The sea at Claresham beach was flat and grey, laced with the white froth of waves that skidded across its surface, chased by seagulls and terns that wheeled and dived; lifted by the wind, soaring through the air. The coastline in that area was windswept and barren; the trees stunted by years of exposure to the elements.
The young girl stood on a rock and looked out at the solemn silent water, her black hair whipping around her face, her white dress flapping. She was allowed out on the beach only as long as she kept within sight of the square white-washed house several hundred metres away, as there was no-one else around.
There was something about that place, solitary though it was, that drew her to it. She had been wandering around there for hours, moving from one end of the beach to the other, jumping between the boulders and searching for crabs and the small fish that were caught in pools of water on the rocks.
There are people who believe children can perceive things that adults cannot; and maybe it was for this reason that the girl discovered the shell on that clear chilly day. She would tell you that the waves had whispered to her as they broke along the shore, leading her to where it lay among the pebbles and the small streams of water that ran through the sand.
It was small and white, although in certain lights its surface seemed to dance with all the colours of the rainbow. The girl bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then knelt down impulsively and picked it up, stowing it in the pocket of her dress, and continued her meandering progress along the beach; each rock pool filled with the potential for adventure and fantasy.
******************
Before long the shell was forgotten, and it wasn't until later, when the air had become colder still, the sky had begun to darken with grey clouds, and the little girl heard her name being called by a woman standing at the entrance to the house (wearing a shawl that flapped in the wind), that she reached into her pocket again to find it there.
Inside she showed it to the middle-aged man with the kind face and the woman (his wife; genial and protective) as the table was set with bread and salad and meat and cheese. The man examined it carefully and remarked what a pretty thing it was and told the girl about the conches that you sometimes found on the seafront, in which, if you held them to your ear, you could hear the sounds of waves breaking on some mysterious shore.
The girl held the shell to her ear, hoping to hear the water rushing back and forth, but there was nothing.
But that night, when the house was dark and the wind buffeted its walls, the girl found herself awoken by a strange feeling, as if the air were charged with static. Suddenly she realised that the darkness was not quite complete. Shifting around in the sheets she saw that the shell lying on the table next to her bed was glowing; light emanating from its opening, and as she held it cupped in her hands the light seemed to grow stronger, as though a door had been opened into a bright room.
The light illuminated the girl's face, shining in her wide eyes and short nose. How long she sat like that she did not know, but eventually she realised that she had been holding her breath for some time and the trance was broken.
Some instinct made her raise the shell to her ear, and as she did so, she could hear the sound of voices, muffled but sweet, that rose and fell in rhythm with one another, like a song formed from people speaking at the same time. (And each person was telling a story; and each story was linked with the others, as if they were part of one whole that could not be broken.)
And suddenly there was one voice, clear and clean as ice-cold water that rang through the girl's head like the ringing of bells, but which soothed and refreshed her, as though the entire Universe had just been renewed. It told her to sleep again, but to go back to the beach the next day and find the shell there, where she had discovered it first.
And then the darkness of sleep washed over her once again and she knew no more.
******************
The girl woke to bright sunshine streaming in the windows. The shell had gone from the table by her bed. She tore out of the house after rushing her breakfast; her coat half-unbuttoned, clutching her woollen scarf in one hand so that it fluttered behind her. The woman called after her, telling her to make sure she wrapped up warm and to stay within sight of the house, but the girl hardly heard.
She found the shell in the same place that she had picked it up yesterday, just as the voice had said it would be. For a moment the girl hesitated and looked around, as if she expected there to be someone with her on the beach, but there was no-one. She crouched down, sitting back on her haunches and scooped up the shell, holding it to her ear.
And there was the voice, clear and vibrant...
It told her many amazing things that day - of green and blue worlds beneath the sea, where the water faeries lived; of how they sang to one another in voices that could only be understood when heard under the water's surface (and even then only by those who knew how to interpret the words), but which sounded on land like the crashing of waves on rocky shores.
