Faded

 

The haunt, which hangs in the air like unspent static, is the fear of time, and purpose wasted. Everyday which goes by, without a routine, can scratch against my ‘ground’ like a hard sweeping brush. It’s etching away at the trial which i’d marked myself, in the vain hope I could ever, if needed, turn to the tattooed ground to remind myself of the way I am headed and the way I have come.

The path upon which I thought I had gained some footing is fading, and i’m not far behind.

It is during these moments, when, locked inside a tightly binding labyrinth of excessive reflection, that I long for the traveller’s Compass, to remind me of which direction to take, in order to step forwards and march on.

Sometimes, the colours on life’s map become faded.

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This story, of course, I leave to be continued…


 

Terrorism and the epic waste

I am sick of ‘Terrorism’. Terrorism being an essentially contested concept, as with all the ‘isms’ of the human and cultural eras, political contexts and language which describes and narrates as life flows forward, and so long as there are onlookers to witness and discuss it.

But before I go on to talk about this ‘terrorism’, and the epic waste caused by it, let me just offer a bit of background into the meaning of the word.

As I actually learned at university, one time (but it really doesn’t take a Scholar or an Academic to realise it): ‘Political Concepts’ and theories are invoked when people discuss politics and government, and generally prescribe labels by which they can collectively understand, interpret and follow things which are happening around them, and what to do about them. It is an obvious outcome of human evolution, intelligence, consciousness, the capacity for language, communication, learning, memory, adapting for survival, planning, reason, co-operating and living together.

In case it helps for me to add in that extra reference, for getting the general idea of what I’m on about this time: Anthony H. Birch, an Emeritus Professor of Political Science at the University of Victoria, Canada, describes in his book- The Concepts and theories of modern democracy:

“A concept is defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as an idea of a class of objects, a general notion or idea… People who discuss political matters cannot avoid doing so (using political concepts) because, as a British philosopher once said, ‘out idea of what belongs to the realm of reality is given for us in the language that we use’ (Winch 1958: 15).”¹


My thoughts are, therefore, that it is appropriate to talk about our modern use of the word ‘terrorism’, as a political concept today. The reason the concept of ‘terrorism’ is a contested one, can be explained by the fact that what we mean by ‘terrorism’, and what constitutes our use of the word, is subject to many different interpretations, practices, historical and normative standpoints/theories, and perceived consequences.

The crux of the matter

What has driven me to write about this today, is the news of a further act of ‘terrorism’, on people who were down the famous Las Ramblas area of Barcelona, Spain. I had the pleasure of visiting this amazingly quirky, thriving, busy, cultural, and gorgeously artistic strip of Barcelona just over a month ago.

It is ‘home’ for hundreds of citizens, artisans, market holders, businesses, industry, and for a centre of architectural brilliance, to name only a few things. It is also an area of (understandable) tourist attraction, for holidaymakers, travellers, sightseers and adventurers alike, from all over the world.

I loved the atmosphere, the smells, the sights, the bicycles, the people and their friendliness. I was struck by a throbbing vibe felt through the city, with the arts, the restaurants, bars, cafes, public parks, music, nightlife and the festivities.  In spite of the fact that I visited during a time where unrest, political uncertainty, and ‘terrorism’ was certainly a threat, given there had been several incidents across Europe, in the months surrounding, I never for once felt unsafe, threatened  and/or vulnerable to attacks. Yet here we are.

 

Terrorism in practice

What one group of people, politicians and messengers condemns as ‘terrorism’, another group or faction, political agent, participant or witness, might call ‘Martyrdom’, or ‘means to an end’. They might think of the violence, bloodshed, death and ‘terror’ which terrorism brings about, is some form of ‘moral imperative’ on behalf of some greater reason. What one person calls an act of ‘cowardice’ and ‘evil’, another might see it as ‘bravery’ or ‘honourable’ and just.

