What is it about myself that any kind of argument or confrontation causes me to shed tears?
I have been a cry-baby ever since I was a little girl. What I ask myself though, is "Why is it, that at age 48, I still feel an instinctive urge to shed tears the moment I am being confronted?"
There are a few things I do know about myself.
1) I feel guilty in any kind of conflict or tense situation whether I am or not.
2) I feel like I have let people down more often than I feel I have been clever or useful to them.
3) I feel like I may have done the "wrong" thing in any situation where my integrity or intelligence is being called into question.
4) I always feel like my integrity and/or my intelligence is being called into question.
5) I consistently doubt my intelligence and abilities. Sometimes my integrity too (I have a memory that isn't that pragmatic when it comes to facts or details).
6) I feel too much.
7) I categorically, never want anyone to think badly of me no matter what I do.
Now the big question, in answer to all of these is "Why?" Why should I feel any of the above when it is neither necessary, convenient or apparent I should do so?
My simple guess is this: At some point in my formative years, I intuited that I am not capable. As a result, my inbuilt pride barometer rebels at this core assumption and triggers a violent emotional reaction within me resulting in those embarrassing tears.
There must be some kind of internal revolt switch going off the moment I am in any kind of situation that, I believe, demonstrates my incapability.
My pride says "You are not wrong", whereas my conscience quavers, fusses and fumes that I might be "wrong" perhaps, because the details are blurry, and the facts are not at ready-reckoning distance in my mind. Ergo - I'm "bad" to have let someone down. "I am unreliable, unintelligent, unwise, imperfect". All my wanton flaws are exposed and I rail within, in a maelstrom of emotional factionalism between self-hatred and the primitive rage of an abused pride. And I cry!
This is no easy thing. To change my propensity for weeping when confronted will take an enormous shake-up of my mental landscape. It may well be that the very synapses, that formed during the early development of these core beliefs, will never be entirely eradicated of this pestilence! But accepting it? I am not sure I can at this point.
I DO get angry when I feel my integrity is being called into question! But I very often squelch that anger because if I have to express it - it comes out as an unabated flood rather than clear-eyed, cool-headed and reasoned argument for the defence! I want to be able to argue efficiently for my case but my unequivocal lack of eloquence when full of charged emotions stalls this ability and then some!
The thought-tapes inside my head need erasing and re-recording. Would my ego actually allow this? I am not sure! The Self is a funny thing! It gets rather comfortable with the status-quo. Surreptitiously, ego channels our energies into paths of least resistance. My intuitive and instinctive crying response to conflict situations is a well worn path to a known resolution and result.
Generally speaking, (and this is purely, a theoretical analysis stemming from my own biases about crying women): a crying girl disarms most people. A crying girl is diminutive and "sweet", her vulnerability and fragility exposed through her emotionalism. She's every man's "Perfect Little Daughter" whether he believes it or not, she speaks to the hero in him through her tears. She's in need of protection from a cruel world. Her naivety and demure femaleness are on show through her subjugation to the more powerful party. She is a victim in need of rescuing. She demonstrates a perverse and ironic strength by rallying forth if treated gently, her inferior Self stroked and soothed with kindness rather than harsh judgements on her lack of wit or intelligence. A crying girl is not really a grown woman yet - even if she may look like one! A crying girl makes people feel guilty. A crying girl is powerfully manipulative of others through her genius in the use of emotional blackmail.
This makes me gag at how pathetic it makes me look. Here I am! A weeping girl incapable of standing clear-eyed and strong in the midst of inaccurate (or accurate for that matter) accusations of her part in fault. My head believes none of the insipid trash above, but it seems that somewhere, somehow, I learned to behave like this for at least some of these reasons!
How horrible it is for a girl child to learn such things; how sad for the woman to realise she's learned them!
Will I accept this flaw in my character and nature? No! I shall rail against it until I have determined its source and healed this rift between my emotions and psyche.
Rectifying my propensity for being a cry-baby could take me the rest of my life and it may not stop the flow of my tears in an argument - but then again - it might help me grow up, and that is no small thing either.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
My feet hurt!
Forget achy breaky hearts... let's try achy breaky feet shall we?
Feet that have stood too long.
Feet that have walked too far.
Feet that have been - it seems - forgotten during sedentary jobs.
Feet that get hot and bothered.
Feet that aim for comfortable shoes but which never quite manage that task.
Feet that hurt.
Feet that throb and throb so violently, if it were a noise, it would be the sound of a kettle drum pounding directly into your ears.
Feet that sing - loudly - all by themselves like Brynhildr does in a Wagnerian opera!
Feet that kill, thrusting spears of hot molten core straight up the shin bone and into the knees.
Feet that will allow you to stand but only if you are still enough that they stop throbbing and go completely numb.
Feet that blow up, so that it looks like you have bubbles on the ends of your legs.
My gosh! One finally feels their feet when their feet feel.... everything!
Feet that have stood too long.
Feet that have walked too far.
Feet that have been - it seems - forgotten during sedentary jobs.
Feet that get hot and bothered.
Feet that aim for comfortable shoes but which never quite manage that task.
Feet that hurt.
Feet that throb and throb so violently, if it were a noise, it would be the sound of a kettle drum pounding directly into your ears.
Feet that sing - loudly - all by themselves like Brynhildr does in a Wagnerian opera!
Feet that kill, thrusting spears of hot molten core straight up the shin bone and into the knees.
Feet that will allow you to stand but only if you are still enough that they stop throbbing and go completely numb.