It told her of the cities of the faeries, like gnarled and colourful rock formations rising through cloudy water, dappled with great columns of light from the ocean surface; of the colourful fish that swam there and how some were really spirits of the oceans that could change their appearance at will.
It told her of wars and of the rise and fall of kingdoms known only beneath the waves, forgotten by the land.
And it told her of one faerie - a Prince among the faeries he might have been (though at the end of the day the girl wasn't quite sure whether or not it was her that had made this part up) - who lost the one he loved. She had fallen from their city into the depths of the oceans, sinking lower and lower, down to where the waters were cold and black as the night. The faerie Prince had followed her, diving deeper and deeper to try to get her back, but she had slipped away from his grasp and disappeared from sight.
But the Prince did not give up and searched for his love without rest or food or drink, until one day he was too weak to search any more, and he too was taken by the icy waters. And his body was consumed by the spirits of the deep waters (hunched forms, like ink or smoke), but they could not touch his heart, for there was stored a love pure enough to repulse their hatred. So they encased the Prince's heart in a shell and allowed the currents of the oceans to lift the shell from their realm, back to the surface, where it was taken to many different places all over the world.
******************
When the voice had finished telling the girl all this, it told her to return again the next day.
So she went away and ate her food and went to bed (though she could not sleep for a long time), and in the morning came back down to the beach and found the shell in the same place as before.
Once more, when she held the shell against her ear, the voice was there. For hours it told her once more of the underworld kingdom: of the Grimmel - wraiths that flowed near-invisible with the currents of the oceans, waiting to ensnare the faeries if they were not seen in time; of caves studded with precious rocks which, when lit, shone like the stars of the night-sky, and of the dreamers who would venture close to the surface of the water and spend their time gazing at the hot Sun and the sea-side towns, imagining that one day they might be human.
Eventually the voice paused for a moment and there was only the sound of the wind and the birds' keening calls and the breaking of the water against the shoreline. Then the voice spoke again, and it asked the girl to tell it a story of her own.
And because the girl couldn't think of anything else to say, she told it about herself and about the War.
She told it about how she had lived in a built-up town far away from here, where the houses were built of red brick and slate, until one day the planes had started flying overhead and the bombs had begun to fall. She told it how she had been moved away from her home (even though her Mama and Papa had had to stay); about the parting at the train station, and how her parents were quickly lost among the crowds of other families jostling on the platform to catch a last glimpse of their children as the train creaked and groaned and shunted away amidst clouds of steam.
She told the voice how she had been moved to this house by the sea; and had been looked after by the kindly middle-aged man and his wife; how she liked it here but missed her parents and friends so desperately and didn't know when she would see them again.
As the pale Sun moved through the sky and the shadows lengthened and the girl's story came to an end, the voice told her once again to return the next day, and she placed the shell down among the rocks and the pebbles and stood up.
She remained looking down at it for a moment, then turned her gaze out to sea.
**********************
On the third day when the girl came down to the shore, the shell was not there. In panic the girl searched the beach, slipping over rocks and scraping her knee. Eventually she found it close to the water's edge. It had been carried there by one of the streams of water that ran through the sand, which gurgled and swirled around before running into the sea. The girl knelt down quickly to grab the shell before it could float away, soaking the lower portion of her dress.
But she had the shell, and she pressed its wet surface against her cheek then to her ear, and after a moment the voice spoke to her as on the previous days.
And this is what it told her.
On a beach in a country far away, where the rocks were dark (it was said they had been thrown out from within the craggy mountains that rose swiftly beyond the edge of the shoreline) and where the beach edge was lined with green trees with peculiar ribbed trunks and large angular leaves, there lived a young boy - the son of a fisherman. The place where they lived was poor, but the boy's Papa said they were better off without money (for he had heard tales of money and its influence upon other towns in the locality); he said that money only brought unrest and greed and jealousy.
Each day the boy would go to the shoreline and look out to sea, watching the sun lift itself lazily above the clouds that sat on the horizon; waiting for the heat to suffuse the damp air.
