First of all. Why such critical and condoning tone? Why not such question posed with love or concern? What does it even mean to you? Does my life effect you in some way? Do I cause you pain? You say that I have no stability or foundation. What do you expect from me? I'd build a house if I knew where to put it. I'd make a home if it agreed with my heart. Both are not for lack of resource. I'm not an unwise and foolish penny-less vagrant.
Are they monuments, a wife and children? Are they things to erect on my lawn? Everything happens in its own time and I trust that everything works out as it should. So let it be.
You fail to see this journey I'm on. And I'm working it out slowly. I've been studying and I've been discovering, and I'm lost somewhere within the depths of me, the universe makes sense.
I've learned what it is to look through these eyes. I've stepped through the past and come to terms. I've held things in my hand and let them go. I've taken hurts and lies and thrown them into the light.
Because this journey is not about a destination. You see, it is so deep and amazing that we never truly arrive. It's not about milestones or trophies. It's not about accolades or comparisons. It's a personal and shared experience. Blessed are those that sink into it's weight, and feel it's endless bounds. Do you know what love is? Are you in awe of its power? It will collapse your knees!
So what about my years? So what if I'm thirty?
I am a deliberate man and I am deliberate in my actions.
So please don't criticize me when I can honestly say;
SEVEN
YEARS AGO I began an interesting writing project which somewhat
chronicled my (religiously restrained) pursuits in love from the age of
ten. Clearly it was a work of humour, some chapters were girls names,
another chapter entitled 'It wasn't Pinnochio's nose that grew...' which
documented adolescent sexual frustrations expressed via boyhood
campfire conversations about girls. I continued writing up to the age of
seventeen and eventually abandoned the project after deciding that the
years that followed were shaping into a long winded tragedy with
dwindling amounts of humour.
Love
changes with age. Some relationships seem like vague recollections in
dreams or nightmares, some like lives in parallel universes. The past can be stranger
than fiction when you look at the journey. Maybe it is a sign of success
if you can look back on things that way?
I wanted to write something meaningful for Valentine's day but I thought it would be more important to laugh.
An excerpt from an earlier chapter in my abandoned project. My first love ;
CASSIE Cassie
was my first ever girlfriend. I was 11 and at Intermediate School. I
had liked her for a while and she liked me also. She had blonde hair,
blue eyes, and her nose was a little bit pointy but that was alright,
she was still pretty. One day in the playground her friend Kelly asked
me out on behalf of Cassie and I paused to think about it before
replying with ‘yes’. (I paused because I did not want to seem over
eager). Cassie was waiting across the other side of the playground. As
soon as I said ‘yes', Kelly ran over to Cassie to inform her of my
answer. I watched in the distance as she did this. They both looked
ecstatic and held hands, nodded their heads, and jumped up and down in
excitement.
Having a girlfriend was a new thing for me and I
wasn’t sure what it entailed. I figured we’d hang out, hold hands and
stuff, and maybe kiss but french kissing a girl kind of grossed me out.
In the classroom Cassie asked if I wanted to move my desk into her
group. My teacher Mr Thomson let us sit in whatever desk arrangements
we liked. I agreed but said that I wanted my friends Matthew and Andrew
to come with me. Cassie and Kelly consulted each other about this
arrangement and they accepted. So there we were. Me, Cassie, Kelly,
Matthew and Andrew, all sitting in a group. It was a different group
dynamic sitting with girls. We would get in more trouble because the
girls would talk when Mr Thomson was talking, and they would draw in our
workbooks. One day Matthew told me that it was pissing him off and
Andrew agreed so they moved out. I felt quite abandoned.
I told
my parents that I had a girlfriend. I don’t know why I did this. Maybe
it was because I was proud I had got one. I did not know it would
cause such commotion. Mum was outraged and said I was far too young to
have one, and that it was bad news. She feared that a girl would just
be trouble and she wanted me to break it off. I, of course was outraged
by this and said that it was not fair and it was my life and that it
wasn’t that bad. I was quite angry. Mum looked at dad for support. I
don’t think dad liked the idea of me having a girlfriend either but he
didn’t say much. He could tell that I was angry with mum for her
reaction. In the end I heard dad say to Mum, “He’s only 11, don’t
worry”. I then heard Mum say “But this will just be the start, he’s too
young…”
Cassie would call me on the telephone. I learnt that
girls like talking. They like talking a lot. We would talk for up to an
hour. Sometimes Cassie would ring me for no reason, it was just
something to do. She would ring up and say ‘Hi’ and then ask me what I
was doing.
“Watching T.V” I would say.
“Same” she would reply.
“Cool” I would say.
“Cool" she would say. “What are you watching?”
“The Simpsons” I replied.
“Same. Do you think Clarence from school looks like Milhouse?”
“Um… yeah kind of.” I said.
She laughed. “Four eyes (Clarence) is such a geek.”
Basically
Cassie would ring me up and we would occupy the phone and talk about
nothing. It was disrupting my homework. Mum would look at me as if to
remind me of this fact when I was on the phone and it made me feel bad.
I would try to get off the phone by telling Cassie that I had to go.
“No you don’t” Cassie would say and she would insist on us talking. I
would give in. I am pathetic and weak.
I started having to get my homework done early so it was done before Cassie would ring to make mum happy.
It
was hard work having a girlfriend. They were quite needy and
demanding. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered but at the same time
Cassie gave me a buzz. I couldn’t describe it, it was like a flutter of
the heart or adrenaline or something, the feeling that there was
someone special in your life that shared a special part of you that no
one else could. This is what led me to sew ‘Ken Cassie Ken Cassie Ken
Cassie’ all over the pencil case I was making in my clothing and
textiles class at school. It seemed like the in thing to do. My friend
Elliot had a girlfriend Joanna. They had been together about the same
time as me and Cassie. On their respective pencil cases they wrote
‘Elliot and Joanna 4 eva’. I showed Cassie my pencil case. I think she
was quite flattered. I scored brownie points. We held hands on the
way back from class that day.
