launched into her favourite subject.

“You see, the most common method for harvesting tears is pinned on causing trauma to the donor units. Some use verbal stimuli, others physical pain, deprivation and a variety of provocations to induce the flow. Without exception, they find that the tears come in waves, ebbing and flowing, but inevitably dissipating into a tearless despair. At this point they face a choice: 1) they combine the stimuli to attain a new intensity which normally requires spending longer time with the subject and having more staff in attendance, 2) allow the patient time to rest and recover for a period; or 3) find new stock to mine. All of these options cost the company money.

“Despite the development of more efficient tear harvesting equipment, no matter the technological advances in storage, they cannot escape this trend because it is based on a single, fundamental fallacy; and that fallacy is this: that a human being sheds the most tears for itself.

“And so you see our approach is unique. We do not touch our harvesters. We do not deny them food or shelter. We supply all they could ever need so they maintain optimal health and strength. Instead, we turn our attention to a single subject, a subject which we then use to service dozens of producers as stimulus. And thus, rather than spend hours with many patients with multiple staff required to force the stimuli to ever increasing levels, we instead have them exert their speciality on one and have that one visit the rest. We do not harvest the tears from the stimulus-subject, and indeed we find the tears do not last long. However the harvested beings produce greater flow, and often quicker.

“The quickest we’ve ever achieved maximal flow is a mere fifteen seconds from introduction of the stimulus-subject into the producer’s cell. Some of our more sensitive donors can produce consistently high volumes of tears for days before the stimulus has to be reintroduced.

“And so sir, you’ll see that our humble production is far more time and cost efficient with far less detrimental effect on the livestock and, as I’m sure you’ll agree if you’d care to sample. Produces tears far richer, far stronger to the taste with more body and depth than any tears you have ever drunk. And all because here at our establishment we understand that tears shed for oneself are a finite resource, but tears shed for others flow endlessly with the proper stimuli.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Reader, if at this point you are wondering at me and my motivations in this, if you yourself weep at the idea of the torture of a few individuals solely to harvest tears, or, worse still, if you scorn the sentimentality of tears of the sensitive, grant me a moment to explain myself. You see I do believe that there is a value in tears. If that value could be harnessed, I do not doubt it would lead to harvesting. Whether that value has a power or not, whether it is merely a seasoning to life like the salt of which it tastes, I leave that to you to decide. I believe in allowing tears for those for whom no tears are shed. I believe that our tears speak in a language we only vaguely understand the meaning of. And I believe that tears can affect outcomes, induce mercy, encourage forgiveness, express compassion.

So you see, dear Reader, I believe in the value of tears. And in a world gone wrong, that value could be harvested, its power could be used against us and could ultimately be an excuse to inflict more suffering, more hardship and oppression.

But do not despair, dear Reader. For I have not finished the tale.

Cursed blessed sleep

I met a sad man, a frayed man, a weary man. He had shadows under his eyes and slumped on the bar like a man gone in drink, though he had touched nothing but water the whole evening. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“I would be. I’m jealous.”

“Why don’t you then?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bloodshot tinges of the whites.

“I’m a cursed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I have achieved something significant.”

“What? Ever?”

“No, just each day.”

“Is it anything in particular?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. At first I got by with cleaning my house, or cooking dinner, or doing the dishes. Then I had to call my mother, or pay a bill, or write a letter. Now, I don’t know. I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept for two days. What should I do?”

At that moment his hand seemed to leap from its supporting position beneath his chin and he collapsed on the bar, snoring.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the cursed man, with something between bemusement, pity and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.



I met a happy man, a contented man, a fulfilled man. His eyes were bright blue and lines marked only smiles in a youthful face. He sat at the bar, cheerily looking around the crowded pub, far too cheerful for such an hour. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“You should. I highly recommend it.”

“Have we met?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bright white of the whites.

“I’m a blessed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I achieved something significant.”

“Last time somebody told me that they immediately fell asleep.”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t understand and was too tired to try to follow.

“Just telling you was significant, last time. And so I started to tell others, and do things, and achieve things. And it is so nice to sleep knowing that you have done something that day, something good, something worthwhile. I may only sleep a couple of hours, but I could go for days. Of course I rarely do, unless opportunity keeps from me.”

I did not know how to respond. I was vaguely jealous. I wished I’d done something significant that day.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the man with something between jealousy, hope and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.