The boy had a friend - a girl a few weeks older than him who lived in a hut close to his. They would meet in the mornings and spend their days together, running into the woodlands and exploring the coastline. The older folk of the village would watch them play and laugh and wink at one another in a knowing fashion and make sordid comments about what would happen when they grew up to be a man and a woman.
Sometimes they heard what the older people said, but they would ignore them and think them silly, and the girl would take his hand and they would run away to where no-one would disturb their play. Because adults had forgotten what it meant to be friends – part of one body and one soul, without the need for all those other things (though sometimes the girl would feel her cheeks grow hot if she saw the boy washing in a river, and he would grow embarrassed and run away if she leant over and kissed him on the cheek).
One day while they were deep in the forest, the girl told the boy that her parents wanted to leave the village, and she would have to go with them. The boy was quiet for a moment, then, because he didn't know how to deal with this news, continued to tell the girl of the strange green and blue and gold frog he had caught earlier.
But in the evening when he sat on the hard gravel of the shoreline, watching the sky darken (for the Sun had sunk below the horizon some time ago and the air was getting colder), the boy felt that some part of him had broken - that there was a hole in his chest that could never again be filled.
It was in that evening that the boy asked his parents about the witch. He had heard of her from the other boys, and, in passing, from the conversations of the adults. It was said she could do things that others could not. Papa told him that she lived in a hut at the edge of the village – shunned by those who feared her but who were too fearful to try to drive her away - and warned the boy never to go there.
But the very next day, when mist still hung in ghostly sheets that twisted between the trees like wandering souls seeking their resting places, and while the adults still slumbered in their beds, the boy rose early and went to the edge of the village where, sure enough, he found a hut built a little away from the others. And it was in that hut that he met the witch.
The boy hung around the door to the hut for some time, the birds chattering in the trees around him. Eventually he plucked up the courage to enter the hut, but when he saw her vague form in the gloom his courage almost left him; and it was only when she called to him telling him to enter that he was drawn in.
The witch was not what he had expected. She looked barely an adult - her tattered clothes covering smooth pale skin - but when she spoke the boy felt as though she could see right through him. She asked of his dreams and his fears, and of all the things he wanted to do when he was older, and then she asked why he had come to her.
So the boy told the witch of his friend, and how she was supposed to be going away from the village soon, and about the hollow feeling in his chest that the news had brought, and how he wondered if there was some way in which she could help ensure that his friend was not taken away from him.
Then the witch smiled, and the boy could not work out whether the smile was sad or bitter or mocking, but before he could work it out she leaned towards him, reached out and put something in his hand, closing his fingers quickly around it. She sat back, and the boy looked in his hand and found two necklaces with pendants shaped as small silver spiders; their legs drawn underneath them.
The witch showed him how to open the backs of the pendants to reveal a small hollow space, and she told him to give one chain to the girl to wear and keep one for himself; and to place in each a strand of hair from the other person. And she promised that if they should do so, they would never be parted.
So when the boy ran from that place, he found a dark corner among the rocks, moss and lichen and plucked a hair from his own head, placing it in one of the pendants.
In the morning, he found the girl, and made her do likewise - plucking a long strand of hair from her crown and placing it in the second pendant. She took the chain and pendant that contained his hair and smiled at him once, then hung it round her neck. And he did the same with the pendant that contained her hair. Then they linked hands and ran away to play.
That night, the boy found it hard to sleep. Eventually, he drifted into a fitful slumber, and he dreamed of the pendant.
(And in the dream, the spider on the pendant came alive. It unwound its legs and made a few sharp bites in the air with its fangs, then seemed to consider the boy for a moment. But the boy realised he had his eyes closed even though he could see all that was taking place, and he made no movement. Then, in a sudden movement, the silver spider bit into the boy’s chest. Bright shards of light burst across his vision, there was a sharp pain in the middle of his chest followed by a long-lasting burn, and soon the boy found he was incapable of moving.
