Back onto the internet, and the thoughts that piled up:
For the blog, written offline on Wednesday 6th of February 2006
Jukebox: Dr Feel Good
Books of the Moment:
Troy – David Gemmell
The glory of accepting into your heart men of honour, men of battle and grit and steel, is a pleasure that only the most cynical – or righteous – among us can deny. The soul yearns to see good prevail, yet is strangely entertained when it does not, perhaps feeding some pessimistic desire to know what is coming. Defeat is true – but is it?
It seems to me that clichés, empty, formless and bland as they are, must at one time have sprung from something more. What poet, when speaking of true love, can deny the truth of phrases that had before conjured no more than apathetic confusion? I am getting too complicated – back to the book, to Troy and all those wonderful familiarities.
The Prince, Lord of the Silver Bow, Helikaon or Aeneas, struggling to reconcile the two halves of his character, courageous, loyal and just, hard and possessed of a simple sensitivity. He loves a woman promised to another, Andromache, a redheaded hunting goddess with a strong face and quick mind. Hektor, the hero whose name is still known to us, blond-headed and invincible, the thief of Helikaon’s love, but unaware; the solitary legend Argurios, heeding his code of honour with unbending devotion, finding at last both a cruel twist of fate and happiness undreamed of. There are Kings savage, worthy and cunning, acts of valor and revenge that continue unending. We discover cities roofed in gold, the mighty strain of timbers over open sea, blades shining in the sun, the euphoria of love and biting loss of death.
When the soul is willing, such tales are absorbed with the greatest ease: though bloodthirsty they may be (and this one is not) they speak to the common threads inside us all. There are challenges to overcome, inner strengths to be exposed, and a treasure bright and clean that escapes from the wreckage of war to call us forward and lift our hearts. Somehow, blood spilt can be forgotten, the simple joy of victory can be more pressing than the broken lives left behind. The characters come to embody eternal themes, foreign and glorious: for these are tales of heroes, and such should never be left untold.
These last few nights, I have thought. I have embraced my vulnerability, and wept to understand that all others in this world are built the same. Somehow, when it is dark and quiet, I can feel within me a part without defences: I have felt the breath enter my lungs, the softness of the cotton pillow against my cheek, and known the truth of our existence. We exist, but so delicately – we all must breath to stay alive, and no man, no woman, can escape the precarious greatness of humanity. Before going to bed, I had glanced at a page in one of the self-help books my mother is so fond of, and it had slipped unknown into my heart. I thought little of it at the time, registering no more than a fleeting sense of futility… but, at night, it opened a door within my mind. It was this, rewritten in good faith and in hope that it may help (if little comes from reading it do not worry, for I have a feeling that each person must find their own way).
It laid down the simple rules which govern the lives of our bodies and all that works to complete them, the cells which die and are then replaced. It was alarmingly basic, fundamental... That each would give their lives in service of a greater good (cells dying to help build our bodies), that each found sustenance in giving and benefited from a collective effort (the root of communism?). I wish I had the book to hand, but Mum's given it to her friend to read.
Though it did not occur to me for long moments, the vulnerability I felt, the sense of consciousness and connection with every other moving, breathing human on this planet, was in step with that philosophy. With each passing second more was revealed to me, simple truth I had ignored: and it was this. Every one of the emotions I had ever undergone, every chill of fear, sickening touch of inadequacy, pang of remorse for speaking sharply, beam of pure joy at finding kindness, were shared. Not just me, but billions of people all over this world were experiencing these emotions, or others, at the same instant. They lived, they breathed, they smiled and cried and moaned in pain.
It struck me. They were looking at the world through eyes like mine, or touching it with the same skin: every person I had ever seen, on news bulletins, walking down the high street, driving cars on the motorway, existed. The homeless were ravaging through bins for a scrap to eat. The addicted were feeding their bittersweet thrill, the bereaved were rocking back and forwards, their faces crumpled in pain. The powerful were sitting around polished tables; there were executives nervously giving presentations, teachers facing their first classes. Somewhere, someone had just given birth. Elsewhere, another had lost their parents.