There were a lot of phone calls,
drawing in each others exercise books, and some hand holding but me and
Cassie had still not kissed. I think Elliot and Joanna were in the same
boat. One overcast lunch time Kelly, Cassie’s friend decided that we
should go over to the far side of the field where it was secluded and
play dare. Kelly dragged me and Cassie and also Elliot and Joanna. I
started to get that buzz – my heart began to flutter. When we got there
Kelly said that Cassie and I needed to kiss and so did Elliot and
Joanna. We all looked hesitant and embarrassed by being put on the spot
like that. There was a period of silence but then Kelly said “come on,
who’s going to kiss first?”. This made it a competition and I sensed
shame for the couple that lost. I looked at Elliot and Joanna who were
sheepishly looking each other in the eyes, to me it was a sign that they
were both developing traction in the whole procedure. This made me
look at Cassie. I felt nervous and uncomfortable and so did Elliot. We
looked at each other and then at our girlfriends and as Elliot leant in
to kiss Joanna, so I did to Cassie. One quick peck on the lips. It
was over in a flash.
The love that Cassie and I shared began to
grow old in the days that ensued. Perhaps it was my fear of the big
sloppy. I watched older boys do it to their girlfriends at the bus
stop. I admired them. I was just chicken. One day in the playground
Kelly came up to me and stated “You’re dumped. From Cassie” and then
ran away. Our love had ended pretty much exactly the way it began - via
personal message service informing me of my plight. This was my first
experience of heart ache. I was dumped for another boy, Michael, who
looked like a monkey.
When are we ever not plunged in the wild trying to make sense of our surroundings? We are always vulnerable, with choice, not knowing what lies ahead and what will cross our paths.
But we need to take it all in. Feel it out. Listen to how it breathes. Feel small amongst it.
We emerged from a plane crash, you and I, and nothing will be the same. All that can be looked upon is the way forward in whatever direction it may take.
It's the same on the street where you live. Each day you leave the front door. Who says the house will remain standing after you leave? Who says the people you say goodbye to will remain?
Do we know these things?
Do we feel these things?
Because the heartbroken feel them all.
They learn how to live.
They learn how to love.
In the wild.
We always strived for immediacy.
We always wanted to arrive.
How foolish we were to always focus on the outcome.
In another life, in another set of circumstances maybe I'd get my child to hold a sign reading;
"Behead all those who insult the prophet".
A mother takes a photo of her child with a banner during the Muslim riots in Sydney.
Maybe I'd carry slogans reading;
"Islam will dominate the world. Freedom can go to hell."
Islamic protesters in the Europe.
If some people are drawn to carry out such actions then I can't say that the same possibilities do not lie within me given another life, in another set of circumstances. But I've ventured into this life areligious and then with my own theological Christian views and in my current realm of experience I'm at a loss for why these people are doing what they are doing. What has gone wrong in their lives? When did they become so full of hatred and... megalomaniacal?
The above images were taken recently as Muslims responded to an anti-Islamic film made by an American. Muslims around the world seemed to get caught up in a rage about the film inciting violence and anti Western sentiments. In Sydney a protest resulted in a bloody riot.
To be honest, I was not surprised.
Images from the Sydney riot
Before moving to the New Zealand countryside when I was seven years old I grew up in South-West Sydney. Known for its ethnic mix and immigrant communities I had friends with names like Zara and Wasim. They had surnames like Bidaxous. I had aunties, uncles and cousins from Malaysia. As I can remember life was pretty good. Even though my dad was working long days as a carpenter and I'd often stay up as late as I could so I could see him come home before I went to bed I was always taken out for trips in the weekend. We'd go to the beaches at Bondi and Manly, cycle around the Botanic Gardens and Darling Harbour, explore the Blue Mountains to Sydney's West. Friends and cousins would get to come too if they were allowed. The more the merrier.
Now, after twenty-one years absence I've returned to Sydney and it's been interesting contrasting memories with present day reality. Everything is so much bigger. Traffic so much worse. I returned to the avenue I grew up in and noted that my childhood home is no longer standing. It's been knocked down and a mansion has been built in its place. Similar things have happened to the neighbouring houses in the street. They threaten to bulge over their sectional perimeters, they fight against each other for height, they fence each other out with ridiculously high walls. There is less green grass. More concrete. Fewer trees in the yard, if there is any yard at all. You can't have a yarn to your neighbour above the fence anymore. Gates are locked. It's rather depressing.
Likewise, where my Aunty lives, not too far from the Mosque in Lakemba and where I spend time when in-between work contracts I walk past the local public school and notice that the majority of children in the Public School are Arab. As years have gone by white families have slowly moved away. I walk the streets homeward from the train station and kids are running amok in groups without parents.
It can't be much of a life growing up in Sydney's South-West these days. With cost of living high, parents working long hours, kid's are basically co-brought up by television and video games inciting violence and terrorism. Quiet times without radio pop or gangster rap are pierced by the background noise of the incessantly traveled six lanes of Canterbury Road traversing the suburbs. There is no local haven, no place for peaceful solitude.
Sydney harbour
When people think of Sydney they think of the beautiful Harbour, the Botanic gardens and beaches. The Sydney lifestyle is pretty good if you live in these areas and have a lot of money to afford it. The reality though, is that you will fit somewhere in the socio-economic demographic that exists between the coastal outskirts and the less desirable depths of South-West Sydney. You're with the immigrant communities plunged into traffic fighting to keep your family afloat. Life may be tough.
The world is a busier place than it was twenty years ago. I can only imagine what it might be like arriving in Sydney with a young family from another country with a very different culture. I'm technically an Australian and returned on my Australian passport and found it difficult to settle in, get my tax-file number, medicare card etcetera and this was with having family and friends already here, speaking English and not having to find a place to rent. It is little wonder why immigrants stick to their own communities. It is what they know, it is what they are comfortable in. Uprooting families and moving countries and all the associated stresses that go with that can rank higher for stress as death of a loved one.
