There's been a lot of these floating around lately so I thought that I would just add to the noise...
DON'T DATE SOMEONE WHO TRAVELS for they are clearly not career focussed and know more about life and culture than they do about conformist slavery and mortgages.
They can’t be relied upon for funding those weekend trips to malls to buy things you don’t even need to impress people you don’t even like.
Don’t date someone who travels because they are good with budgeting and otherwise termed ‘cheapskates’. They know that a typical $80 dinner for two equates to a week of accommodation in India or three days worth of royal treatment and adventure activities in Central America or Asia.
Don’t date someone who travels because you will never be able to impress them with your belongings, work achievements or general bragging. They don’t care about your favourite soaps and dramas, the current reality television craze or the facts that your coffee mugs match your coasters.
Don’t date someone who travels because their life focus is completely different to yours. They will most likely be focussed on experiences and memories that they feel no need to tell anyone about. There are too many and you will likely never be able to relate. They have given up because all their stories have been met with blank expressions or jealousy and conversations that have been steered towards episodes of ‘The voice’ , ‘The Biggest Loser’, or ‘Xxx Idol’. Such conversations send them looking for the first plane to the other end of the earth.
Don’t date someone who travels because they are extremely selfish. They care only about themselves and want to understand the world. They leave their homes, country and culture looking for hope and meaning because they seek a universal truth.
Don’t date someone who travels because they have spent their lives getting to know their own humanity. They look at life the way someone looks at the stars - it is infinite, a journey never-ending. They have become so caught up in this that the conventional life has little meaning. It seems irrational, a predictable and costly repetition. They have found more exciting alternatives.
Don’t date someone who travels because they will piss you off. They will turn you upside down and empty all of the contents. They will ruin you and everything that you believe in. They will force you to face your fears and encourage you to expand the limits of your personal boundaries. They will look you in the eyes and ask questions that only you can answer.
They will spend a bulk of their free time researching the feasibility of climbing peaks in Kyrgyzstan or overlanding through West Africa.
They are unpredictable and spontaneous.
They are a combination of capitalism, communism and subsistence farming hippies.
They have the ability to embrace standard muesli and milk like it is the nectar of kings.
They look at 5 star hotels and yawn, calculating the price of every fake smile.
Don’t date someone who travels because you know it already. You know it all. There is no life with them. They are a flash in the pan. They will struggle when it comes to raising a family. They will struggle when it comes to retirement. They will end up nothing but glorious memories with nothing to their name. They will embrace their share of oxygen to the very end.
Is this your view of someone who travels? Are they unreliable? Undependable? Beggars asking for one more chance to dream?
Do they live in a fantasy land in which the real world never meets, or do they embrace the world for what it really is?
Good. Find someone just like you. Build a picket fence around all that you strive for and cast your photos into the annals of history.
One day you will probably look a traveller eye to eye and you will both scratch your head. You will be caught at odds and both ask the same question: “What will you do with your life?” One answer will be obvious and the other will remain an unfolding mystery.
Don’t date a traveller because they are self important, egotistic and arrogant. They will look upon the life that you want to live and have the cheek that they can do it better.
Don’t date a traveller because they aim at turning the mundane into the remarkable. They are lost to the world, but in themselves they are found.
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.
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.
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.
Okay, now that I have your attention, I bring you an original short story. I dedicate this one to the lovely but elusive Mari Van der Vyver, who has the most amazing chuckle in the history of the planet, and needs to contact me ASAP.
Juliet, and Romeo
The bed was coercing their bodies together. It was an old lady that had grown up in tough times, witnessing all kinds of pains and hardships, and now in its old age desired only one thing – to witness love. The sag in the bed and resultant roll-together was that bad.
Ron is awake and clings to the side of his bed tightly. He knows that he must not wake her for if he wakes her, she will sigh and it won’t be any ordinary sigh, but a sigh that speaks of pain. It will be long and drawn out. It will be a sentiment alluding to all of Ron’s short comings and inadequacies as a man. They will be rattled off in exhaustive details, both exemplary and metaphorically, covered from every angle and perspective. Simply put, it will proclaim her unhappiness in their relationship and her bewilderment for volitional persistence with the current situation.
Ron thinks back to happier times. He thinks back to the beginning. She had been so beautiful and radiant that night on the stage. She had a light about her, her voice like innocent and transcendent yearns for love, their source completely pure. That was when he first saw her. It had interrupted his admiration for the Oxford grass on which he sat. He had never seen or felt grass that was so soft! So lush! He wanted to roll all over it, to body slam it, but he withheld such urges amidst the sophisticated crowd. He would only talk about Eliot or Lewis, the weather, Darjeeling first cut teas. He had researched such topics earlier and kept repeating them in his head.
She has her back turned to him as she sleeps. She had begun to lie like this as of late. Ron, while still clutching the bed edge, carefully turns his body over to face hers, his movements slow and laboured to minimize vibratory ripples through the springs. He looks at her brown mousy hair, long and wildly splayed on her pillow. He traces down her neckline to her shoulders, her night shirt wide at the neckline and nearly falling off, then down around her chest, each breath a small expansion, a gentle rise and fall. Longing and desirous for connection, he starts to breathe in time with her. Their chests expand together and then passively deflate. They share the same proximity, oxygen, life, and then let it go. Ron takes satisfaction in this. He desires to be one with her, that they would breathe together to make one giant breath. He wants to spoon her so that they would become one giant body, because he is convinced that life is better when two are one. Everything is stronger. It is the way things should be. Instead he clings to his side of the bed awkwardly, the distance between them a gulf.
Ron had not given much thought to fate and alignment of stars, but when he saw her for the first time he had felt an energy and connection to the universe, it sparked an instantaneous belief in such things. It was ironic and rational therefore that she was playing the role of Juliet in the play, the epitome of romantic love, her bare feet dancing upon this most amazing grass like an Eden, the beginning, where loves intention first set ablaze without defect. He could feel his heart pounding as if metronomic for the world, its pace perfect, to the rhythm of Romeo’s courtly strumming. And at that very moment her eyes did meet his in the crowd, a conclusion to all the tension and energy, an explosion of both metaphysical prognosis and resolve. They both knew that they would chance upon the same pub later, phone numbers exchanged. Through telecommunication they would build a bridge, from that bridge a bed, and in that bed sweet, sweet love.
Ron looks across the bed and sighs. Things were so good in the beginning.
He remembers the days and weeks that ensued where they both floated on clouds, the hand holding and skipping through Oxford’s leafy streets, the laughs, the banter, the joyous drunken moments of youth, a world seen through new eyes. But then came the cracks, at first small, minor complaints; mismatching musical preferences, hygiene habits, views on each other’s parents. Then the perfect world split open, minor grudges becoming full scale arguments, heated exchanges screamed at close proximity, doors slammed, toilet seats left up, food chewed too loudly and with an open mouth. Every action became symbolic of protests, cunning and suggestive. Deliberate. They would plot against each other silently but in each other’s presence. Hubris fuelled psychological voodoo, Jedi mind tricking, the atmosphere ominous and potent, a chaotic imbalance of Yin and Yang.
Distraught, Ron starts to think about the story of Romeo and Juliet, his arm fatiguing as he does so. He looks for reasons, answers to how his relationship could fall so far from grace. Then it dawns on him. Romeo and Juliet were only together for days! All they knew were the initial moments of attraction! The lofty passion! Their whole relationship centred and ended in the honeymoon phase! They didn’t know each other well enough to hate! Their visions were clouded by desire, faults overlooked by lust, discrepancies trumped by chemistry!
Ron’s eyes are opened wide with his epiphany. He sees everything clearly. The story of Romeo and Juliet was wrong! The real tragedy would have been if they had remained together! They would have learnt to hate their only love! They would have fought and argued then run back to their respective families, the Capulet and Montague feud newly replenished and inspired. This was how the real story went! This is the real tragic love story!