Lying there, I realized that others felt my ache. The fact of people suffering, suffering with true and blinding hurt, occupied other minds. They had wept over it, as I was, or strove deeper and come to more understanding. Somewhere, somehow, the President of the United States was feeling the air on his skin, was inhaling the oxygen that nourished him as it did all. It hit me like a sledgehammer, that single name so easy to deride… He was moving now, his heart was beating, and he felt. One by one more names entered my mind, the rich and famous, the infamous, who before had seemed only creations of television screens and newspapers. Tony Blair. The man, the being, the human, stripped of the aura of power and left as no more than I, or my mother, or those I loved and believed in. Osama bin Laden, despised but determined, his muscles moving as did our own; the captives who were paraded before us and shot without regret. Or perhaps with regret, for before me now floated the faces of Al Q’aeda soldiers and I could not accept their soullessness. Kofi Annan. Muhammed Ali. Benito Mussolini. The singers you hear on the radio, Madonna and the nameless ones whose voices fade into the background.
Before this year I had flashes of appreciation for our humanity. I had told myself that we were all music, magic and light. Now I mourned for us, for what we were and what we will ever be. Self-interest propels us to live our lives, not precisely to ignore the outside world but not to confront it either: and this would be our death. We are so adept at closing our minds, at defending ourselves and projecting an image of strength to others, that we come to believe in our own invulnerability. It is a façade, yet it consoles us, and prevents us from ever accepting the suffering of others… and without accepting it, we cannot face it. The faces of the helpless plagued me, and my soul mirrored them; yet they still breathed, like me, like us, and while they breathed they were yet human.
This window is easy to close off. Self-preservation has made it so, for in exposing ourselves to the outside world we rock our belief in the invincible. It must stay open: it’s worthiness is really all there is. It is the greater cause, humanity is the greatest cause.
A week ago I read an article about global warming. Two studies had been released, of which I can remember one coming from the British government. It said we had 20 years to reduce carbon emissions before the temperature change became impossible to stop. They predicted a maximum temperature rise of 3º before the world became uninhabitable. The Gulf Stream would cease to be. Weather would be unpredictable and extreme. The sea would climb; cities would be flooded. “The vast majority of the human race would either be incredibly uncomfortable, or find the conditions too harsh to survive.” One of the most prominent scientists said that we could face a death toll of 1 billion within the next century… and it was printed on the 4th page. I forget what was on the cover. That same night, the late news had a piece on it. The newsreader spoke in the same voice she used for house fires and traffic jams. I want to think that there are companies, people devoting their lives to this. I believe there are. And they will have to save us, for none, none seem concerned. We live our lives, we feel sad over the death of our countrymen while brutally declaring hatred for the countrymen of others, and run sacrilegious cartoons citing ‘media freedom’. This may be our golden age…
Deep inside me there is a part that draws the curtains, whispering subtle messages of instinctive protection, the self-serving core that I despise. I hate that part of me, though I know I must accept it, for it talks of simple survival. Survive by blocking out the misery, eat and breathe and raise a family. It is the foundation of our animal nature, the instincts that have kept us alive through millennia – and yet it is not enough. I found my path in those nights, and now I must summon the courage to follow it.
Here the words ran out. I have made absurd plans, hoping to attract the attention of people in power. Surely Richard Branson would be interested in alternative fuel sources to offset the loss of oil and decrease carbon emission? Surely Oprah could urge her millions of followers to rethink their consumption, to help fight the battle before us? I do not know what to do, beyond taking a Foreign Affairs / Int. Relations degree at uni in the hope that I can help in the future. Maybe making another blog once back online, purely to spread the message about global warming - to reach people that way.
Ending these kinds of posts is never easy, though to write it has been simply to put words to my feelings. Fare well, for you are one of us, and may we all live happily ever after.
