You’ll find me at a table

At the start and end of everyday. I could say during though my job is not at a table most the time. You’ll find me at a table thinking, discovering, catching up, snooping, trying to get people to like something, creating a digital self and impotently communicating with the people not at my table. I communicate with myself most the time, all the time in a delirium of bouncing whirling thoughts of the usual things such as dealing with the eternal problem of whys. Why haven’t I got a ‘proper’ job, as in a higher paid ‘respectable’ job. Why don’t I ever feel thirsty though always dehydrated. Why does electricity make stuff light up or why am I always tired. Why is my dirty coffee cup round and why am I always tired. Why despite the greatest togetherness of communications and knowledge does exploitation and persecution still exist. Why did my ideas and many rehearsals of becoming a real life Tom Cruise lead me to sit at this table. Despite eating greedily like a pig and exercising hard do I always look gaunt and ill. The only thing that makes me look healthy is a tan which I know is slowly making me look older. Why am I getting slower and achy despite drinking green tea. Why do I flip from one art to another trying to find an answer. I play and sing the guitar trying to be Bob Dylan. I write to be James Joyce. I take pictures to be William Klein. I even think about painting to be Edvard Munch though know I can’t paint, write, sing. Asking why will make me crazy, not asking why will make me crazy. Why after a time, after repetition, after a routine does everything become mundane. We always want what we don’t have and of course we don’t know what we’ve got till its gone just like a big yellow taxi. What makes something beautiful or moreover what makes us find such solace in it. Beauty is not fixed, its forever in a perpetual motion just like boredom. Beauty and boredom are one and all as opposites and intertwined in each other. Something is always not boring to some one, just as beauty diminishes becoming bland. You can only look at Monet or Bridget Bardot for so long. You’ll find me at a table bored certainly not beautiful. I’ll be searching for an honesty, honest in beauty for liberty of the mind and body. You’ll find me at a table just as i’ll find you at a table, working and wondering. Not daring to ask why too often. Forget it you don’t have time or energy. Go on distract yourself with working, marrying, children, providing until you sit another table.

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HG Wells: A Solitary World

A horrible feeling of desolation pinched my heart. I listened rigid but heard nothing but the creep of blood in my ears. Great and shadowy and strange was the world and I drifted solitary through its vast mysteries.

A remote faint question, where I might be, drifted and vanished again in my mind. I found myself standing astonished, my emotions penetrated by something I could not understand.

I felt naked. I felt as perhaps a bird may feel in the clear air knowing the hawk wings above and will swoop. I began to feel the need of fellowship. I wanted to question, wanted to speak, wanted to relate my experience. What is this spirit in man that urges him forever to depart from happiness, to toil and to place himself in danger?

It was this restlessness, this insecurity perhaps that drove me further and further afield in my exploring expedition. As the hush of the evening crept over the world, the sun touched the mountains and became very swiftly a blazing hemisphere of liquid flame, and sank. Then, slow and soft and wrapping the world in fold after fold of deepening blue, came the night. And then, the splendor of the sight — in the sky, one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend. The full temerity of my voyage suddenly came upon me. At last I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back again to the life that is real, for men.

All At Sea

All at Sea – by Russell Whitehead
..

The archboard with fading words ‘Felicia’ adrift in the darkening sea without a notice of land. The small fishing vessel has seen its age in all waters with weathered encrusted barnacles smothering it’s bow. Faded red paint flaking with each voyage as the stern takes beatings against forbidding sea pressures. The crashing of the waves repeatedly thunder under familiar ears. Crushing sways in strenuous motions wherehence the tide drifts.

A great figure, stern at the afore draped in a strong dark green coat, twice his size. His wide over aged eyes, light blue, stare towards the infinite ceasless horizon. His face has the strength of a sea bearer. the spray embraces his tough skin though welcomes it. Nothing can faze this deeply carved barrier which has fought long seasons untamed, hardened indestructible. The apparent wind whirls through the vessel calling it’s ghostly continuous chant knocking his white long hair against his whiter beard. Yet his coat hood remains in place. Only does it stay in place through years of attempt made rigid, unmovable until tide over. His hands are as large as sandpapered clubs, stronger than the helm it keeps steady. He’s fought these moments throughout life, searching hard and fast. Never has he searched for aslyum harbour or yeilded much time among land for seeds to be sown. “Hold avast” Breathing shallow, sighing wearily as he does on land following as the crows fly. Land is to him is too much, unforboding, ceaselessly still, unpredictable.

In the helm there are others remaining in shadows shilloetted against dim lights. Fishing nets hang empty, planks lie worn trodden. Compasses swoon, radars flicker. Some peer back from where they came as if in secret between the devil and the deep blue sea.

There is a younger weathered face further at the fore peering over into the dark black blue. Excesses of white ferocious froth. Innocent eyes that are lighter than the other giant figure that almost over shadows anything fore. His slight hands grasp the edge of the ship less securely, often slipping with wet trepidation. His facial stubble is the dark of his hindesight, his hood often falling revealing his full brown wavey head of hair. The younger constantly forbodes the mal del mer* which is not only from rough tides thrown. He is helpless, eyes staring into the infinitely weighted existence caressing it’s power with tides fluttered, tsunamis thrown.

The stars are breaking through the clearing. Constellations that sea bearers live and desist by, pin holes in black, mirrored by melting erratic reflections below.

*mal de mer – seasickness

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini – Review

‘The Kite Runner’ is a culturally rich emotive story, despite its weaknesses, has an important insight of an undiscovered perspective.

After reading classic literature by James Joyce or Guestve Flaubert, The Kite Runner had a lot to live up to.  I found the book culturally and emotionally rich with reference to the troubled history of Afghanistan though found the prose a little matter of fact.  Hosseini provides us with a very brutal heartfelt story though relies on great coincidence and symbolism to resolve the coward that the main character becomes at the beginning of the story.

The novel redeems itself with great descriptive prose towards the end though for me, the resounding meaning I take from this book is the horrific corruption and history or Afghanistan. The Kite Runner allows us an insight and emotive story of life in a place we actually know little about.

kite

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.                              Edgar Allan Poe

“A labyrinthine man never seeks the truth, but only his Ariadne.” 

Nietzsche

(The search for truth leads on from something other than the truth. Something that resembles it but not among truths that can be grasped as truths. Nietzsche never told us what Ariadine was; perhaps he could not. She is known to represent death, unreachable understanding. The final truth is death. )

(Nietzsche: An Introduction to the Understanding of His Philosophical Activity By Karl Jaspers)

“He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was ….”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby”