A steel-string acoustic trickles down from the speakers in high corners of the cafe-restaurant, sultry hushed vocals whispering notes of longing and wonder. Chatter across the seated tables ignore the minute contemplations spent on remembering love.
Amy busies herself with the chicken burger dripping soft avocado, cranberry and Camembert across the plate, a knife and fork is employed to quarter and then dissect until bite-sized pieces will fit in her mouth. Clouds have greyed out the often blue sky requiring a two bar heater to help keep the customers warm inside, puffy jackets and wool scarves not enough to ward off the striking cold whistling down from the Kahurangi hills. Escape swirls the cranberry sauce up with avocado, holds on with some freshly cooked soft bun, and launches the sweetness at her tongue. Escape remembers that love is broken sometimes, and musicians are there to remind; songs will invade the quiet and calm in sultry whispers, breaths that fade into chattering voices. A bus load of school children stop at the intersection outside, last day of term, homeward bound they run. A blonde girl looks in at the customers, raises a hand and waves. Amy is not sure if it's her the girl is waving at - child eyes are peering through a layer of glass doors, see-through canvas that squares off the café’s sun area, and the bus's own dirty and unwashed window. And Amy knows there are customers behind her. But she smiles, raises her own hand, twinkles some fingers and returns to her burger, sopping up more spilled cranberry and Camembert hoping to avoid any embarrassment if the girl on the bus had in fact been waving to someone else. But Amy is sure she caught a smile out of the corner of her eye as the girl returned to looking forward and the bus moved out of sight. The smile imbued the cranberry and Camembert with satisfactory sweetness.
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And remember. The rigging weak and the canvas rotten Between one June and another September. Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own. The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking. This form, this face, this life Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken, The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships. What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers And woodthrush calling through the fog My daughter. - from 'Marina' By T.S. Eliot
Prior to the spread of the internet, ideas and concepts were not available to sway with as much force, or at least, wide spread dominance and with such speed. Gangs happen because individual identity is lost, and then used as a call for groups who want members - "find your identity (with us!)"
If people were taught pure individualism, not selfishness based on desires as Ayn Rand's philosophy promoted, but a welfare of self-first mentality, then all else would follow. Because in order to take care of the self, one must look after the self, prioritise the welfare of self, and in this one is able to recognise dangers to the self more readily. “Is this going to be beneficial to me?" Most times this will exclude mob mentality because mobs and groups ask for a sacrifice of the self; at some point the individual will be told or persuaded to drop the self-preservation in order to achieve the higher goal: "do it for your brothers," "are you a real man? Do this so you can be a real man as well!" The higher goal, therefore, must always be self. When it’s not, stronger willed individuals who manipulate are able to take control. Personal self-hood is replaced with someone else's concept of self-hood. Self-preservation is a key instinct, but is eroded as individual identity is lost. One feels ‘other’ rather than ‘self’. Or, they identify self as ‘other’ rather than ‘I’. ‘I’ is an inward looking state determined to find what is best for self, not subject to outside influences. While outside influences do exist, they are instead a smorgasbord of what enhances the self, not what satiates emotional, physical or intellectual desires. Satisfying these desires for the sake of satisfying them makes one a slave to desires, rather than an owner to their pleasures. In terms of male violence, specifically, domestic violence, there is much to be said for jealousy and the (in)ability for males to express their feelings without anger turning to hatred and destruction. Much has been said by others, little of which I disagree with (if any). I am very much a proponent of Egoism as set out by Max Stirner in his 1844 publication The Ego and Its Own. Instead of focusing on individuals outside of himself and how they should act to create a "better" society, Stirner advocated a form of anarchist philosophy that was purely about what he wanted. The point was always to remove 'spooks' from the mind - anything that reduced the individual to a subject to be manipulated by others. Many human beings, if not all, allow ideologies to rule their concepts of the world, they then become subject to these belief systems. What 'communism' has been turned into - a tyrannical 'evil' - is the perfect example - misunderstanding the theory with the application of an idea through fascists and tyrants. Max Stirner sought to destroy all institutions, ideologies, and belief systems that took away his own individual self. The logical outcome for each Egoist via this route is quite simple: I am what I make of myself, not what others make of me; I am the Unique self according to my own will not to others. There is no doubt in my mind that society benefits everyone when everyone is accounted for and supported. I'm okay with this, because society provides me with things I need. But history has shown how belief systems when promoted as the higher goal for whatever reason, is what kills humans, is what oppresses people, is what reduces the individual to the subject of someone else's will; is what sends men off to war to be murdered, is what drowns women to decide if they are witches or not; is what kills over and over because, because, because... Male violence (any violence, but specifically male) seems to be centred very squarely on what another human being does to affect them: another person's actions have reduced this self to a subject - subject to how this other person acts. They are no longer what they make of themselves, but what another has made of them. Jealous, angry, possessive, etc. Many New Age spiritualists seek to help people remove negativity, to learn to live in peace, in the now and not in the future. We as human beings must decide how we pursue life on our own terms. Clouds simmered in the hidden hillsides, lazily hugging rugged slopes, while pointy peaks peeked over top. Wisps of wind would catch their rising momentum and sweep the clouds upwards in twirls, or just allow them to meander over and past the ridges towards the mireline.