A Good Feeling

I had a dream the other night. I was at a market and I came across a stall filled with bottles of all shapes, colours and sizes. I started rifling through them. A big square blue bottle was labelled “financial independence,” a small round yellow one was labelled “prosperity” and a curved red one had a tag with “fertility” announced in bold writing. I kept looking. A black and white bottle was for “decisiveness” while a rosy pink bottle was for “daydreams.” I kept looking, getting increasingly frustrated. Some bottles piqued my interest, but I couldn’t decide which one to get and I didn’t want to get the wrong one. There had to be something better.

Eventually I found a small, dusty bluey-green bottle. Its stopper seemed to be almost sitting loose in the neck, and only a yellowed corner remained of the label. I caught the eye of the stall-keeper.

“What’s this one?” I asked, curious.

“That’s a good feeling.”

My heart lurched in my chest. This was the one I wanted. I hesitated – surely it was more responsible to get “financial independence” or there had been a gold bottle of “luck” which I had thought too expensive but which may be of more use.

“How much is it?” I asked, almost decided to buy it.

The stall-keeper named a price half again as expensive as the gold bottle. I did not try to hide my surprise.

“What?! How can a good feeling be so expensive? Surely it’s a common commodity – I could get a good feeling off a blue sky, or a piece of chocolate, a favourite song or calling a friend. I’ll give you a quarter of the price you ask.”

The stall-keeper rebuffed my offered money.

“People get good feelings from those things you named, but the sugar high comes with a fall, a favourite song can be worn out from over-playing and your friend may not answer the phone. A blue sky could be the despair of a drought stricken farmer. You see, those other things are unreliable. To make this good feeling we had to distil the essence of all these things, in a secret recipe.”

“Okay, I’ll give you half.”

The stall-keeper shook his head with a smile.

“You still don’t understand. This is more than just feeling happy. This is getting out of the right side of the bed sort of good feeling. With this, you get every other potion I offer: A good feeling about a choice will make you decisive; with a good feeling you create your own luck; you are courageous, confident, popular. Never underestimate the power of a good feeling, my friend.”

Wordlessly, I handed over the requested amount, unable to haggle further. With the little bottle in hand, I moved away from the stall, eager to get out of sight of the keeper that I may taste my purchase. I had removed the stopper and was raising the bottle to my lips when I woke up. I lay in bed, sighed and wondered which side of the bed to get out of.

Protagonist

Let me tell you a secret. A writer writes for one of three reasons: because he cannot live, because he would not live, or because sometimes writing is living. It might then be proposed that, in certain cases, the world might be a poorer place if life had provided more, or less, fully and the imagination was no longer obliged to compensate. A writer, therefore, could be pitied either way, for he writes because he does not know something or he writes because he does. Great depth of emotion can prompt a flurry of writing, but so can its absence. As for myself, I'm not sure which state is the more enviable.

Having considered the plight of the writer, I now ask you to turn your attention to the ain character. To a protagonist, it matters very little whether his tale remains confined to a notebook, viewed by few or published with great success. Any rewrites, as far as he is concerned, obliterate all but faint echoes of previous versions, echoes which are or at least should be ultimately erased or rendered invisible. Unlike the writer, the protagonist is, conventionally, guaranteed to live to some extent. And also unlike the writer (or a good one at least), he has only one tale to tell: he knows no variation and can handle no renovation, as long as he is bound by print. He knows only one tale, he lives only one tale, he tells only one tale: his own.

And so, dear Reader, like any good main character, I tell you the only story I know. Do not hold me responsible for its faults nor for its strengths. As dearly as I would love to hear your own story, I am bound by the very words you read to tell you mine. For it is the only one I know.

My circular / tangential theory of time

Time is circular. That doesn’t mean that everything is always repeating itself, although that’s often the case. Rather, it's a combination of tangents and curves that represents our past, present and future.

If time was represented as a circle, at any given point in time what you saw as the future would be a point directly in front of you: a tangent. You are heading towards this point although you will never attain it, because as you follow the circle, you are constantly changing direction, little by little. That doesn’t make that future any less yours: you are still heading towards it and your path would be far different if you were heading towards a different one. But forces affect you and nudge you so you continue on the curve a little ways, adjusting the tangent you are heading towards. You may head towards this one a little longer, moving in a straight line for a while, and then something taps you in another direction; you adjust your sights, refocus your target, and continue. In this way time and life is simply a series of tangents and circles.