'White' Australians criticize ethnic communities for not integrating properly into society but I think they do not realize how difficult it can be. The only culture shock they have experienced is reverse culture shock after driving into Cabramatta, a suburb in South-West Sydney. Some of the shop signs are not even in English.
The suburb of Cabramatta in SW Sydney contains a strong Asian presence, particularly Vietnamese.
Even I experience a sense of reverse culture shock when visiting Cabramatta and I'm half Asian and well traveled across the globe. Whilst it saddens me to see lack of integration by immigrant communities I don't blame them. It's a two-fold story. How are immigrants supposed to adapt if not welcomed by others. Without getting to know our neighbours how is a community supposed to function?
Especially in a country that has never been free of racial prejudice. When people have ideas of superiority, that they epitomize the country and that their way should be considered the status quo.
I'm all for multiculturalism and I'm a product of it myself. Both sides of my family are completely different. At times it might seem like they are at odds with each other. When both sides of the family have met there have been elements of uncertainty and awkwardness on both sides which I've found both frustrating, amusing and essential. It might sound strange but my whole life I've clung to these awkward silences, the bonding attempts, the retractions, cautious niceties, the cultural faux pas. I've lived in these spaces because they speak of who I am. I see my acceptance as being a product of two different cultures uniting.
I bring the conversation of immigrant communities up a lot with my patients at work and it's interesting to see their responses. So many of them think that their country is being invaded by foreigners and that they should go back to where they came from. They say this to me, the person who is rehabilitating their injury, and I wonder if they know that technically I am one of the people they are telling to 'f**k off'. And if not, if they consider me one of them, then what of my mother? My aunties, uncles and cousins.
After all. Unless you are an Australian Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander you came from somewhere else as well.
I've been on the other side of the cultural conflict as well. I've hung out with Asians and individuals from other ethnic groups who have hurled anti-white sentiments and that doesn't make me comfortable either. I feel as though caught in the middle and never really belonging. I'm the gap. The divide. I'm the bridge. I'm the metaphor. I'm either the recuperating casualty or the triumphant victory.
Which brings me back to the Muslim riots.
There's a lot of pent up frustration, stress and aggression out there. The mental and spiritual health of many people is not good.
I refuse to believe that many -if any- of the Islamic rioters had even seen anything of the film that was said to offend their prophet Muhammad. I had no idea of the film's existence until the riots occurred and would have had no interest in it but after the ruckus and stink that was created I was curious to see what the fuss was about.
I checked out the trailer on youTube;
Has anyone bothered to watch it? It's 14 minutes long and so terrible that I could barely manage to watch two minutes of it. And that's just talking about the acting and cinematography, let alone storyline or message.
How this movie could cause such worldwide turmoil is beyond me.
But that is my point. I believe that most wars that have ever been fought are never truly in the name of what they are fighting for. There is some other motive, some other agenda. The Muslim protests turned into riots for other reasons.
Capitalism reigns supreme in the major cities of the world. We have 'the haves' and the 'have nots' and there is a tooth and nail struggle for most of those that exist in-between. Social media has also made us a very vain and superficial culture. We justify our self worth and success by what other people think of us, by the lives we are perceived to have, we are a collection of smiles and good times but we seldom allude to all the time in between.
It's not much of an existence crammed into the suburbs struggling to get by week to week. When you don't feel welcome in a country that you call home. When all you see is concrete, buildings, roads and traffic. Nothing is natural. Your parents are barely home and don't have enough time and or money to afford multiple bus and train fares to take you to the beach or the mountains. Maybe they don't even know the joys of the outdoors and how necessary it is for the soul. You spend your time on computers and play games that involve mass murder. You listen to music that encourages negative introspection and being the victim. You see other people. They have it better, easier. They have more. They have everything. And now they are making fun of you and insulting you. But you have an association with an impassioned group. You can unite and act in the name of something bigger. Jihad.
I can see it happening. It's happening now.
As a passage in the Bible states;
"For wherever jealousy and rivalry exist, there is disorder and every kind of evil."
My Aunty's place in South-West Sydney got robbed a few weeks ago. A few weeks earlier she had been home and noticed some Arab youths snooping unabashedly around the street. They were checking out houses and cars. When they saw my Aunty looking at them they pretended to hide behind a tree. A neighbour's house down the street was robbed also. They stole money, jewelery and electronics. They went through all of my stuff as well but decided I didn't have anything worth taking. The idiots. They could have taken two of my most prized possessions: my Gortex rain jacket and my Gortex bivvy tent. In some ways I wish they did. The dick heads could have done with getting away from the city and getting amongst nature and the elements. They could have found a quiet spot where no noise was manufactured, where there was an uninterrupted natural expanse as far as the eye could see. A place devoid of concrete and traffic and advertising and signs and rubbish. A place where they would not be distracted from their own thoughts for several days and where they could have a long hard think about things, maybe experience an epiphany.
In some ways I don't think I'm any different to the robbers though. If push came to shove I could probably manipulate my mind into theft. I imagine it would probably spring from envy, then perhaps a manufactured hatred for others with more than me, pity myself for being one of the 99 percent. Maybe I'd play a race card. Other races haven't done anything special for me so why not steal from them if they are better off. Each is for their own. I'd never do it but I can see how easy it could come about.
It's sad when races don't intermingle. All parties should make a concerted effort to get to know, understand and care for each other. Maybe if they did there would be less hatred and extremism. Maybe if the neighbour of Taliban members baked them some nice fluffy pink cupcakes they would chill out a little and maybe give up researching construction of bombs. Maybe they'd pass up an opportunity to riot and not really feel in the mood.