Over on the far horizon, out where the upper wall of mist shore itself thin in the mid-sun heat, hints of the unknown rolled in grey shapes beyond, curves that could be clouds settling over untouched lands. Or touched lands. Trampled and lived on. Like this field before him, pitchfork piercing the surface, breaking apart the dirt, potatoes dug up and placed in sacks to be returned to the community; other workers working rows in the sun day heat all playing their part, contributing their share as though there was nothing else to strive for, nothing else to wonder and dream about. Work from one sun day to the next, to propagate crops, to share the resources, but never to wonder what was beyond. Did my parents find out? They must have. He continued to prod and poke at the dirt, pulling and breaking, revealing what lay hidden below, the potatoes fully grown and ready to be bagged and carried away. This job – like any other job – just a job. A ceiling repaired, a fence installed, a garden tended, trees planted, vines trimmed and thinned. What did any of it mean? Subsistence towards a dim day of rest, games, stages set for children to play on; while the adults watched and were entertained, only to return to their work the next day. But what was that on the horizon, out there beyond the mist? Was it just more mist, heavier and denser? Was it only clouds settling down into the cold recesses of the waelfog? Or was it something else? A shape. Like hills. Grey and distant. Too far away to see clearly, but nevertheless there. Something. Something was there. “Jansuell!” He turned around. Meridule was behind him, staring down at his pitchfork. The prongs had pierced through three separate potatoes. “Not everybody likes holes in their potatoes.” “Sorry Meridule. I was a bit distracted. Had other things on my mind.” “Yes, well, you might as well put those three aside for yourself. Better eat them quickly though – with holes like that in them, rot will get in quick if they’re left out.” “Sure. They’ll be perfectly fine for a potato salad during late quarter before Dark arrives.” “That’s my boy. Try to be a bit more attentive. We have a lot more work to get through now as a community. Duties have to be moved to take up J’nifer and Sauel’s farming work. Your friend, Sere’aen, is one of those doing extra work over there in fact. She’s a hard worker. You could do well to follow her example.” He patted Jansuell on the shoulder and began walking away as attention was returned to pulling the potatoes off the prongs and inspecting their holes. “Jansuell?” Meridule had stopped and turned around, nodding towards the mireline. “It’s just waelfog.” He shrugged. “There’s only death out there. Great bowels of mist too cold for our sun drenched bones.” “But how do you know?” “Because if there was anything else, other people – not just your parents, but people before them – would have come back alive to tell about it.” “Did some of them come back dead?” Meridule laughed. But it was a condescending laugh and the old adult frame seemed to mock him in the stance it took. “Jansuell, no one comes back at all.” I went for a drive today over the top of Thorpe-Orinoco Road which takes one onto Dovedale road and then left to traverse gravel road and further pine covered forestry hill roads until one ends up arriving at Wakefield township. I stopped for a cappuccino and steak sandwich at the Rhubarb Cafe where I also took some observational notes in my notebook.
