So Faith, in its very essence, is the adamant belief in something with no evidence to support it. The most purported explanation of the concept being that if you need proof to believe in it, you cannot have it. What an amazing stipulation to conceive of, it will always undermine sceptics, as it is frankly an inarguable point. If you question Faith you don’t have it and to not question it is to have it. I’m thinking of this in terms of Religious Faith, but of course Faith is not a narrow concept.
Friday, 25 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
As the sun beat down on the back of her neck, Anne gradually eased herself back into a squatting position rather than the down on all fours pose that she had adopted in order to get closer to the roots of the weeds. As she did so she felt the muted stiffness signalling in the lower left hand part of her back. The old war wound playing up. It was always there, of course, and she had acknowledged that as the years had passed the vague pain had risen in volume slightly, but it was still only really background noise. She smiled and wondered how long that would remain the case. Hopefully a while longer, as her youngest still required picking up and comforting and as the girl was now three that was no longer a small weight. Her eldest sometimes asked to be carried and lugged about too, but at seven, her mother felt that she no longer had it in her. The girl was at least two thirds of her height now. Nope, that was a job for her father.
Pain is what does it, I feel. Pain or growth through pain, that’s what develops it. Maybe there is a tipping point of the scale, when too much pain, too much loss, too much fear, starts to rip at a person’s sanity and leave them as shadows, ghosts. But for the most part, pain drives it out of us. The ‘it’ I am referring to here, is Beauty. Which may seem a bit odd, but it is something I have thought for a long time now.
I think the worst thing about being this ill really is, probably, when all is said and done, the Daytime Television. If you’re in constant pain, not sleeping, barely eating, and generally feeling worse than a corpse (Yes I do mean worse than a corpse, there is a point of illness where you begin to feel that at least as a corpse you would get some rest) there are not many avenues of activity open to you. To be at work would double the pain, because every second there increases your self pity. Whys should you be tapping away on a keyboard when you barely have the physical strength to wipe your own arse? Catching up on housework? Well in the spells of okay-ness this is something I do try. But menial tasks are ten times more complex and disappointing as your brain is so focused on the cause of your pain that you find the parts of the mind that usually control motor function and logical thought are temporarily lobotomised. I glared angrily at the kettle for twenty minutes earlier as I had forgotten what its main function was!
It was odd witnessing people’s reactions to the latest crash at the bottom of Clark Street where it meets Dennon Road. Maybe odd is not the right word but disconcerting. It is a dangerous spot, the third crash to occur in little under a week. Something needed to be done. Maybe something couldn’t be, or, more likely, wouldn’t be. Money is all, and the cost effectiveness of changing the roads to avoid such crashes in the future would be examined and would inevitably be found wanting. We have become used to justifying health and safety risks in monetary terms. The people with the money will nod and smile to all, giving the illusion of caring, all the while their hand will be behind their back, keeping a tight grip on their wallet. People die every day, but money is money.
Bang! That’s it, you’re in it. The greatest story you’ll ever be told. Your story, not mine. I’m in it, the greatest story I’ll ever hear, My Story. Honestly, tell me a better one? Go on! You can’t. YOU. You are you. Your relationships, your dramas, your actions, your heartache, your dreams, your loved ones. Tell me of one story that means more to you?
Monday, 21 February 2011
I have studied the picture so much now that the image seems to have burnt onto my mind. If I close my eyes I can see it. It is one of the most precious photos I possess. There are many photos that mean something to me. Photos of Mark, Laura and Sheree, of family parties, of me clinging doe eyed in the arms of past loves, pictures of faded beaches and school plays. They all blur into one massive timeline of meshed memories. Photos need explaining, if you ever get the opportunity, to loved ones and grandchildren. Otherwise what people are left with are albums of images that have no context, the smiling faces are left blank when the dots have not been connected. But maybe it is just that the really important photos, the ones that capture a moment so completely, are actually far rarer than that.