Feet that blow up, so that it looks like you have bubbles on the ends of your legs.
My gosh! One finally feels their feet when their feet feel.... everything!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
writing style
I spent hours writing a speech for my boss at work today. It nearly killed me! A mere 1612 words too! Not much of a drop in the sentences bucket really. I enjoyed the work but I was vaguely stressed about it too. Thing is, writing a piece for someone else to read aloud is extraordinarily difficult.
The considerations to take into account are the prospective speakers language style, their fluency of speech, their personality and their interests. It isn't easy if you don't know someone "that" well, to come up with a clear and concise presentation of thoughts that reflect what they may have inside their heads.
My style of writing is - well let's face it! It's verbose! I'm every bit the "story teller". I can barely write a departmental report to save my life not given as I am to the concept of "dot points"! I like to explain, iterate, construct and delineate all possible angles of interpretation within a text. I write to construct a kind of fluid coherence more akin to that of poetic prose rather than succinct documentary. I use words where none are necessary or required but they go in anyway because it feels like its required; that the fluidity of the writing needs that kind of accoutrement!
This is a problem in my current job! Truly it is! I can't read anything to my colleagues, because to their ears it "sounds fine". However, to those experienced in the way of all things "Government Department", my writing style is is only a smidge short of total crud! The red biro gets a regular workout when my work is presented for "Editorial Comment" to my boss!
It sucks!
Perhaps, I was designed to simply tell stories rather than define the vagaries of volunteerism to the unwilling masses through my style of writing?
If I could write really well, I'd certainly be in demand job-wise. As it stands, I am too wordy; too florid and far too expansive for the kinds of writing required in my industry. It can be very frustrating. I still love doing this work though. I enjoy the process of writing for the most part, even if I have to edit things a dozen times before they're ready to go "live" so to speak. I guess its all good training.
I try very hard not to take it personally now. I figure, I might as well learn how to write a bullet point or two before I leave this mortal coil. It can't harm, surely?
Ah, but I do admit to a shameful desire to be able to write exactly what I please: my style, my words, my thoughts, my syntax: all mingled together into some prosy, rich and delectable word-soup for the edification and entertainment of others. I like having an idiosyncratic style all my own. It feels good to place words next to each other, matching them for the weight of their simpatico sentiment.
I'll be very surprised if my speech-writing skills will pass muster in the next day or so. The hours of labour spent on that thing today is, probably, similar to the amount of expensive film left on the cutting room floor. Someone has to gather it all up and discount the cost of making it and hope that some day, it might prove "valuable" to someone else!
I thank God for the blogging art-form. It's the one of the few spaces I have available, to construct sentences my way - in all my verbose, grandiose, wordy, littérateur way! For that I'm truly grateful.
The considerations to take into account are the prospective speakers language style, their fluency of speech, their personality and their interests. It isn't easy if you don't know someone "that" well, to come up with a clear and concise presentation of thoughts that reflect what they may have inside their heads.
My style of writing is - well let's face it! It's verbose! I'm every bit the "story teller". I can barely write a departmental report to save my life not given as I am to the concept of "dot points"! I like to explain, iterate, construct and delineate all possible angles of interpretation within a text. I write to construct a kind of fluid coherence more akin to that of poetic prose rather than succinct documentary. I use words where none are necessary or required but they go in anyway because it feels like its required; that the fluidity of the writing needs that kind of accoutrement!
This is a problem in my current job! Truly it is! I can't read anything to my colleagues, because to their ears it "sounds fine". However, to those experienced in the way of all things "Government Department", my writing style is is only a smidge short of total crud! The red biro gets a regular workout when my work is presented for "Editorial Comment" to my boss!
It sucks!
Perhaps, I was designed to simply tell stories rather than define the vagaries of volunteerism to the unwilling masses through my style of writing?
If I could write really well, I'd certainly be in demand job-wise. As it stands, I am too wordy; too florid and far too expansive for the kinds of writing required in my industry. It can be very frustrating. I still love doing this work though. I enjoy the process of writing for the most part, even if I have to edit things a dozen times before they're ready to go "live" so to speak. I guess its all good training.
I try very hard not to take it personally now. I figure, I might as well learn how to write a bullet point or two before I leave this mortal coil. It can't harm, surely?
Ah, but I do admit to a shameful desire to be able to write exactly what I please: my style, my words, my thoughts, my syntax: all mingled together into some prosy, rich and delectable word-soup for the edification and entertainment of others. I like having an idiosyncratic style all my own. It feels good to place words next to each other, matching them for the weight of their simpatico sentiment.
I'll be very surprised if my speech-writing skills will pass muster in the next day or so. The hours of labour spent on that thing today is, probably, similar to the amount of expensive film left on the cutting room floor. Someone has to gather it all up and discount the cost of making it and hope that some day, it might prove "valuable" to someone else!
I thank God for the blogging art-form. It's the one of the few spaces I have available, to construct sentences my way - in all my verbose, grandiose, wordy, littérateur way! For that I'm truly grateful.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The safest harbour 2
The Safest Harbour 1
Next morning the man woke stronger and ravenously hungry. He scanned every corner of Millie's hull and upper decks for items he might fashion into fishing hooks, spears and other meat gathering devices.
The gulls aloft, were nonchalant, not realising the man's intentions. His spear, thrust with an expert eye through the breast of a young gull, scattered the rest in shrieking horror.
The man did not have a way of cooking the bird but he stripped it of its feathers and then used the meat as bait for his fishing rod made from line and hooks found in the stern. Fish could be eaten raw - gulls could not. Millie was so proud of him! She admired the way he worked so efficiently. She admired his wisdom and clever thinking. She all but forgot her predicament of being so lost at sea in her fascinated observations of the man and his labours.