Connected to this is my belief that some of the harshest, most gut-wrenching moments come when that tangent, that vision of the future, is torn away from us, and we spin like a broken compass, with no sense of north. That’s what happens when someone dies: all the things you had actively or passively imagined for the future – birthdays, parties, arguments, conversations, tea, cookies, gifts – get torn away with them, no longer a possible future. That’s what happens when you get fired, or you don’t get into the course at uni you want, or you suffer a career-altering injury: all your plans for the future, all your security, has to be re-assessed, and re-instated with another goal in mind.

Life is never as you imagined it. Where you are now is rarely where you imagined yourself to be 10 years ago, or at least at our age that’s the case. But would you have got here if you hadn’t been looking at that point off to the side, on a tangent 10 years ago? Remember a minute change in angle greatly affects the tangent, the further you follow it from the present point.

The Rose Grower

Bethany looked after the woman who bustled away, her mouth slightly open and the last morsel of her muffin poised between her mouth and the plate that had just been swept away, momentarily forgotten. She collected herself and turned to her table companion.

'You know, I know I should like Mrs. Galloway; she does so many good things, she's always busy helping people; see even now she's collecting plates when Jenny's supposed to be doing it; but she somehow irritates me.' She gestured to the slightly stooped woman and her ever-growing stack of dirty plates.

Marcus nodded knowledgeably.

'Ah, so she's a rose-grower then.'

Bethany frowned slightly, resisting asking what he meant by that until she had had a good think about it. Marcus smiled.

'There are rose-growers everywhere,' he explained expansively. 'They grow the most beautiful roses; they spend every waking hour tending their precious roses, roses which bring delight to the world: on Valentine's Day, on birthdays and anniversaries, to lovers, to lost loves, to new loves, to say sorry, or to say welcome, or to say congratulations or thankyou. A rose-grower's family takes pride in their roses; a rose-grower's neighbours boast of their view. But the rose-grower is so busy growing roses that she never stops…'

Bethany's face lit up as she realised where Marcus was going with his analogy and joined in the final words, 'to smell the roses.'

She smiled and looked back to Mrs Galloway.

'Yes, she does good things but takes no delight in it.'

Marcus made a sound of agreement. 'And she probably thinks it is best that way, and that doing good things for pleasure is purely selfish.'

Coloured glasses

Mary was an ardent gardener. She worked hard on her Saturdays to prune and trim and tidy and weed and rake and tie and pick. She meticulous watered her gardens every Wednesday between 7 and 9am and every Sunday between 4 and 7pm with a hose with a trigger nozzle so as not to waste any water and with a watering can for those hard-to-reach plants.

Her roses were her pride. She never tired of visitors praising her roses as they came to her door and would lavish them on friends, family, colleagues, visitors and strangers alike. But from time to time she did get irritated at the thorns. Despite her thick gardening gloves, she often pricked or scratched or scored herself when pruning or picking or planting or weeding.

“Why do roses have to have thorns?!” she asks.

But the thing is, in a world where we focus on beauty, we presume that roses grow thorns as a defence. We believe that beauty is fragile and needs to be protected. We take it as an analogy that that which is lovely must develop barriers and that care must be taken in handling that which we love for it might hurt us.

Why do we never consider that maybe it’s not roses that have thorns, but thorns that have roses. Maybe the thorns, isolated, unloved, alienated, conceived of a flower so beautiful that all who saw it loved it and were momentarily distracted from the thorny stems leading to the blooms.

But if that’s the case, I doubt the thorns mind our preoccupation with the flowers, although they may blush with shame when we curse their own intrusion on our awareness.

Give me a sign

You want a sign. You grieve the fact you're disoriented. You cry out for direction. You want an obvious clear neon-lit sign.

And then when it comes you're not sure what it means.

It's green, it's arrow-shaped, it clearly points along a single pathway. The pathway is flagged with bright torches which light up in sequence like some runway signalling a plane to land. The sign says GO THIS WAY and has not only your name on it, but your middle and last names, your date of birth and the names your parents were considering giving you, every nickname anyone who's loved you has ever given you and even the nicknames that nobody called you but you gave yourself.

Yet still you cry, "What does this mean?!"

You don't want a sign. You want a tunnel. You want to be pressed in on all sides with only one possible escape. You want the path forward to be the only path. You don't want to have to choose. You want all choices to be made for you and to follow on in sweet ignorant enthusiastic bliss.