Going back over the history of humanity, ‘terrorism’ is really just a modern use of the various different adjectives used for categorizing  human acts which cause terror, violence, death, destruction and war.  Inherently primal, yet undeniably strategical, these are actions which, through battle, fearmongering, extermination, brute force and all other forms of application, bring about a shift in the balance of power, between one group or another. All which have been crucial in forming the script towards a common story, which some call acts of Gods/higher powers, while others call the ‘great’ battle towards the top of the food chain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


¹ ‘Introduction’ to Concepts and Theories of Modern Democracy (2nd edition)., Anthony H. Birch., First published by Routledge (Taylor & Francis Group)., 2001., p.1

Snippets of old dreams

Snippet taken from an old dream blog I was keeping in 2014:

Train in post-apocalyptic world… We (a crowd of commuters, including myself, some were semi-recognisable as ‘versions’ of my friends and family members, others were strangers, as far as I can recall) were waiting for its arrival (it was Northern Rail) at a crumbling, yet progressively greener platform. The moss and the overgrowth and the green climbing shrubs, were increasing, rapidly, since the decline of humanity (some sort of plague or massive war had caused this, not 100% sure).

The train emerged, eventually, through a Victorian looking red brick tunnel, to the left of where we were standing on our platform. The crowds waiting to rush onto the delayed train, of near resemblance of the manic platform surges of Dehra Dun, in India.

The train took a while to emerge from the tunnel, and we all became aware of the chanting of the driver and passengers who were already on board that train. Through open windows, the passengers utilised the benefits of the tunnel’s echo, and the intensity added to the chant, achieved through the sheer volume of participating chanters.

This, we somehow all understood, as we waited on that platform, was a new form of common courtesy born out of the circumstance and the ashes; unavoidable challenges of the ‘new world’, for which we had gradually been growing more and more capable to adapt and ‘keep calm and carry on’.

The chant; ‘Body, Body. Body, Body!’ grew sharper and bolder as the train drew near to the end of its censored tunnel. The warning of the boarded passengers, was a disclaimer- since communications in New World were out of action until the foreseeable future. Anyone who might be awaiting the train, and thus looking specifically for the front of it to emerge, needed the advance warning to avert their eyes.

The train had hit a person (suicide or not), and because of the lack of the luxuries previously taken for granted- such as the train been cleaned and cleared of the carcass before continuing its journey-(there was simply not enough people to fill such jobs, nor the time to carry them out, which would delay the trains further). Since everything was only partially able to function, or lost completely, the demand for any available transport for commuters and travellers, far outweighed the capacity to satisfy this void of forewarning.

So, the carcass of a man ‘who had jumped’, remained on the front of the train, smearing the traumatised driver’s window. People were being warned, by the only means possible (chanting to communicate), to avert their eyes and to expect the ghastly sight, thus allowing time for brief mental preparation-so as to avoid the shock and intensified trauma, brought by surprise and the unexpected.

The warning was especially significant to any guardians of children, who were awaiting this train on the platform. An appreciation which was silent and mutual, hummed in the atmosphere, as children were distracted from the sight oncoming. Protective hands moved to veil the children’s eyes, despite confusion and frustration of curiosity stilled.

lunar eclipse morph


 

Digging for victory in August 2017

August 2017

I cannot believe we have reached August, and STILL not managed to successfully assemble that greenhouse, we bought for the allotment back in March! We have taken it down, reassembled it slightly differently, tried improvising with different bolts and spare parts for any we may have lost throughout the fairly painstaking process. So far, we either need to get more creative with this, or remain without a greenhouse!

It’s been difficult to keep on top of the allotment, because of all the other stress with work, finances, life generally, which seems to have hit particularly hard this year. If anyone was to use the shape of the allotment, to try and estimate a guess as to diagnosing the corresponding state of mind to match it, they’d not have a difficult time in playing amateur Psychiatrist for the task.