Again Ron looks over at her sleeping placidly - the gentle rise and fall of each breath. This was her in her most peaceful state, she was harmless but still – Ron’s arm turning numb from its persistent grip on the bed edge – making him suffer. With Ron’s free arm he glances at his watch. It was past ten in the morning. She was so lazy! And still, if he woke her up now he would have hell to endure, she would moan and hold a grudge all day. She would complain of her robbed sleep, use it as an excuse for lack of shared chores around the house and would tell Ron that he was not sensitive or aware of her needs. Ron thinks of all her persistent complaints and nags. He starts to question the last time she said anything positive. He watches the gentle rise and fall of each breath and begins to detest them all. He detests her sleep. He detests her constant complaints, her selfishness, her dreams! He looks at his arm that clings to the bedside and starts to feel stupid for doing so. He shakes his head both at himself, her, and the ridiculous bed in which they shared. He lets go spiralling, colliding into her in the middle. Ron decides come what may. Awake the beast! Love is pain! Love is suffering! Love is a collision and then picking up the pieces of an ugly mess only to tenderly try to put them back together again finding the pieces too intermixed. He will give his all to her and love her despite her quirks, her defects, her verbal knives and belittling blows. He is a romantic and will therefore bleed for the cause.
When I was young I used to laugh at my Indian friend. He was always going on trips back to India because his family members where always getting married. I would always ask him "Who's he getting married to?" and he would reply "Dunno. Some girl." They were generally arranged marriages. Mutual parental set-ups. We used to joke that it would happen to him one day. He would leave for India and return +1.
"Nah, Nah, f*** that s*** man" he said.
Later, in my earlier twenties, I made a trip to India and spent several months there. I had felt the need to eat curry, as well as to escape in general and find enlightenment, but during which time I would learn other things.
Although modernizing, the Indian culture (in general) may seem a little backward from that of the West regarding relationships. The majority of India's population are Hindu, and like Islam, take a very conservative sleight on unwed male/female dynamics. For example in more conservative areas, dating does not exist and in the street it would be uncommon for a female to approach a male or vice versa.
I had travelled in India with a girl, although not a girlfriend and it was always assumed that we were married. They would ask "How long have you two been married?" or "How many children do you have?" Sometimes my friend would wear a fake wedding band and lie to make conversations easier, other times I would just tell the truth. "What do you mean you are not married?!" they would say surprised, shocked, jealous, in awe - there were a wide range of responses. "Why are you two traveling together?" they would often follow on. To which we would reply "We're friends", a just response, or so we thought.
They would then look at us with scrutiny and judgement. They would question us again.
"Friends?"
"Yes. Friends." we would reply.
"Friends? They would question again. Usually the guys.
"Yes. Friends."
They paused. Then decided that we were lying. There was no truth in such words. They imagined us having wild sex, covered in various juices, in numerous positions, emanating uncontrollable screams of pleasure, and doing so in public as they watched.
"Friends" I say. Their eyes still on us, questioning, disbelieving. "Just friends" as honestly as I could say the words.
Imagine a life without male-female premarital interaction. Imagine no dating? Imagine having to steal off into the night, into the densest regions of a public park just to have a private conversation, hold hands, kiss?
That's how sexually repressed and frustrated India can be. In the streets you see young men holding hands and being affectionate. On the trains you see them falling asleep in each others laps, stroking each other playfully, while the young women do the same but segregated from their male counter-parts. An invisible wall in-between. Socially and culturally they are captive, not destined to not meet until of age and mutual parental arrangement.
Madness. That's what I thought at the time.
But now I am older, nearly 27, a broken man after many years of freedom and choice.
I had a chat recently with my same Indian mate just before he went back to yet another relative's wedding in India.
"Who's getting married?" I asked.
"My cousin" he said.
"Which cousin?" I enquired further.
"Hamesh."
Hamesh was a cousin I knew. Our age.
Lately I have been pondering arranged marriages, the plausibility of them and their effectiveness. They're actually better than they may sound. My friend tells me that nowadays your parents don't just set you up with one woman, but an assortment of possibilities. Once the list has been finalized, you can meet up with each of them and go on dates to assess compatibility for marriage like participating in some kind of 'Indian Bachelor'. He admits that as much as he was opposed to the idea growing up, it could actually be not such a bad idea.
It makes sense in some ways.
Everything is organized. Both parties are ready for commitment and marriage. No parental arguments as both have already consented and approved.
And as for Indian woman... There are some really attractive ones. They love cricket. They cook curry...