The man did indeed feast on raw fish that day. He made faces and threw up over Millie's sides a few times, but in the end he ate and it was better. He sat in Millie's cockpit and pondered what to do. He tested her rudder and was surprised to find it had survived the storm and she could be steered. Somehow, he had to get that old heavy sailcloth up from below onto the deck to work it onto the gear and catch the winds. It would be difficult work. He looked at his hands, bleeding in places from working ropes and hooks, blistered and peeling on the backs from the sun. He was determined to survive and this little boat was going to help him - no matter the cost!
It took nearly two whole days of hard labour - in between running to check his fishing lines and eating raw fish - for the man to get the sailcloth up onto the deck. Finding an old box of line and tackle stashed deep in the hold, he fashioned gear that would take the sail almost half way up Millie's empty mast. By day three, the man was ready to haul the sail aloft but found it so heavy he struggled against it for most of the day. He almost gave in and then an idea came to him to leverage the sail lines around the large spindle in the stern. The spindle had once been used to let trolling line out to sea.
The man spliced and cut line into other line to lengthen it enough to reach the spindle. He fastened the line to the spindle and prayed this approach would work to raise the sail. He bent at the handle, pausing briefly and speaking the first words Millie had heard from his lips "C'mon girl! Don't let me down now!". She clenched her eyes shut and willed the spindle to work with all her might. The handle turned, creaking and squeaking. The line strained and the man held his breath fearing his splices might tear apart. He turned the handle slowly and slow centimetre by centimetre, the sail was hauled up to fill with the westerly breeze. Millie could feel her keel shudder as her rudder started to flap with the promise of speed.
The man locked down the handle on the spindle when he could turn it no longer. The sail was up high enough to fill with breeze and move the little boat across the ocean. A running ocean current gathered pace beneath Millie as if in answer to her impetus. The man raced to the cockpit and grasped the tiller in his blistered, bleeding hands and tacked Millie with the wind. She was moving! Zigging and zagging across the ocean heading for "Somewhere".
For five nights and five days, the man tacked Millie. At night he scanned the horizon for the North star and fixed his sights on it as if it were a lighthouse showing the way. He slept with his arm draped over the tiller during the day and moved Millie towards the star by night. On night number five, Millie saw a real lighthouse. Her little heart fairly leaped out from within her. The man whooped and hollered and danced a merry jig on the deck. He guzzled the precious water he had collected and threw the rest of the rotting gull carcass over the side in celebration!
At the break of dawn on the fifth day, Millie entered the narrow head waters of a beautiful harbour. The waters were calm and deep. Dolphins chattered and giggled beside her as the man steered her towards the town on the other side. As they got closer, Millie could see that this town was so very unlike Brae as to be almost alien. The streets bustled with people and cars. The esplanade that followed the shoreline was peppered with people walking, running, fishing and chatting. There were young lovers on seats kissing in the morning sun and children shrieking as grandfathers dragged fish from the sea with their rods. There were boats lined up in a small marina, gleaming and loved. Millie felt suddenly embarrassed at how shabby she looked but the man, sensing her thoughts, patted her deck and said "You are the most wonderful boat I ever owned", with a catch in his voice that held a reverence and pride. Millie sobbed. She cried out all the fear, trepidation, and grief of the past week into the harbour depths and soon felt so light and airy that she thought she might start to fly.
A patrol of boats came out to greet Millie and the man. When the sailors all heard the man's story, they slapped him on the back and wrapped him in blankets and poured whiskey into panniers for him to drink. News travelled as if on wings back to the people on the shore. Soon, a large crowd gathered at the pier to welcome Millie and the man and cheer their amazing survival against the odds. The man thanked the sea patrol men and made a simple request.
Six weeks later, Millie could hardly believe how her life had changed. The man had requested only one thing in exchange for his story of survival and hope. Millie was now gleaming with new paint, polished decks and equipped with new sails. Her hold had been cleaned and her keel scraped. She was fitted with the latest nautical equipment. Her old spindle was oiled and now spun as lazily and easily as a spinning wheel. She had all new line and her anchor was rust free.
The man? Ah... well he shone too. His hair and beard were trimmed and clean. His hands were blister free and the wounds of his ordeal were healing over to become scars to be borne with pride. He stood tall and even handsome. His eyes sparkled with intelligence, wit and good humour and he longed to be out on the ocean again, fishing - making a living.
Millie found herself being taken out to sea once more. This time as a working boat. Her decks were scrubbed every day. She was given opportunity every day to earn the man and his helpers an income. Together they became a team. Nothing fancy. Just a solid working team. She was owned by someone who cared about her - loved her even. Millie's heart swelled with such happiness and joy that she practically near glowed; for Millie had found the secret to a Good life: she'd found the safest harbour of all. Companionship.
End
Next morning the man woke stronger and ravenously hungry. He scanned every corner of Millie's hull and upper decks for items he might fashion into fishing hooks, spears and other meat gathering devices.
The gulls aloft, were nonchalant, not realising the man's intentions. His spear, thrust with an expert eye through the breast of a young gull, scattered the rest in shrieking horror.
The man did not have a way of cooking the bird but he stripped it of its feathers and then used the meat as bait for his fishing rod made from line and hooks found in the stern. Fish could be eaten raw - gulls could not. Millie was so proud of him! She admired the way he worked so efficiently. She admired his wisdom and clever thinking. She all but forgot her predicament of being so lost at sea in her fascinated observations of the man and his labours.