So many beds which have been weeded, then overgrown, weeded, then overgrown, dug over, then slurried by rain, breaking roots and giant Hogsweed. Bind weed and sticky weed, don’t even go there! For 5 years, we have tried to do things the ‘Organic’ way, but steering away from using products like weedkiller, and tugging at the determined overgrowth with good old fashioned manual, hard work and toil instead. We may just have finally come to the bitter realization, that if we want successful growth of the crops we actually intend for each bed, then we may have to swallow a large pill of pride, and finally cave into spraying the land with weedkiller and pesticide, and start over from scratch.

It is against so many of our principles to do this, however!

Meanwhile, in the garden, the accidental potato beds are thriving, the tomatoes are starting to re-establish their hold over the bathtub, and the purple cabbages are looking pretty pleased with themselves. Purple kale, passion flowers and carrots are also gaining their strength in the little greenhouse, however the question of how and when we will be able to harvest these, if we really are too late to transplant them into the better faring beds at the allotment, remains to be seen.

purple kale growing with passionflower in greenhousecabbages in bathtubcabbages and tomatoes in bathtubcabbage growing in garden


Reduce stigma- Mental Health

Depression

Depression can be completely confusing, seemingly ‘uncalled for’, and misunderstood at the best of times- whether you class yourself as someone who has experienced the debilitating, insomniac waves of Depression, in it’s many differing forms. Or whether you care, know, and/or love someone with the illness. Perhaps , you haven’t come across the illness, while it is on ‘top form’, the silent crushing which it inflicts.

It is confusing not only for the sufferer and those around them, but also to anyone else, because it doesn’t seem to make much sense. It often doesn’t seem proportionate, if people want to try and understand it, based on someone’s human and emotional ‘response’ to life stresses, and their own personal circumstances.

It is also fair to say that  so many different forms of Depression, can certainly come across as an inconsistency across all attempts for us to really define, and to quantify ‘it’.

I found one which I think is pretty fitting, though:

“Severe depression is an illness causing substantial
impairment in patients’ ability to function and to lead
flourishing lives. Moreover, patients’ suffering has
negative consequences within families, communities,
and the workplace, leading to a vicious circle of stigma,
shame, and guilt. These effects are amplified if a patient
loses the ability to work, further diminishing dignity and
patients’ sense of personal and social value.”

I think it is important to stress the significance of the latter part of this definition– in that it defines Depression not only in terms of it’s mental and physical effects, but crucially, by including the reaction to Depression, externally, and by others. Also in accounting for the ‘vicious cycle of stigma’, and the ‘social’ consequences, including the ability to work or not.

See it never really is ‘just someone’s bad hair day’, or ‘moodiness’, or their ‘selfishness’, which is sadly often what others, wrapped up in the cycle of stigma and misunderstanding, can say about the illness, and it’s victims. Challenge this stigma- nobody is ever quite what they might seem.

No situation or pattern of behaviour comes with a necessarily simple, straight forward explanation, ’cause’ or blame.

Putting back the pieces of that jigsaw

Tuesday 1st August is today…

I’m finally beginning to return to a mental state I truly couldn’t even remember, or imagine, feeling again, only a few days ago. With it, I am beginning to find I can manage to stomach the necessary step forward towards my goal of advancing further along the ‘road to recovery’- flicking through and reading of 2017’s notebooks. I keep notebooks for many reasons- mainly, to use as a point of reference for remembering the little details of work, life reflections, little doodles, list making… You get my point.


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Abstractions

 


 

The point being:

That when it comes to needing to reflect on decisions made, money spent, quotes overheard, study notes taken throughout the process of developing into final ‘version’ of each 365 days’ worth of person, you become, to take forth into the year to follow.

It builds you up, does a year. But all too easily, we can become so entwined within the ‘devil’s details’, of the many events and happenings of the world around us, as it smuggles us through the belly, as a meal, which ‘time’ digests.

So it is understandable that sometimes, life’s stresses, it’s losses, gains, ailments and tragedies- inflict considerable indigestion for us, as we try to reap the optimal ‘nutritional value’ to be gained, for our bodies, out of the quagmire rendered for us by the swallowing of too many ‘life details’ in one gulp. It mists our vision, and our clarity over what we see, feel, remember, and absorb, from just one fraction of a full year’s worth of life lessons to be learned.