Keeping to ourselves is not the answer in a multicultural society. Love and community was never created in a vacuum. Constant signs of hope need to be shown by people reaching outside of themselves for others.
That is the real war.
To understand and f**king smother everyone with love.
If anyone wants to kill me after that they might as well go ahead and do so because life would not be worth living.
I pictured you arriving late and there was apprehension on all of the guests faces but I wasn’t worried in the slightest. They watched the clock and looked at each other, no words spoken and each one taboo. They would look upon my face to try and gain understanding for the circumstances, some justification for their concern but I gave none away. I took it all in. I was aware of the tension and invited it. I inhaled it and enjoyed the way it filtered through my lungs and into each of the smallest passages. I stared intently at the doors at the end of the building - if anything - inwardly smiling for the comfort and peace I knew given the place I stood.
You come through the doors smeared in mud with grazed knees. Past late and overdue, some of your clothes are torn and hanging off your body. Your hair is wild and unkempt, glued together in places in the formation of clumps. You’re barefooted. No make-up. Your fringe covers half of your face and you’ve given up trying to brush it to the side.
I wouldn’t want anything else.
People turn and look at you when you burst through the doors. They don’t recognize you. They don’t know who you are. Their eyes follow you as you walk down the aisle. The music man forgets to play the tune. You have a captive audience.
This is how my baby does it. Resolute and against all odds.
There is a story here but there is no need to tell. I don’t know it but at the same time I know it all.
Maybe your breathing is heavy. Maybe it is not. Maybe things have almost killed you. Maybe your steps are unsteady. Maybe you stumble as you make your way to me. Maybe you have endured the unthinkable.
Heartbroken, out of place, in disrepair, unwanted, troubled, lost, confused, guilty, odd. We've been all of these things.
Mankind seems to like to go to war. It's in our fallen nature. For some, our battles are trivial, like fighting for a mother's attention or for someone's affection. Others like to battle for pride, self worth, financial gain. I don't know what it is exactly but there is a certain satisfaction in being better or more powerful than something or someone else. We like to exert our dominance. We like to get what we want and we like to get it easily. So we gather our artillery and ammunition. Wars are fought. Weight is thrown around. Resources obtained all because someone wants to dominate for the sake of their own selfish purposes.
It reminds me of the line in a song "power is only made by power being taken".
Such statement makes sense to me. We are all equal aren't we? We have equal rights. We're all of the same species. But we abuse each other and struggle for power. Social classes are created. Races and sexes are discriminated against. Seniority is enforced. Everyday there is a victim and perpetrator and each lives within. We are the push and we are the pull. We are the innocent and the guilty in some small or large way.
Everywhere there is conflict so everywhere there is a fight. It could be brother versus brother, friend versus friend, country versus country, religion versus religion, or so on.
World peace is a fanciful ideal but it can never be obtained.
In saying so though, I would like to put forth a proposition.
What if aliens attacked?
What if some superior and terrifying species from another solar system came to wreak havoc on us? What if they plundered all the races, social groups, religions and nations?
Wouldpeople of different races, cultures and ethnic backgrounds unite? Even if they had hated each other and been 'enemies' for centuries?
I reckon all of our differences would be put aside in an instant. There would be no more countries or continents. There would just be 'earth'. There would be no more races or ethnic groups. There would just be 'humans'.
And as for religion... The Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Catholics etc would all have their minds blown so much that they'd be desperately seeking and rethinking truth.
And the Scientologists... I guess they'd have a few questions (or answers) of their own...
Maybe if we had an external enemy it would create a greater sense of peace within. Maybe the best way to bring peace amongst each other is some sort of EXTERNAL TOTAL F***ING DEVASTATION.
A homeless guy talked to me when I was looking for Koi fish under the ice in a Chinese garden in Vancouver a few weeks ago. He said many things to me. Amongst them: "It's all going to end soon. Nature is going to reset itself. We've f***ed it all up so it has to fix itself. You'll know by the birds and the other animals. They'll run away. That's when you know it's coming. They know when to leave. It's all going to blow."
He also told me of a strong hallucinogenic you can derive from Acacia wood but that is beside the point. I've looked to the sky ever since and watched the birds. I've actually fantasized about watching them all fly away till not a sound could be heard. I've pictured myself running with all the other people in the city when the ground opens up and the mountains explode. And in that desperation and panic, whilst running I've thought: This is quite nice actually. We are all the same. Just people running from disaster. Why didn't we realize this earlier? Maybe we could have treated each other nicer while we were alive.
He looks at the screen hoping that enlightenment would come but once again there was no message. It frustrated him that things would have to be this way - this kind of one-way communication with his father. He wanted answers. He wanted to know everything, to know where he was going, what he was supposed to do, how everything would pan out. He wanted to be able to calculate all of the obstacles in his path and the difficulties he would face, that way he wouldn't feel as if he was always running blind, falling from one problem to the next, never understanding the purpose of it all despite this underlying desire for something he couldn't define.
He looks at the screen once again.
Still nothing.
In the absense of communication he would often spend time speculating about how he should go about things. He was doing this now as he walked around his apartment staring blankly through his thoughts. He would try to assume his father's rational point of view but always fell short. This was perhaps, that he was not the man his father was nor would ever be. His head was clouded, a jumble of interferring stimuli that tried to find solace in outlook, but the forces were always opposing and the result was a scaled down yearning propogating an unsteady forward step. He wanted more. He knew he was made for more.
Another glance at the screen is taken.
Again nothing.
He looks at his watch. The kids would be climbing now. Each one with a bag, up the tallest towers in the neighbourhood. They had turned into some kind of juvenile army over the years. One day he had been flying a kite as his father had instructed of him in the Eastern Bloc and the children had seen him and been amazed. They had never seen a kite before and were mezmerised by the way it hovered so effortlessly in the air, how it sailed around buildings. It was only made of two sticks, paper and string but could embrace freedom so simply.