The man did indeed feast on raw fish that day. He made faces and threw up over Millie's sides a few times, but in the end he ate and it was better. He sat in Millie's cockpit and pondered what to do. He tested her rudder and was surprised to find it had survived the storm and she could be steered. Somehow, he had to get that old heavy sailcloth up from below onto the deck to work it onto the gear and catch the winds. It would be difficult work. He looked at his hands, bleeding in places from working ropes and hooks, blistered and peeling on the backs from the sun. He was determined to survive and this little boat was going to help him - no matter the cost!
It took nearly two whole days of hard labour - in between running to check his fishing lines and eating raw fish - for the man to get the sailcloth up onto the deck. Finding an old box of line and tackle stashed deep in the hold, he fashioned gear that would take the sail almost half way up Millie's empty mast. By day three, the man was ready to haul the sail aloft but found it so heavy he struggled against it for most of the day. He almost gave in and then an idea came to him to leverage the sail lines around the large spindle in the stern. The spindle had once been used to let trolling line out to sea.
The man spliced and cut line into other line to lengthen it enough to reach the spindle. He fastened the line to the spindle and prayed this approach would work to raise the sail. He bent at the handle, pausing briefly and speaking the first words Millie had heard from his lips "C'mon girl! Don't let me down now!". She clenched her eyes shut and willed the spindle to work with all her might. The handle turned, creaking and squeaking. The line strained and the man held his breath fearing his splices might tear apart. He turned the handle slowly and slow centimetre by centimetre, the sail was hauled up to fill with the westerly breeze. Millie could feel her keel shudder as her rudder started to flap with the promise of speed.
The man locked down the handle on the spindle when he could turn it no longer. The sail was up high enough to fill with breeze and move the little boat across the ocean. A running ocean current gathered pace beneath Millie as if in answer to her impetus. The man raced to the cockpit and grasped the tiller in his blistered, bleeding hands and tacked Millie with the wind. She was moving! Zigging and zagging across the ocean heading for "Somewhere".
For five nights and five days, the man tacked Millie. At night he scanned the horizon for the North star and fixed his sights on it as if it were a lighthouse showing the way. He slept with his arm draped over the tiller during the day and moved Millie towards the star by night. On night number five, Millie saw a real lighthouse. Her little heart fairly leaped out from within her. The man whooped and hollered and danced a merry jig on the deck. He guzzled the precious water he had collected and threw the rest of the rotting gull carcass over the side in celebration!
At the break of dawn on the fifth day, Millie entered the narrow head waters of a beautiful harbour. The waters were calm and deep. Dolphins chattered and giggled beside her as the man steered her towards the town on the other side. As they got closer, Millie could see that this town was so very unlike Brae as to be almost alien. The streets bustled with people and cars. The esplanade that followed the shoreline was peppered with people walking, running, fishing and chatting. There were young lovers on seats kissing in the morning sun and children shrieking as grandfathers dragged fish from the sea with their rods. There were boats lined up in a small marina, gleaming and loved. Millie felt suddenly embarrassed at how shabby she looked but the man, sensing her thoughts, patted her deck and said "You are the most wonderful boat I ever owned", with a catch in his voice that held a reverence and pride. Millie sobbed. She cried out all the fear, trepidation, and grief of the past week into the harbour depths and soon felt so light and airy that she thought she might start to fly.
A patrol of boats came out to greet Millie and the man. When the sailors all heard the man's story, they slapped him on the back and wrapped him in blankets and poured whiskey into panniers for him to drink. News travelled as if on wings back to the people on the shore. Soon, a large crowd gathered at the pier to welcome Millie and the man and cheer their amazing survival against the odds. The man thanked the sea patrol men and made a simple request.
Six weeks later, Millie could hardly believe how her life had changed. The man had requested only one thing in exchange for his story of survival and hope. Millie was now gleaming with new paint, polished decks and equipped with new sails. Her hold had been cleaned and her keel scraped. She was fitted with the latest nautical equipment. Her old spindle was oiled and now spun as lazily and easily as a spinning wheel. She had all new line and her anchor was rust free.
The man? Ah... well he shone too. His hair and beard were trimmed and clean. His hands were blister free and the wounds of his ordeal were healing over to become scars to be borne with pride. He stood tall and even handsome. His eyes sparkled with intelligence, wit and good humour and he longed to be out on the ocean again, fishing - making a living.
Millie found herself being taken out to sea once more. This time as a working boat. Her decks were scrubbed every day. She was given opportunity every day to earn the man and his helpers an income. Together they became a team. Nothing fancy. Just a solid working team. She was owned by someone who cared about her - loved her even. Millie's heart swelled with such happiness and joy that she practically near glowed; for Millie had found the secret to a Good life: she'd found the safest harbour of all. Companionship.
End
Monday, March 15, 2010
Trust: the thing we must do for others but not for things
Something wicked this way comes...
One of those slightly dodgy "current affairs" magazine style shows on commercial television was proclaiming the horrors of new kinds of mobile phone spy technology tonight. Yes! It was indeed a rather scary concept - that there are applications out there which make it really simple to track your every conversation and text message. In the hands of the wrong kinds of people this would cause an enormous amount of stress and inconvenience to anyone! I believe it is actually illegal in Australia, for ordinary citizens to bug other people's phone conversations and read their private texts. Obviously the technology exists to make it easy for the less than ethical to breach trust! Not a good thing.
