Duality

      I have a memory. I was younger. I was walking past the home economic class rooms just underneath the science block by the stairs. The carpet was deep blue, almost teal. The kind thats hard wearing and coarse. The walls where cream and the fluorescent lighting gave everything a yellow colour cast. I cant remember what the date was that day or if the sun was shinning but what i do remember is feeling two opposing emotions at the same time.....and i was scared.

      You see, when i was even younger things where simple. I was allways in one state. Depending upon what emotional state i was in i could do something to rectify it, if it was a negative one. Act to prolong it if it was a positive one. I was a child of causality. The times where simple. If i was wrong, i was sorry. If i was right i stood my ground. If i was embarrased i became shy etc etc

      That day was the beginning of my first days of uncertainty. People like to understand things. Its almost a need. They need to tag and label aswell to understand how a particular object interfaces with others around it. To comprehend its context. Things are black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Thats when people start to describe things by thier function. Start to become reductionists.

      Im 24 years old and i spend most of my days trying to understand what this so called thing is that they call a man. The problem occurs when forces outside of my control force me to choose particular routes that cause me to take both a positive and a negative action at the same time. I can be both villain and hero both simultaneously. This duality causes confusion. This duality causes grey in a black and white world.

“If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should never know it was dark. Dark would be without meaning.”

C.S.Lewis

Black Glass

      Hundreds of years ago man would gaze at the stars. Lying in green fields. As the world slumbered. Man would climb mountains to finally clamber to the summit and gaze down and see.Rivers resembling silver lace resting peacefully across the earth and the wind moving blades of grass as if mother nature herself was stroking the land. They sat feet dangling over cliffs. Staring out to sea. Taking deep breaths. Closed eyed.

      Now we mainly question the nature of our existance in small darkend rooms. Late at night. Alone. Staring at little light boxes. Hiding ourselves from lovers and inviting strangers to see into our very souls. In the pursuit of an answer to a question that changes everyday.

      Everything in this world seems so broken. One day all life in this universe will cease to exist. There is nothing that we can do. It will either end in a big crunch where the universe will pull back in on itself. or .The universe will continue to dissipate faster and faster. Heavenly bodies will be spaced so far apart that our children will not be able to see a single star in the sky. We will be. Alone. Stars will finnally run out of fuel. The cycle of super nova, space dust, new stars, new solar systems, super nova, new space dust etc etc will finnish.

      Entropy will ensure that what ever is created is destroyed. To make way for something new. To create again. An endless beautifull cascade of moments untill. Nothing.

      We only have each other and one day we wont have that either. I wish we didnt need these fragile bodies. I wish we flowed free. Liquid. Everything and nothing. Everywhere and no where. Endless and fleeting. Like energy. Like light.


"We ARE A part which has to imitate the whole."

- Simone Weil/Brancusi

The Bench

      We sat on a bench. A bench whos construction was dedicated to a stranger. We sat close and listened to the sound of the sea. Sounding like a choir with fingers pressed against thier lips....hushing. The seagulls seemed to glide through the blue effortlessly resting upon the warm sea air. It was summer.

      Behind us, the noise of families with children shouting was layered against a repetitive metallic clack that gave way to the sound of the air being displaced and lubricated bearings whirling.

      We were young. Responsibility had yet to learn our names. I was witty. I made her laugh. I made her smile. I taught her how to beat box and she held my hand. We walked. Poor. Rich.

      We put our pennies together and we bought some chips. Wrapped in old newspaper pages. With fingers stained red and blue from ice saturated by concentrated syrup. We sat together as we ate and then we smiled. We watched. Happy. We sat on a bench. A blue bench by the sea.

Sweet knives could ruin lives

      When i was 17 i left college. I quit. At that point in my life i still hadnt addressed my parents break up 3 years earlier and my mothers deteriating health. I wasnt interested in my topics that i had chosen. I was beginning to slip into a state of anomie. So i got a job. It wasnt my first by a long shot. It was at a warehouse and my role was a continuous stock taker. I was a counter and id count every single day from 7 in the morning till 4 in the afternoon. The warehouse was gargantuan. The people who worked there where all strangers. No one spoke. There where no friends here. No one wanted to be here and it was written all over our faces. Rather we where forced to be here. Due to causes each individually different....but it wasnt our choice. Fork lift trucks would beep, screech and hum. Articulated lorries would sputter, wine and grumble. The machines would play perfectly like some mechanical percussion orchestra. If conversation ever arose it would be about football, sex or grog. We where the bottom of the barrel. Working class workhorses. Working out of sight, behind the seens of the general public. I arrived in the dark of winter and i left in the night aswell. Mornings were cold and nights the same.