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Opening thoughts, extracted from January’s notebook:

 

“Who do I go to for help? I could say I should have noticed the signs sooner, I should have spoken out more desperately.

 

But the problem is, I did speak out. I did tell people that I was worried about going beneath the ‘dip’ line.

Once beneath said ‘dip line’, you begin entering the stomach of Depression, from where it is so much harder to climb back out.

Because, once you’re ‘ingested’, and the gullet has swallowed you down the tract, you become your own ‘prey’, heading to digestion and break-down.

Here, in the stomach of Depression, you are torn apart from your once ‘whole’ being, and separated, categorised and ‘filed away’- ready for the enzymes of your own breaking mind, to begin their work in the assimilation of your soul.


 

So, perhaps I wasn’t so blind from the very beginning, after all. In fact, I maybe even had all the insight and foresight iv’e needed all along…

 

Chatter.

I heard some interesting quotes today. It emerged from within the context of a conversation between several people, about suicide.

“Be good, do well and right and let the world sink.”

On the contrary:

“Death is not a one person ticket, it’s a group fare.”

Living is also a group fare. So you see the paradox we all exist in.

 

Travel the world

The world is gorgeous. I wish I could travel the world with Rowett.

Dreams aren’t a ‘sin’, are they? I just want to take him with me, to see the world, to travel together.

I really wish that we could all just come together (hehe!) to travel the world together, to tell each other stories, sing songs, dance and embark upon new epic adventures into different woodlands, forests, trees.


Once upon a time, there was a jazzy little teapot.

Discuss?

Sunday 30th July 2017

Today is Sunday.

Wow, what a difference a good night’s sleep, your friends, family, pets and loved ones can make.

My best friend in the world came round to see me last night, as I was sat in the house, feeling so lost, hopeless and terrified.

We made a brew- a good cup of tea REALLY does sort so many things out, I mean think about it- all the herbs and flowers grown in the world, somewhere on this beautiful Earth, gathered together, chopped finely, and then served kindly through (hot!) water, into anything we can use as a teacup. Be it an actual china cup, a glass, a jar, a thimble, a can or whatever material it is, in this world, which will hold it all together for you just so you can sip. You get my point.

We had such a good chat about life, about nursing the dying, learning new techniques to ease people’s pain, to improve somebody’s quality of life, while it’s still here, because my Buddha/God/Allah/Thor/Jesus/Freya/Mother Earth/Theresa/Queen- whoever or whatever it is about this spirituality, which exists within us all, and wherever on Earth, or beyond it (and more!) might have come from- this ‘Gift is Life’.

This life, that we humans– creatures, great and small, which refers to plants and mushrooms of course, too- is just so incredibly precious. It is beautiful, that all our ancestors, parents, fossils, buffalo, birds, dinosaurs- ‘Higgs Boson’ quantum particles, matter, dust and sound, can all really come together for humans, to help us make sense of the world, when bad things happen within it, and when they don’t. These gorgeous ‘gifts’, these ‘principles’, or  ‘mathematical equations’, paintings, songs, children… They really do help guide us through this strange and unpredictable world, with hope and with light, and wonderful, wonderful curiosity.

It truly is worth caring about, thinking about, planning about, praying and paying about. Life matters the most. We hate losing the ones we love- grief can be so strange, cruel, unpredictable and terrifying. But what really matters is what we leave behind, what we give, share, create, teach, sew, feed and/or read.

It is those memories, those precious, hidden and sometimes ‘muffled up’, or confused, misinterpreted, or called ‘inappropriate fantasies’/ ‘Chinese Whispers’/ ‘Ghost stories’/ ‘bad trips’. This strange concoction of medication we find; we eat, we dance with, we relieve pain with, and we die with. These ‘Stories’ really are worth caring about, swearing about, building about and spending about.

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