He had gained a following that day and that was probably what his father had intended. Now there were hundreds of them. They came out of the urban jungle wide eyed and hungry. They sought something that previous generations had lost and though it dumbfounded him they were entertained by his projects. The projects became a replacement for being left to their own devices on the streets. It was like a cultural or drop centre. It was to become their new education.
He could see them now zig zagging up the emergency stair cases of adjacent buildings, each one carrying a loaded sack like a procession of ants in the night. The current project had been months in the making and he enjoyed the sentiment that it carried. They had spent the last three months collecting Tigris Corporation flyers and the children had graffitied them, each in their own way. Some with lipstick, some with horns, other with more defacing creative flair. On the back of each flyer was a message to the city, a stated concern, a hope, a prayer. They were written by people from all walks of life and demographics across the city. They had collected the messages from people on the street then transcribed them onto the backs of the graffitied flyers. The last step was to fold them into origame paper tigers.
He had a view of the whole city from his balcony. Tonight was a clear night with the haze wearing only thinly on the horizon. Every night he stood on his balcony he would ponder the city and all the unanswered questions in his head. He would look to an adjacent tower and always see a young woman that did the same. It gave him solace. He did not know who she was but watching her silhouette and the mystery of her form gave him an idea of some sort of innate connection.
The kids were on the rooftops now. They signalled to each other and proceeded to drop their loads until the blackness of the night sky was overcome by a swarm of tumbling tigers. People in buildings saw them and ran to their windows and caught them as they fluttered past. It was the first time he had seen so many people look out of their windows with interest, excitement, curiosity even.
A paper tiger lands on Miss Delaware's balcony and he watches as she picks it up, unfolds, and reads it. When she is done she immediately looks back in his direction and it is unmistakable that she is looking at him.
Whether she had read his specifically written message or not was irrelevant. Somehow though, he knows she has.
He looks back and checks the screen in his apartment.
Nothing.
It no longer bothers him. He will find her himself. It makes more sense this way.
In another room he is pacing. He watches her via the surveillance system, sitting as attentively as when the faces first started to flash up on the screen. This had never happened before. It had been four hours. The trawl had been completed three times. First the city, then the state, finally the entire country. Everyone has a match, he thinks. All that was required was change.
He re-enters the room with another man. As they enter the screens turn blank and Miss Delaware turns to them as if her moment had come. Her face was like that of a girl recieving flowers for the first time. Her eyes were large and full of hope. They were a fable realized.
They sit down in front of her with serious faces. Before speaking the unknown man unzips a black bag. This was the moment she had waited for and dreamt about her whole life. Now that it was happening, she expected it to be different.
"We do not have a match for you yet" the Affinity curator says. "What we can offer you is what is contained in this bag."
The world was different when Miss Delaware exits the palm of the Tigris Corporation. On the day that she had expected answers she had been given further doubts and questions. She hails a taxi and demands to be taken to her brother.
Outside the windows of the cab she starts to see things with new eyes. New emotions and thoughts are awoken in her and it feels like a fatal wound. She sees all the cracks in the city where they had been painted over and watches them grow as the taxi continues to the East Side.
A light flashes on her wrist indicating that she had a dozen new messages awaiting her attention but she decides that she cannot face them now. She already knows who they were from and what they would say. She already knows the congratulative expressions and remarks.
She looks down at the black bag that she had been given. The city had a soul and all it needed was to be unzipped. To join it or leave it, that is what they had told her. The decision was hers.
The East side was the roughest part of the city and more affluent parts liked to pretend it didn't exist. She watches the slow societal decay on its approach and contrasts it with the black bag that sat on the seat beside her. In the middle of both contrasting scenes was her brother. She knows that she needed to see him no matter what state he was currently in. He may provide her with some sort of answer or guidance.
She doesn't bother knocking when she reaches his door and instead swipes herself inside. Some days he was lucid and with it, other days he was nothing more than mumbling sloth in. Calling out to him and stepping over empty pizza boxes and an assortment of take out containers she hears the latter.
In the living room she finds him lying on his side with his top arm dangling off the sofa and onto the floor. Slowly he rolls onto his back and slowly addresses his sister.
"He-ey sis.." he manages, his eyes staring past her, bloodshot and vacant.
"Oh Si!" she says compassionately, sitting down and giving him a soft embrace. She places her hand bag and the black bag on the coffee table clearly in his view. As she leans over her to hug him more firmly he starts to reach for it.
"How are you?" she asks her brother. "Have I come at a good time?"
Si does not respond having reached the black bag and taken a firm grip of one of its corners with his fist.
He turns his attention back to his sister. The unbelief on his face heartbreaking. He does not ask what her sister is doing with this black bag. His sister can already read the question on his face.
"I know, I know!" she says. "I mean I don't know! I don't know! Oh, I can't..."
She feels tears well up somewhere behind eyes, as if pumped from an infinite ocean that was bound somewhere deep inside.
"They gave it to me today!" she explains. "Today I was supposed to find Affinity but I didn't have a match. This was all they could give me. They said it was the only way."
Her brother lets the bag go as if extending his arm to reach for it had taken too much effort. As he does this his head collapses backwards onto the arm of the chair, his eyes closed, a deep breath taken, before summoning strength and continuing again.
"Everyone says many things Sis" he says. "Everyone has an opinion about everything. Everyone wants assurances in life. They want answers. They want to know that everything will be okay. We pay for it. We pay for it everyday. They sell us what we want to believe and we buy it! And we will keep buying it. We will buy it until we are broke, until it has taken us over and there is nothing left and then we will be burried in the ground."
He looks seriously at his sister, the one who had always lived a virtuous life, the one who both inspired him and wordlessly criticized him for the way he had lived his life. He pulls out an unused cartridge from his pocket and quickly inspects the label.