      I hated that place. Every morning id wake up and my feet would feel like stone. It took the strength of a 100 wild horses to get out of that bed every morning and it felt it too. The house would be cold. My clothes would be cold. The drive to work as cold. The walk to the warehouse across the carpark was cold. My bed was warm....and soft....and...and...not here.

      Before you could begin work you had to get prosessed. Security would perform random spot checks. Sometimes patting you down. Check your id and such. There was big single lines and you'd shuffle slowly, like penguins, to the point where youd pass security and youd finally be able to swipe that little plastic white card.

      There was this one morning when i looked up as i was stood in the single line...shuffling. I watched the machines turning. The forklifts wooshing past. The nameless strangers plodding aimlessly. At that moment i felt hate and resentment. I hated that i was there. I hated that i was cold. I hated that i hadnt seen daylight in months. I hated that i cryed that morning because i didnt want to go to work and i hated that i felt guilty and weak for it. I hated the constant noise. I hated the floresent lights that made your eyes sore. I hated the dust mites that would leave your ankles and wrists bleeding as youd scratch away all day. I hated that no one give a fuck. I....in short....hated. The only thing that would get me through them days was, quite simply, quite beautifully. A girl.

      Knowing that a girl waited for me and would be there as soon as id finished made it tolerable. I think alot of people live for others. There must be thousands of people still working jobs like i worked everyday. Everyday the world must seem that little bit more grey. But they do it. Because at the end of it they get to come back to thier love and thier children. Thats the reason they leave in the morning.

      Ive never been able to narrow down love. Ive never been able to describe it in all its layers. Its like water. The moment you think youve got a grasp of what it is, it effortlessly slips through your fingers and eludes you. My conclusion is that everyones love is different. As distinguishable to each others preconceptions as their dna that they carry.

The Script

      So ive been thinking and ive come up with something ive named "The script". It comes from analyzing my own behavior and my ex and my teachers and my workmates and my family and my friends. Infact, anyone i have had contact with.

      Ive come to the understanding that people have thier animal side and then they have thier human side. Thier animalistic side is thier nature. The part of them that feels like they want to fight or fuck. Impulse. Instinct. Basic but powerfull. Then theres the human part that can detach themselves from a situation, weigh it up, consider the consequences, ponder the morality and them act in a controlled way.

      Now nothing in life is black or white but a scale. So people go through life trying to be the best person they can but on occasion they do something or say something thats morally wrong but they were propelled to do because of thier nature getting the better of them. Later upon reflection they understand what they have done is wrong and out of character. Its not them. What pursues is guilt. Guilt is like napalm, its clings. So what people have managed to do is create something to take away the guilt.. They cant go back in time and change things so the only thing they can do is contextualise. They create "The script".

      The script is based on causality. You follow back your actions far enough to show that what you did was infact caused by your reaction to a series of events. You diffuse your responcibility to the point where you convince yourself that you never had any choice. Your not a bad person, you just did a bad thing and because your guitly, that shows your sorry. All makes sense. So your guilt fades because you contextualize it.

      After a while you do it with everything. The script provides an excuse to procrastinate for example. Its a get out of jail free card. It hides your cowardness. Well i didnt do that because of this and that.

      Not only do you start to believe your own script but you sell it to other people. Your friends are the first ones to buy your script. Then your surrounded with people that tell you your scritp back to you. Your family usually take your script without question. Before you know it you forgotten what the reality was. Because lets face it. Reality is harsh and its raw. Its unforgiving and to the point. It doesnt care about your feelings. It doesnt care about anybody elses feelings.

      The script is the lubracant for social fluidity. So as i walk around and watch people i see them too, rolling out thier scripts. As see myself rolling out mine depending who i engage with.....and i shudder. Whats real?