So I’ll tell you this one thing: Choice sucks. But it sucks more not to have it. To choose is to be responsible, to be an adult, to take control of your life and say I and I alone shall be accountable for my success and my failure, for my fortune and my mistakes; I have nobody to blame but myself from henceforth and I shall be my own strength. I shall endeavour to choose with logic, with heart, with generosity and with discipline. And if ever I cannot choose between two options, only the trusted few shall be my guide.

I’m cast adrift in a roiling sea but I am the captain of my destiny.

I tell you this: you do only have one choice: you must choose.

Find your flat place

For Kristen


Find your flat place. Everyone needs somewhere where the ground is flat beneath you. And it's not always home. For some people home is the least flat place you can be.


A flat place is somewhere where there are no slopes, no hills, no twists or turns. Somewhere where you can be stable and grounded and don't have to worry. You won't slide away, or have to climb uphill. The ground doesn't shift beneath your feet and make you stumble. 

Find somewhere where you can find your balance and catch your breath. Then, once you feel yourself again, move on and take on the world around you.


Find a flat place, and return there at need.

Lookouts

I want to be the sort of person who goes to a lookout and looks the wrong way, but still sees beauty. For what is life but the search for beauty where others don't see it? And that is why some search for beauty in ugliness; in music and in noise; in sights and in pictures; in smells and tastes; in heat and cold; in fabric and fashion; in life and in death; in structure and chaos; in maths and in emotions; in logic and intuition. Because we all want to discover beauty where others don't see it, so that we may have some small claim over it. We will share it with others who also see the beauty, but all the while, we remain convinced they don't see it like we see it. That's why people fall in love with the wrong people - they trick themselves into thinking only they see the diamond in the rough, even if mass popularity suggests otherwise. All the while, what they really want is someone to see the beauty in them that others don't see, that they don't see. All the while, what we really want is someone to see the beauty in us that others don't see, that even we don't see ourselves. For life is the search for beauty where others don't see it, but the greatest pleasure and the greatest surprise, for it is also our greatest doubt, is to be thought beautiful ourselves.

Finding a boy is like buying shoes

Finding a good boy, one to date and love and marry, is like finding the perfect pair of shoes. Let me explain.

I go shoe shopping rarely – as it takes a lot of effort and I can’t always face the disappointment. I see shoes I like which are currently very in fashion, but I don’t try them on because I know they won’t fit. Or sometimes I do try them on anyway and they don’t fit, or if they do, they’re too expensive, or I buy them only to find they stretch and don’t fit after two weeks. But usually one of three things happens:

1)      I can’t find any shoes I like, although I know exactly what I’m looking for.

2)      I can’t find any shoes to fit my feet.

3)      I can’t find shoes for the appropriate price.

At this point I start feeling a bit down. I start thinking maybe I’m being too picky in what I’m looking for and I should be realistic and content myself with the pair that looked alright. I start thinking my feet are a really unusual shape so I’m very unlikely to find anything that fits with the current fashions so I should get used to a little bit of pain, or try to buy accessories to make them more comfortable. I start thinking that good shoes cost a lot so I should be prepared to pay more.

And this is like finding a boy. You start thinking you’re too picky and too specific in what you’re looking for. You start thinking that nobody is going to suit you perfectly. And you make more and more compromises on what you will put up with – what cost you will bear – in order to find a companion.

Sometimes, this isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes people are looking for the perfect man instead of the man who is perfect for them. Sometimes they are not prepared to pay the cost for happiness.

But be aware of these things in your dealings with both shoes and men. Decide whether your requirements are ridiculous. Realise that a ‘good fit’ is possible. And know what price you’ll pay and reassess it constantly in case it creeps up to a point you never wanted to approach.

Boys are like shoes. Good ones make you feel confident, comfortable and good-looking. Bad ones gives you blisters and regrets.

Stories

We all have a story, hidden somewhere between our ears. We know it's there because we recognise it in stories and songs and tales around us. Even if we don't live these stories ourselves, when someone lives just a part of our story, it resonates in us, somewhere between our rib cabge, our belly button and our backbone.

We each have a story in us. Some tell it in song, some in dance. Some whsper it in furtive expressions when they think noone's watching. Some drown it out with noise, some with silence. But we each have a story. It's just that sometimes some people's are louder than others'.