BADMINTON MATCH it read and as he reads it, he rolls his eyes and decides that he should no longer buy assorted packs from the Chinese man in the next block no matter how cheap they may seem. He directs his eyes back to his sister and narrows them.
"Don't do it Sis" he says. "You are probably the truest thing there is. You are the truest thing I know. Do not open that bag. Take it back to whoever gave it to you. Otherwise, this is what you get."
He rams the cartridge onto his wrist which stimulates the clamping and injecting mechanism built inside. He writhes in a semi painful looking exstacy before exhaling hard and his body relaxing. Immediately after doing this he reaches into his pocket and finds another cartridge and clamps it down on his wrist and infuses the substance.
This one says THREESOME and he catches a glance of it just as the infusion process starts.
This will be interesting he thinks.
"See you later Sis. Come back and see me next week and tell me that you are not afraid, that you will swim in the ocean no matter how infinite and lonely it may seem."
And with that, his body is overcome again. He contorts on the sofa and then is released with laughter and heavy rapid breathing. Miss Delaware stays for several minutes until her brothers body is lame except for the signs of breath and pulse. He has a semi happy look on his face.
Miss Delaware arrives back at her apartment after nightfall. On the table in the middle of her living space she places the black bag and looks at it. She looks around her to see if anyone is watching but she is entirely alone. On the room function remote control she sets the function to "Oceans" and the walls, ceiling, and floors of her apartment become waves crashing on an undefined shore. She unzips the bag and fumbles through its contents. She reads the labels on the cartridges. KAMA SUTRA, DEER STALKING, COCAINE...
She looks through the bag at all the labels, each one speaking of an experience, some questionable, some desirable, but none that she deemed she wanted to experience artificially. She begins to cry feeling inept in all her lack of experience in some aspects of life, feeling alien when compared to what her friends and work colleagues were doing. In the process of questioning whether it was her that was abandoning her friends or her friends that were abandoning her, she raises the black bag and it's contents and smashes them onto the floor.
"To find your match you need to be more like your match" they had said.
Next she goes around her entire apartment and strips every wire that connected into every socket. She removes the communication device of her wrist and crushes it under her foot. She smashes every screen that fed her any image, every speaker that delivered any sound. She erases her social networking profile then smashes the hard drive as if sawing a body in two to release a soul. When her rampage is over she is so exhausted that she collapses on the floor. Her whole apartment is silent for the first time in as long as she can remember. There is no humming of machines, no clicking of information through electronic devices. No ones and zeros except for those that were jumping across the synapses of neurons in her head. Sick of her apartment and wanting to look elsewhere other than the destruction of her hands she makes her way to her balcony. Around her was a sea of towering buildings and flickering lights stretching as far as her eyes could see.
In the tower she sees him.
This was also the moment that the sky rained paper tigers.
In the moment, embracing the minutes and seconds, she looks down at her unblemished wrists. Out of the window and into the apartments they stare mesmerized by a cable fed kaleidoscope, they smoke away on balconies, consider love in barricaded bedrooms. She looks to a particular room on an adjacent tower. Today he is not there.
Her watch beeps. Rushing to mirror she adds colour and definition to her face. There is no need really, but today promised to be one of those days. It was a day to change all days that would come. It would make sense of the days that served as mere filler between such momentous occasions in life.
Swinging her handbag around her neck she exits her apartment and rides the grav-tube to street level. She views the messages that her friends had recorded for her and sent that morning, little holograms that sprouted from her wrist.
“Can’t wait to hear about how handsome he is” they say.
“I’m so excited for you.”
“You go girl. Affinity to infinity!”
She hurries out the door and hails a cab.
“Tigris Corporation” she says.
The cab driver looks at her briefly through the rear view and nods.
“Affinity Division” she adds.
The mention of the Affinity Division causes the cab driver to double take. He looks at her with new eyes, intentions different. The very mention of the ‘a’ word was a catalyst for many emotions within people. It separated the haves from the have nots, it spoke of material wealth, hope, a ticket to a better existence - something out of reach for many people.
She was a modest woman and did not mean to gloat. She already regretted the mention of Affinity to the man. She should have just mentioned “Tigris Corporation” and walked herself to the appropriate sector of the complex.
She doesn’t want to make further case with the man but as she sits the holograms project out wildly in her face. Advertisements of holiday getaways on private islands, wedding dresses, sex parties and toothpaste. She was sick of all of the images and they were almost unavoidable, the world seemed to rotate around them.
“Can you switch them off please?” she says to the cab driver.
“But if off, your fare more. If on, your fare cheaper” he says.
“I don’t care” she says. “I want to live without being told how to live. I want a life that cannot be bought.”
The taxi driver laughs. “Yet you go for Affinity” he says. He flicks off the advertisement projection system angrily and rues lost commission and ambassador credits.
She notices a smudge on the driver’s wrist as he switches off the advertising system. She can tell that he was a user. It wasn’t the wrists however that gave it away. It was in his eyes, a slight and occasional vacancy. Her brother was the same. He had started at first recreationally, but now he was hooked. Rubbing out had become his only form of solace. The more he had, the more he needed. Soon he found more meaning in rubbing out than living life. There was little left. He went from one fix to another, the severity in coming down necessitating the next hit.
Along the western corridor traffic was slow. They slowed as they passed paramedics attending to a few collapsed pedestrians. One had collapsed at the bottom of an overpass escalator and his shirt had got stuck in the machine. The other had collapsed on the footpath outside a Mass Transit Shuttle stop. They were both young.
The cab driver shakes his head. “Aye-argh” he laments, his words sorrowful but also fearful and angry. “This is problem.”
He flashes one arm around and gestures at the world outside the cab.
No one knew why more and more young people were falling dead seemingly without reason. Drug use was speculated but there was no direct correlation found. Some had a history of heavy drug use, others were mostly clean. Coroners reported that cause of death was by unexplained neurogenic failure to the heart. Their hearts had simply ceased to beat.
She clutches her hand bag tightly as traffic returns to its normal pace. It was a straight run now and she was at once nervous and excited.
The Tigris corporation complex took up a large section of the downtown area with five sky scrapers arising from its base in the shape of a hand reaching out from the ground. Inside the Affinity Division she welcomed by a man in a tuxedo and a woman in a scarlet dress. They escort her to a private lounge where they pour her a glass of champagne.
“This is for you on your special day” the woman says. She places the glass of champagne on the table beside where Miss Delaware is sat.
They stand together with loose embrace and smile down at Miss Delaware on the couch.
“As you know Miss Delaware, we already have your details on our database.”
Miss Delaware looks around for the voice that is speaking to her. The voice comes from behind her. She turns her head and notices another man in a suit, but this man seeming more official. He has just come through the door. He keeps speaking as he walks, his words as if known by verbatim.
“We know your activities, hobbies, likes, dislikes, humour, religious beliefs, moral outlook. We know your favourite books, foods, music and drinks. We know your friends, relatives and the people you avoid. We know your sleep patterns, your sexual preferences and appetite. We can even assess your propensity to change given common variables in life such as stress, time restraints, societal fads, movements and political climates. Our system is the most comprehensive on the planet. Just about everyone is linked to our social network. We have over six billion subscribers worldwide and five million alone in this city.”
He sits on the couch directly opposite her and looks into her eyes.
“Affinity awaits you. We will find your match. All I need first is the payment.”
She hands him her card. Fifteen years of hard work and saving since the age of eighteen. The payment is processed and he puts the computers into action and starts the trawl.
The man tells her to sit back and relax but she is mesmerized by the colours and flashes of faces upon the screens. She can’t help but think about all the people that she had never met in life because she had worked so hard. All of the people that she would never meet in life because that was the way of life in modern times. The faces flash up on the screen for only a split second each but in a strange way, she was knowing them all, everything about them, analyzed and critiqued, computed and permutated, vicariously through a system of machines. She sits there for hours. Face after face. Frame by frame.
WHAT IF JOY was to be both the inspiration and objective of every decision we made? Would we make different decisions? Would we change where we worked? Would we change our friends? Would we change how we spent our time?
Ask yourself. Why are we alive? What is life all about? What do we desire? Is it not joy? Is that not why we are here?
It's something I've been thinking about over the past several months. Why do we often not consider joy in every decision we make? And if joy is not the object of every decision we make, why do wonder why we end up unhappy, bitter, or depressed?
In light of these musings I have recently been testing a theory: The Joy Theory.
The Joy Theory
We were created out of love and were intended to experience and share unending joy. Nothing has changed. Life is meant to be joyful. Our spirits are meant to rejoice and seek good things. When we are pondering doing something, we should ask ourselves if joy is involved. If it isn't, we should ask ourselves why we intend to do it. Choose the things that lead to joy and really seek them out.
So this is what I have been doing. I have been trying to reconcile my plans and actions to joy. If I can see no joy coming about as a result of an action, I don't do it. If something will bring joy, I do it.
I apply the theory to all aspects of daily life (when I remember); getting out of bed, what to have for breakfast, who to hang out with, whether to help someone in need or not, to sit and watch television or not, to go out for lunch or not, if I should go for a run. It sounds stupid, like all of those decisions are not very important ones, but I've found that they actually make a big difference at the end of the day. It also scares me to think about all of the things that I do without knowing why, things I don't really want to do.
It makes a big difference when you help someone out of a joyful heart or help someone out of joyless obligation. As does going for a run. Or having a cup of coffee in a cafe.
The above things do not really seem to be a problem if done joylessly, but what if our lives are a culmination of moments and decisions like these? If we choose badly, we deprive ourselves of joy. We forget why we are living. We forget why we were made. We lose perspective.
This is bad.
In my experimentation I have found that the Joy Theory is not just an applied rule but it is also an outlook. In seeking joy we are not just seeking momentary pleasures but long lasting pleasures. Joy comes from things that are immediate and things that are to come. Good and bad things have a habit of self perpetuating. We are the sum of our decisions. We choose the path in which we walk. We make the bed in which we lie. Where do we end up if our decisions are devoid of joy?
(Note that pleasure is not necessarily the same as joy).
Consider going to the pub when you are in a bad mood compared to going to the pub when you are in a good mood. Consider buying a sweater when you have had a bad week compared to buying one when you have had an amazingly good one.
Chances are, going to the pub in a bad mood isn't going to end joyously. Chances are, in a few weeks, or months, whenever you look at the sweater you bought you will be reminded of the mood you were in when you bought it. Will you be reminded of that terrible week or that amazingly good one?
How about relationships?
Does application of the Joy Theory change the company you keep? The girl you pursue?
How about your job?
Or when considering consumption of that extra row of chocolate?
The Joy Theory. It's an interesting experiment. Why not test it and see where it takes you. I've been testing it and I'm a believer.
This blog is dedicated to my very good friend and fellow peregrino Matt Chernishov, who has made some very good decisions in the name of joy.
joy –noun 1. the emotion of great delight or happiness caused bysomething exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation: She felt the joy of seeing her son's success.
2. a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated: Her prose style is a pure joy.
3. the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety.
4. a state of happiness or felicity. –verb 5. to feel joy; be glad; rejoice.
You will show me the path of life. In Your presence is fullness of joy. At Your right hand there are pleasures forevermore.
The following is a very special blog. Act now if you want a friend for life. Take Me as You've Found Me: The Autobiography of Gordie Sobaka
YOU DON'T KNOW what it is like to be given a pig's ear. You wouldn't know the juicy, succulent, salty crackle it gives when you crunch it in your mouth. I go bananas for pig's ears. It's like you've just given me drugs. I'll run around the yard with it, leave it, then pounce on it in a surprise attack. Haha! Stupid pig's ear! You can't run from me! I will devour you! But here comes Marz, he is calling me. He holds something behind his back. A treat? Another pig's ear? Is it possible for a dog to have two pig's ears in one day? Oh boy! Oh boy, it could be! Doggie nirvana! Two pig's ears...