I was the only person at the cafe on my own. But this is what my life is, and I'm okay with that. After all, it's not like I don't ever go out and meet new people, or even reach out to old friends. But there is only so much reaching out one can do before it becomes too much to keep reaching out and have no one reach back. So I sat in comfort as people around me talked, met, and ate together. My hand scribbled descriptive words occasionally on the page pretending prose like poetry was perfection. I knew it wasn't though, but at least I was writing. I had planned to walk up to the top of Thorpe-Orinoco Road and sit up there at midnight looking out at the stars, but cloud cover and dribbles of rain put an end to that idea. On Christmas Day I had no interactions with any human beings (at least in the flesh - not sure if I made any comments online anywhere). I spent the day not celebrating a day of the year that other people deem necessary to buy presents and eat copious amounts of food on, but celebrating myself. Me. Warwick Stubbs. The person that's made it this far through life: battling depression and suicidal thoughts as a teenager into my early twenties, losing friends, losing jobs, struggling to understand how I can't make music work for me when I have all these songs to give to the world... This person had a moment to himself, a day of relaxation, sunbathing in 24° temperatures, playing guitar without concern for who I might be annoying, ironing some shirts, drinking wine my landlord had left for me, sitting in the garden listening to Welcome Swallows, Tui, and finches flutter their wings and call bird whistles through the heat. I enjoyed every moment of it like I had never enjoyed Christmas before. The truth is that I had never enjoyed or got anything out of Christmas since my late teens. It has for many years felt an extremely hollow day with fabricated meaning as though people can't seem to find it in themselves to garner any of this good will on 'non-calendar' days of the year. So a day to myself was one of the most refreshing and rejuvenating things I could have done on this day when other people celebrate being with other people. I celebrated being on my own. Start afresh with some writing they say. Get the juices flowing. Get the creative spirit revitalising.
Heat is a winter dream when summer breaks out the 27 degrees, and only a cool leaf blustering breeze brings any relief. Waves are days away in the shade. I still have nothing to say. Truth is I just want something to eat. I have had writer's block for over a month. What started prior to beginning work at the Retirement Village when I couldn't get past Chapter 11 of Dim Day, exasperated as I found my sleep cycles pushing me out of daylight hours and into disrupted sleep. What a fine inspiration this would have been for my main character if I had been able to harness that enthusiasm or detail of thought, but instead, I found myself thinking about Welcome Home as dementia and patient behaviour began to inform aspects of that novel (had also started listening to songs associated with that novel).
While I have kept up intermittent exercise, some intermittent notes for Dim Day were written as well, but nothing substantial that moved the novel forward. I resolved to simply take a break and let myself accept that perhaps I needed a break since I am so unused to spending large amounts of time writing. I have a tendency to pick up the guitar, listen to music, organise my music files on the computer, play Fallout Shelter - do anything that isn't writing focused! So, when I decided to actually let go and take a break, my mind went back to Dim Day and I wrote a passage for the final scene last week/end (my weekends are four days as I work three night shifts). The five or six days prior to today were overly saturated in music and yesterday I remembered how it was when I moved into this home and got myself writing - music wasn't the focus, music was in the background: it was still there, but it was only a break from the writing like it is meant to be in my life now; not the distraction, not the overwhelming and intense obsession. I also began reading Longitude by Dava Sobel last weekend and that helps create peace and quiet. I've had this book on my bookshelf for a few years now, but along with so many other books, had found it difficult to continue on with. Last week I found that moment that made me stay with the words and engage my thoughts with interest. Last night I decided that since I couldn't get past Chapter 11, I would simply go to the chapters that I knew scenes existed for and begin writing those. And since the final chapter has been in my head for as long as Dim Day has been in existence, I went there this morning and started writing it. Good! Now I shall work my way backwards through each scene knowing what it leads into and where it leads from, and although they may be preliminary, at times skeletal and drafty, they at least set a sketch that I can build on top of. Part of the problem with Chapter 11, I think, is that I had a heap of bullet points preceding on from where I was writing, and those bullet points felt intrusive. I was also somewhat unsure about that scene's events in general. :-) Have men been robbed of something? Masculinity has robbed men of individuality and the ability to make decisions on their own. Instead they have all subjugated themselves to a cultural identity that has whipped them and removed personal responsibility from their selves.
If you want evidence of this, just view any video of males being taught "how to be a man", how to attract women, how to etc... it goes on because males are suckers for being told what to do, how to live their lives. Men of power continually suck weaker egos into their cash schemes, their bullying, by enticing males into concepts that prey on insecurities. Propagandists may (or may not) be unique beings unto themselves, but all their followers are just that - followers. In no way unique, in no way individual, and in no way people who have thought their own thoughts and come to their own conclusions. Compromising to follow To its natural end, Still close enough To feel the blame But how long can I stay, Before we disintegrate?
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