However, this modern day breach of privacy horror aside - I was more appalled at the final comment from the journalist covering the story
"The simple message is - trust no one!"Hmm!
Coincidentally, the very next story was on purchasing cheap specs and the comment here was
"Go for brands you can trust!"This is insidious and dangerous talk. The juxtaposition of these two themes around "Trust" make it clear that this television program's producers believe that all individuals are to be suspected of all manner of malicious dealings whereas companies, who produce "Stuff", are the ones to "trust" implicitly, for their "ethical marketing and customer service".
Hmm! x 2
I'm not happy about it. When human beings are taught that it is better to trust a brand name than it is to trust their neighbours - something very wicked and disastrous happens to a civilisation. It breaks down from the ground up. Suspicion, secrecy, deception and corruption ensue. Friends are no longer friends; families can no longer believe they are safe within the confines of home and hearth; business colleagues are left bereft of congenial support in the workplace.
Above all, it is ones privacy that suffers! Yes! The disastrous irony of this kind of thinking results in people actually losing the very thing they feared losing in the first place. Once trust is no longer a valid reason to conduct a relationship - of the kind between individuals - suspicion leads people to paranoia and the desire to spy on others anyway.
The television may be soliciting advertising revenue through this ploy too and that is indeed a massive breach of trust. It is one thing to inform - it is quite another to consciously manipulate. One does need to view these kinds of piece-meal, sound byte styled affairs shows with a certain level of scepticism it seems! Ergo - it is in this instance that the gift of trust must be most carefully practised. It is heinous to assume that individuals must always be assumed untrustworthy before the most widely marketed brand name! At least that is my personal opinion on the matter.
Trust is a currency. It is the payment given for relationship. To breach it is grievously wrong.
So... I ask this: protect the people around you. Trust others first before believing they are out to destroy or maim you. Give trust and trust returns. Do not let anyone (least of all - television shows) tell you that "no one" can be trusted for many, many people can be trusted and are above reproach. Build the foundations of trust between people with a smile and an aware but open heart
and lastly....
.... always remember that when it comes to buying "Stuff"....
Caveat emptor
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The safest harbour
Millie sighed and bobbed unhappily in the briny sea next to the broken down jetty near the miserable little sea-side village of Brae. Her mast paint peeled in the blazing sun, her decks dull and spattered with the ruminations of seagulls, she eyed the forlorn little street that fronted the harbour above. No one came by to gaze out over the sea. No one stopped to cast a rod for a lazy afternoon of fishing. No children shrieked or shrilled with the joys of discovery from ocean depths. There were hardly any sounds in the street. It was as if it were a ghost-town with nary a ghost.
Millie recalled days long since gone when the town was a busy little port, with sweet girls in pretty frocks watching from the street above, for their fisher boyfriends to come in from a long days haul. She remembered how she felt after a long day out in the wild ocean, near-to-bursting with fish in her hull, coming in to moor at her little place by the jetty. The feeling was one of relief and utter exhaustion from a job well done.
The harbour was now almost abandoned except for the occasional visitor who scurried more than paused to take inventory of boats, and nets and then spin the wheels on their terribly posh cars out of the village of Brae back to the big city to frown and mutter at the costs of keeping "such rubbish" such as the likes of Millie. She felt so utterly abandoned.
The ropes that tied her to the moorings on the jetty were rotting away. She could feel the swell of the ocean deep below her keel, telling her that something was changing. She was frightened and did not know what lay ahead.
One morning the sky broke dawn in shades of red and gold so vivid that Millie woke from her sleep with a terrible trembly, burly feeling deep in her hold. Something was not going to be right today - she could feel it. The sky changed colour, everything became tinged in a kind of unearthly green. Even the clouds had bright green linings to them that had to be seen to be believed. The day went very quiet. Birds stopped ruminating from aloft. The town above ceased even the few noises it did have during a normal day. Things seemed deathly quiet. The horizon switched to a menacing blackness, with angry marching clouds galloping and fuming their way across open seas towards the village of Brae.
The Storm hit sometime around noon. Violent winds battered the few miserable boats in the little harbour so that some released their moorings and were cast adrift to an angry sea. Millie squeezed her eyes shut to brave out the vicious attack of wind, sea salt, sand and flashing lightening. She tried not to think of her mast standing still tall and bare to the open sky but sail-less being struck by one of those brilliant frightening bolts of power. Her own moorings suddenly released her to the mercy of the raging sea. The little harbour became a death trap for many of these unmanned boats. Some were dashed against the rocks and were scuppered. Some capsized to become bobbing hulls and nothing more and others again were thrown though the mouth of the harbour to be beached further along the coastline.
Millie however, seemed to be held by some unseen hand and her rudder, flapping wildly as it was, kept her from the rocks or from capsizing. She was however, cast out from the harbour into the wide and violent ocean to ride impossible waves for an interminable night of pain and gut-wrenching fear.
Silence reined once more and Millie found herself, alone and exhausted, but mercifully intact, on a wide-blue ocean. The gulls soon shattered the surreal calm with shrieks of joy at a place to rest on their journey to land.
"Where am I?" she asked the gulls aloft.
"Half way!" said most of the gulls inscrutably.
Millie cried. Half way to anywhere was nowhere to "Somewhere" and right now, as much as she was just a little bit glad to be free of her entrapment in that sullen little harbour, she was quite terrified at what lay ahead. Drifting in a quartering sea, she believed she was quite possibly, going to be alone for a very long time until she sank beneath the waves to the bottom of the ocean. Closing her eyes to sleep off her exhaustion and belay her fears, she let herself drift, not knowing how or where the whispering winds would take her.
She awoke with a start as she felt a feeble tug at the Jacob's Ladder on her Port side. She'd not realised that the ladder had become loosened in the storm and had been dragging through the ocean along her side for how long she didn't know. But here it was again... a gentle insistent tug. She felt it grow a little stronger and more determined.
A man's arm hooked itself into the sodden rope rung of the ladder and he clung there, a mixture of shock and relief plastered against his storm ravished face. The planking on which he had lay from a vessel torn apart by the storm was sinking beneath him as he hauled himself with the last of his strength, slowly, up the ladder to her deck. There he lay on his back for a long time dazed and confounded.
Millie's heart ached for the man. She could not tell if he was alive or dead. She wanted very much for him to be alive! Someone to steer her, guide her through this blue desert would be a godsend of unspeakable miracles! She willed the man to be alive!
Many hours... perhaps days... later he awoke slowly, his mouth parched and his joints aching. He stretched himself slowly, checking if he was still indeed alive and not a ghost on a miserable little boat in the middle of an enormous sea. He sat up, holding his head in his hands as it throbbed wildly in pain. Dehydration! He must find water and soon. Knowing boats as he did, he eased his way to the old cockpit. He searched but could not find a waterbottle. He went below deck, staggering and slightly unsteady on his feet, his eyes affected by too much salt and sun. Below he found old tin cans in the galley and a knife - a miracle really. He also found sail cloth and with the determination of survival hauled these treasures above as best he could. The sail cloth was heavy and he cut a section away from it to take to make a way of turning sea-water into potable water he could drink. A simple case of using the sun and the wonders of evaporation. Using utensils from the galley he made a filter with the piece of sail cloth, scraping away some of its greasy coating with the knife to bare the pure linen underneath. Hauling up seawater he set it into the contraption and very soon, the salt crystals formed on the topside of the cloth while underneath the water dripped into a panniken clear and drinkable. He spent most of the day sipping at and in turn hauling water this way. Each sip he seemed to grow stronger and more alert.
Finally he slept above deck near his water making device, the sleep of a man in determined recovery. Millie was so proud of him. Her little heart entranced at his strength of will and his determination to survive no matter the odds. She vowed to be like him and mustered her courage to face whatever lay ahead.
.... tbc (though given my track record on finishing stories like this? we shall see)
Millie recalled days long since gone when the town was a busy little port, with sweet girls in pretty frocks watching from the street above, for their fisher boyfriends to come in from a long days haul. She remembered how she felt after a long day out in the wild ocean, near-to-bursting with fish in her hull, coming in to moor at her little place by the jetty. The feeling was one of relief and utter exhaustion from a job well done.
The harbour was now almost abandoned except for the occasional visitor who scurried more than paused to take inventory of boats, and nets and then spin the wheels on their terribly posh cars out of the village of Brae back to the big city to frown and mutter at the costs of keeping "such rubbish" such as the likes of Millie. She felt so utterly abandoned.
The ropes that tied her to the moorings on the jetty were rotting away. She could feel the swell of the ocean deep below her keel, telling her that something was changing. She was frightened and did not know what lay ahead.
One morning the sky broke dawn in shades of red and gold so vivid that Millie woke from her sleep with a terrible trembly, burly feeling deep in her hold. Something was not going to be right today - she could feel it. The sky changed colour, everything became tinged in a kind of unearthly green. Even the clouds had bright green linings to them that had to be seen to be believed. The day went very quiet. Birds stopped ruminating from aloft. The town above ceased even the few noises it did have during a normal day. Things seemed deathly quiet. The horizon switched to a menacing blackness, with angry marching clouds galloping and fuming their way across open seas towards the village of Brae.
The Storm hit sometime around noon. Violent winds battered the few miserable boats in the little harbour so that some released their moorings and were cast adrift to an angry sea. Millie squeezed her eyes shut to brave out the vicious attack of wind, sea salt, sand and flashing lightening. She tried not to think of her mast standing still tall and bare to the open sky but sail-less being struck by one of those brilliant frightening bolts of power. Her own moorings suddenly released her to the mercy of the raging sea. The little harbour became a death trap for many of these unmanned boats. Some were dashed against the rocks and were scuppered. Some capsized to become bobbing hulls and nothing more and others again were thrown though the mouth of the harbour to be beached further along the coastline.
Millie however, seemed to be held by some unseen hand and her rudder, flapping wildly as it was, kept her from the rocks or from capsizing. She was however, cast out from the harbour into the wide and violent ocean to ride impossible waves for an interminable night of pain and gut-wrenching fear.
Silence reined once more and Millie found herself, alone and exhausted, but mercifully intact, on a wide-blue ocean. The gulls soon shattered the surreal calm with shrieks of joy at a place to rest on their journey to land.
"Where am I?" she asked the gulls aloft.
"Half way!" said most of the gulls inscrutably.
Millie cried. Half way to anywhere was nowhere to "Somewhere" and right now, as much as she was just a little bit glad to be free of her entrapment in that sullen little harbour, she was quite terrified at what lay ahead. Drifting in a quartering sea, she believed she was quite possibly, going to be alone for a very long time until she sank beneath the waves to the bottom of the ocean. Closing her eyes to sleep off her exhaustion and belay her fears, she let herself drift, not knowing how or where the whispering winds would take her.
She awoke with a start as she felt a feeble tug at the Jacob's Ladder on her Port side. She'd not realised that the ladder had become loosened in the storm and had been dragging through the ocean along her side for how long she didn't know. But here it was again... a gentle insistent tug. She felt it grow a little stronger and more determined.