Hey.
Hey wait a minute.
He has tricked me! He lured me in but was holding nothing, and now he has stolen my pig's ear! Damn you Marz! Damn your trickery! Damn your laughing and running around the yard! I will chase you and get my pig's ear back! Haha! I am so happy!
My name is Gordie Sobaka.I was born in the SPCA animal shelter in Wellington, New Zealand, an orphan dog, along with my siblings Jamie, and Nigella. We were each named after famous chefs.
I spent the first four months of my life there with the other dogs. I remember the cages, the confined spaces, the treats, the playtimes. I watched many kind people come into the shelter. Sometimes they would walk past me, sometimes they would stop and pet me, sometimes their children would pull on their parents legs and say that they wanted to take me home before walking on. I watched lot's of other dogs leave during my time in the Shelter. I wondered where they went, surely to a better place I thought, a place where they would belong.
Four months later I would find out. A family said that they wanted me and would take me. All of a sudden I was in a home. I was played with and walked regularly. I went swimming! I ran on beaches! Through forests! I had a family and LOVED my family. But after 2.5 years they had to leave and I didn't know why. They were flying on an aeroplane and not coming back. I couldn't go with them and ended up back in the animal shelter.
Then I met Liz.
Gordie loves Liz!
She has the kindest, most beautiful eyes. She plays rough with me and takes me out and I lick her face. She took me out of the Shelter and I started living with her brother and his partner, but eventually they too needed to catch a plane and although wanting to keep me, couldn't take me with them. It was Liz's brother and partner who gave me my surname. Sobaka. It's Russian for 'dog'. This is what I am: Gordon Sobaka.
When Liz's brother and partner left I moved back in with Liz. Liz is the best person in my whole entire world. I love Liz so much that I would do anything for her! It breaks my heart that she is not able to look after me because she too will be soon catching a plane. I know she wants to keep me but can't, so the SPCA in Wellington take me back and I'm in cages again with the other lonely dogs. People pet us and comment on how cute we are but no one wants to take us home. One day the Wellington shelter runs out of room and I get taken in a van to Waihi.
In Waihi a foster home is found. My new masters have big cars, motorbikes and four other dogs. When I arrive at their house, the dogs think that I am intruding on their territory. They don't like me and don't make me feel welcome. I am scared in this new house and everything stresses me out. I was not meant to have been sent to a home with other dogs. Those were the instructions the Wellington SPCA had given the one in Waihi. I was fragile and vulnerable. A beautiful and loving dog but one that needed to be loved exclusively. Out of fear I made a bad decision and fought one of the other dogs that tormented me. This led the motorcycling owners to complain about me and take me back to the shelter. I was deemed a bad dog.They pencil me in for lethal injection.
Day's before my death a lady comes into the SPCA in Waihi and decides to take me for a while so the shelter isn't overrun with dogs. They tell her about how I had been a bad dog in my last foster home but she sees how cute and timid I am in the shelter and decides to take me anyway. She discovers that I am a really good dog and tells the Waihi SPCA staff this when she takes me back. She says that it would be a travesty for such a good dog to be put down and because of this, my life is spared.
Next thing I'm on an aeroplane.
I have no idea where it is taking me. Was I going to see my previous owners? Was I to be reunited with one of my old families? I didn't know whether to be excited or afraid in the cage on the plane. I looked at the other dogs who also questioned their fate while being deafened by engine noise and sliding around in the cargo hold. Upon landing we are taken in a van. I smell the air and it is familiar. I was in Wellington again and once back at the SPCA shelter I see Liz!
Liz is so happy to see me! The joy on her face is like no other's. She pets me and hugs me and I lick her face as she explains how she had thought I was dead and how she had cried for days. She takes me to Dunedin because she is going to see her parents for Christmas. She hopes that I would find a home down there but nothing eventuates. Not wanting to send me back to an SPCA, her friends adopt me in Christchurch but it is only temporary as they already have a dog and the home is not suitable.
And then the ground began to shake.
The buildings began to crumble.
Everywhere I looked was destruction and panic.
I was transferred back to Wellington. To Liz.
She welcomed me into her cool new flat in Newtown and so did her flatmates Dan, Jess, Marz, and Ken. This is where I am now. I get so many walks and so much attention! Liz's friends come by during the day and take me for walks as well. The cast is epic!Everyone plays with me, they pet me, hug me, and love me. They all want to keep me but the sad thing is, no one is able to. Soon Jess will catch a plane, then Marz and Ken will catch a plane, then Liz will catch a plane. Everyone I love is either catching a plane or can't have me. I bark at the aeroplane and at the constant arrivals and departures in my life. I want something permanent. I want a love that never leaves. I want a permanent home.
Ken takes me on a run everyday he is around. My favourite run is the one past the zoo and up a mountain to a point on the ridge named after an extinct flightless bird. From there you can see all of southern Wellington and - on a clear day - across to the South Island. We watch the planes take off and land, the ships go in and out, and feel the wind on our faces. Here, Ken rests and pets me as I sniff around in the grass.
Everyone wants me and I want them.
I'm a good, loyal, obedient dog.I will sit, lie down, and shake hands on command. I will lick your face at every opportunity. I will love you unconditionally if you commit yourself to me and love me.
Come say hello.
Take me as you find me.
My name is Gordie Sobaka.
Don't leave me to die.
If anyone would like to meet Gordie, get hold of Liz, Marz, or Ken, or come pay him a visit at 27 Hiropi St Newtown. Alternatively you can write to Gordie and friend him on Facebook. Search for: Gordie Sobaka. He is the only one.