A man's arm hooked itself into the sodden rope rung of the ladder and he clung there, a mixture of shock and relief plastered against his storm ravished face. The planking on which he had lay from a vessel torn apart by the storm was sinking beneath him as he hauled himself with the last of his strength, slowly, up the ladder to her deck. There he lay on his back for a long time dazed and confounded.
Millie's heart ached for the man. She could not tell if he was alive or dead. She wanted very much for him to be alive! Someone to steer her, guide her through this blue desert would be a godsend of unspeakable miracles! She willed the man to be alive!
Many hours... perhaps days... later he awoke slowly, his mouth parched and his joints aching. He stretched himself slowly, checking if he was still indeed alive and not a ghost on a miserable little boat in the middle of an enormous sea. He sat up, holding his head in his hands as it throbbed wildly in pain. Dehydration! He must find water and soon. Knowing boats as he did, he eased his way to the old cockpit. He searched but could not find a waterbottle. He went below deck, staggering and slightly unsteady on his feet, his eyes affected by too much salt and sun. Below he found old tin cans in the galley and a knife - a miracle really. He also found sail cloth and with the determination of survival hauled these treasures above as best he could. The sail cloth was heavy and he cut a section away from it to take to make a way of turning sea-water into potable water he could drink. A simple case of using the sun and the wonders of evaporation. Using utensils from the galley he made a filter with the piece of sail cloth, scraping away some of its greasy coating with the knife to bare the pure linen underneath. Hauling up seawater he set it into the contraption and very soon, the salt crystals formed on the topside of the cloth while underneath the water dripped into a panniken clear and drinkable. He spent most of the day sipping at and in turn hauling water this way. Each sip he seemed to grow stronger and more alert.
Finally he slept above deck near his water making device, the sleep of a man in determined recovery. Millie was so proud of him. Her little heart entranced at his strength of will and his determination to survive no matter the odds. She vowed to be like him and mustered her courage to face whatever lay ahead.
.... tbc (though given my track record on finishing stories like this? we shall see)
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Hugo and the irrelevance of logic in Christ
Hugo Schwyzer is a pretty broad-minded, leftist, feminist bloke! He writes insightful discourses in all manner of subjects about gender and sexuality as well as history and other esoteric things.
He's also a professed christian.
It makes no sense of course. There's that lovely Rennaisance assumption alive and well to this day, that says that rational and intelligent persons who "believe in science" cannot in all seriousness also believe in Christ. For me, science is as much an aspect of God's bountiful blessings to be a non issue. I have absolutely no problem with science and so on. For those who believe in Science, the issue of Faith is very difficult to grasp. Faith as a thing isn't easy to pin down in objective laboratory tests. It's not logical.
As I always say... You cannot know something until you're inside of it. You cannot understand the experience a thing until you're actually experiencing it.
Faith.
You cannot know Faith until you are living inside Faith.
There's no greater conundrum than to sit outside Faith and simply not "get it". It's like trying to make sense of a painting by Dali or a optical illusion by Escher. Even Rorschach tests make more sense than having Faith in Christ.
Hugo is correct when he implies that logic is irrelevant to Faith. Faith is something slightly to the left of actual belief too. One can believe many erroneous things as well as good and logical things. I believe in gravity and I also believe that man has walked on the moon! Some don't and that's still a belief which may - or may not - be wrong.
Faith however isn't "just" a belief - it's also a medicine, a crutch, a prop, a hope, a plea, an intuiting, a knowing, an emotional construct beyond mere beliefs in illogical things. It's watery, amorphous, esoteric, utterly illogical and asinine. Faith is a living, breathing entity in the metaphysical hearts of some people who cannot imagine life without it there.
The HOW of living out ones Faith is however, dependent on reason and logic in many instances. Even I have a wariness and scepticism of miraculous signs. One must weigh all things from the perspective of an altruistic love which can be difficult enough even with Faith. We're such a selfish kind of creature. Certainly, there are some scientific facts that one believes on the tangible, touchable, sniff-able evidence and to bend these can create a storm of protest in the mind too.
The WHY of living in Faith is a different matter entirely and its mostly subjective and emotional. It's so deeply set in the parts of a human being untouchable by the logic of science that unless you somehow tap into that untouchable "knowing" - you will never know.
This reminds me of the scenes in the recent movie Avatar where the Na'vi entwine nerve endings from themselves into the literal fabric of their environment. For many Christians, myself (and it seems, Hugo) included, this entwining into the Godhead gives us a perspective that's just not possible to convey to those who do not have the same entwined symbiosis to it.
To nearly misquote a line from Jethro Tull's "Thick as a Brick" ....
Without Faith:
Which I think is entirely true and quite logical really. There are many who profess to be Christians who's version of god is utterly reprehensible and I will have no part of their interpretation of the Christian Gospel at all! I cannot however, question their Faith - for I do not have the power to pass judgment on it when my sort of Faith is so exclusively my own
So, given that Faith is so hard to convey, the miracle in all of this is that lives continue to change - for a resounding "Better" to those who experience it - through the impact of Christ. It's as if there's some kind of magnetic attraction between the illogical dimension and various and sporadic persons. Once enmeshed inside that dimension, Faith eventually may (or may not) take root and flourish in the spiritual centre of the person. For me the embodiment of that dimension is Christ.
I may perhaps gain everything but I will lose nothing in owning this "foolishness".
He's also a professed christian.
It makes no sense of course. There's that lovely Rennaisance assumption alive and well to this day, that says that rational and intelligent persons who "believe in science" cannot in all seriousness also believe in Christ. For me, science is as much an aspect of God's bountiful blessings to be a non issue. I have absolutely no problem with science and so on. For those who believe in Science, the issue of Faith is very difficult to grasp. Faith as a thing isn't easy to pin down in objective laboratory tests. It's not logical.
As I always say... You cannot know something until you're inside of it. You cannot understand the experience a thing until you're actually experiencing it.
Faith.
You cannot know Faith until you are living inside Faith.
There's no greater conundrum than to sit outside Faith and simply not "get it". It's like trying to make sense of a painting by Dali or a optical illusion by Escher. Even Rorschach tests make more sense than having Faith in Christ.
Hugo is correct when he implies that logic is irrelevant to Faith. Faith is something slightly to the left of actual belief too. One can believe many erroneous things as well as good and logical things. I believe in gravity and I also believe that man has walked on the moon! Some don't and that's still a belief which may - or may not - be wrong.
Faith however isn't "just" a belief - it's also a medicine, a crutch, a prop, a hope, a plea, an intuiting, a knowing, an emotional construct beyond mere beliefs in illogical things. It's watery, amorphous, esoteric, utterly illogical and asinine. Faith is a living, breathing entity in the metaphysical hearts of some people who cannot imagine life without it there.
The HOW of living out ones Faith is however, dependent on reason and logic in many instances. Even I have a wariness and scepticism of miraculous signs. One must weigh all things from the perspective of an altruistic love which can be difficult enough even with Faith. We're such a selfish kind of creature. Certainly, there are some scientific facts that one believes on the tangible, touchable, sniff-able evidence and to bend these can create a storm of protest in the mind too.
The WHY of living in Faith is a different matter entirely and its mostly subjective and emotional. It's so deeply set in the parts of a human being untouchable by the logic of science that unless you somehow tap into that untouchable "knowing" - you will never know.
This reminds me of the scenes in the recent movie Avatar where the Na'vi entwine nerve endings from themselves into the literal fabric of their environment. For many Christians, myself (and it seems, Hugo) included, this entwining into the Godhead gives us a perspective that's just not possible to convey to those who do not have the same entwined symbiosis to it.
To nearly misquote a line from Jethro Tull's "Thick as a Brick" ....
Without Faith:
god is an overwhelming responsibility
Which I think is entirely true and quite logical really. There are many who profess to be Christians who's version of god is utterly reprehensible and I will have no part of their interpretation of the Christian Gospel at all! I cannot however, question their Faith - for I do not have the power to pass judgment on it when my sort of Faith is so exclusively my own
So, given that Faith is so hard to convey, the miracle in all of this is that lives continue to change - for a resounding "Better" to those who experience it - through the impact of Christ. It's as if there's some kind of magnetic attraction between the illogical dimension and various and sporadic persons. Once enmeshed inside that dimension, Faith eventually may (or may not) take root and flourish in the spiritual centre of the person. For me the embodiment of that dimension is Christ.
I may perhaps gain everything but I will lose nothing in owning this "foolishness".
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Indian cooking: a symphony for the nose
A new Indian restaurant is opening today just a few doors down from my workplace. The smells emanating from their kitchen today, drove my salivary glands giddy with desire and my belly with hunger.
I've thankfully, refrained for now from indulging in the massive range of delicacies on offer. I'm sure this won't last long! Goodness knows how many kilojoules of wonderment await in this den of culinary vice!
Indian food!
There is truly a symphony of gastric song in just the words alone. Nuanced spices structuring basic ingredients to culinary heights of gastronomic beauty; basic ingredients, such as rice, chicken, vegetables and fish steaming with fragrant possibilities for the palate!
The heart - and the belly - crave the promise of such a siren's song to the nose!
There is no other international cuisine quite like the scents and flavours of Indian food. It is a law unto itself. Not all Indian food is spicy hot of course. Even so, the piquant blending of selected spices, herbs and condiments adds notes to food just as music adds notes to sound, morphing them into pleasantries for the senses and the soul.
I can't wait to sample the food at our new Indian Restaurant! If the smells coming from there today are anything to go by - the food promises to be utterly divine. Today however, I shall have to be a gastronomic Odysseus and tie myself to a dietary mast in order to listen with my nose but make my body wait for this wicked but potentially satisfying grace.
Such sweetly fragrant agony!
I've thankfully, refrained for now from indulging in the massive range of delicacies on offer. I'm sure this won't last long! Goodness knows how many kilojoules of wonderment await in this den of culinary vice!
Indian food!
There is truly a symphony of gastric song in just the words alone. Nuanced spices structuring basic ingredients to culinary heights of gastronomic beauty; basic ingredients, such as rice, chicken, vegetables and fish steaming with fragrant possibilities for the palate!
The heart - and the belly - crave the promise of such a siren's song to the nose!
There is no other international cuisine quite like the scents and flavours of Indian food. It is a law unto itself. Not all Indian food is spicy hot of course. Even so, the piquant blending of selected spices, herbs and condiments adds notes to food just as music adds notes to sound, morphing them into pleasantries for the senses and the soul.
I can't wait to sample the food at our new Indian Restaurant! If the smells coming from there today are anything to go by - the food promises to be utterly divine. Today however, I shall have to be a gastronomic Odysseus and tie myself to a dietary mast in order to listen with my nose but make my body wait for this wicked but potentially satisfying grace.
Such sweetly fragrant agony!
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