And when the spider’s hard fangs bit again into the flesh of his chest the pain was less, and the third time the boy felt nothing at all. The spider bit and bit, until it had made a small hole in the boy’s chest, and blood trickled down his skin onto the sheets. Then the spider started forcing its body into his chest - tail and abdomen first...)The boy woke. Sweat (or was it blood?) drenched the sheets of his bed (then he saw that the sheets were still white, so it could not have been blood). He lay still for a moment then leaped up on his mattress and searched around his possessions (laid neatly by the bed), but he could not find the pendant – it had gone. He stared at the flesh of his chest and ran his fingers over the skin, but it was clean and unbroken.That morning, the boy ran out to meet his friend, but she was not there. Nor was she there the day after; or the day after that. The boy sat on the seafront, and tears glistened in his eyes as he watched the Sun casting bands of colour over the horizon. He knew she had been taken from him, and the pain seemed to be too great to bear. His heart felt like it would explode.But one day when he was standing by the water and thinking of the girl, he felt a tug in his chest, like something pulling at a hook in his breastbone connected to a point just below his skin. He looked out to sea, and suddenly he could make out a length of line, like a single strand of spider’s web, that glistened in the Sun as it passed through the mists of fine water that were thrown into the air by the crashing waves.
He reached out to try to feel the line, but even when it seemed he was touching it, he could feel nothing. It started in that region of his chest where the spider had entered his body in the dream, and stretched out to the sea-front, out onto the water and far away.
And even as the boy began to make out these things he felt another tug on the string, and in an instant he knew that it was the girl, wherever she was, pulling on the other end. He also knew that she was aware that the line was joined to him.
And for the first time in many days, he smiled and knew that he was still connected to his friend, despite the distance and regardless of what lay between them.
He had not forgotten; and she would not forget him.
************************
Then the voice stopped and spoke no more, and after some time the girl placed the shell back on the sand of the beach and returned to the house; to the kindly man and his gentle wife; to hot food and the clean, crisp linen sheets of her bed.
The next morning she returned to the spot where she had left the shell, but it was not there, and though she searched the entire length of the beach she could not find it.
She had not expected it to be there; she had somehow sensed that it would have gone, so she was not sad. When she came to think of it, however, she wasn’t sure if she would have been sad anyway.
And when she had finally given up her search, she sat on the cold rocks staring out at the waves, thinking of her parents; and for the first time in a long while she noticed how the sunlight played and glittered on the peaks and filled in the troughs, and made the surface of the water dance and shine.
************************
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Friday, 19 December 2008
Siren songs
The tree was dark and twisted; its
branches hanging like rags; its bark
like strips of flesh hanging from a
corpse. He had thought it was dead,
but now it seemed as though there
might be life there yet: green growth
in its heart, waiting to blossom. It
had felt its roots stir in response to
her song, and now he knew there was
hope. There is always hope.
branches hanging like rags; its bark
like strips of flesh hanging from a
corpse. He had thought it was dead,
but now it seemed as though there
might be life there yet: green growth
in its heart, waiting to blossom. It
had felt its roots stir in response to
her song, and now he knew there was
hope. There is always hope.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Black Branches
The bus is packed,
Smells of cabbages and wet,
Sunshine glints off the wet road surface,
A falling leaf; a shard of gold drifting through the air,
The Sun is bright,
The sky a deep blue.
He always has his head down when he walks into work,
Pondering,
Then looks up as he passes the tree,
Stripped of its leaves,
Black branches and narrow twigs.
Smells of cabbages and wet,
Sunshine glints off the wet road surface,
A falling leaf; a shard of gold drifting through the air,
The Sun is bright,
The sky a deep blue.
He always has his head down when he walks into work,
Pondering,
Then looks up as he passes the tree,
Stripped of its leaves,
Black branches and narrow twigs.
Monday, 24 November 2008
Sunday, 16 November 2008
The Painted Picture
The young girl stood in the mud-track road, and behind her the landscape was on fire.
"Let me pass", I shouted over the roar, but she just looked at me, her head on one side, her dark hair flat against her skin.
"Let me pass", I shouted, and my horse reared, its eyes and nostril wide, sweat matting its hair (and in the mud ran streams of water mixed with streams of blood).
"You cannot pass" replied the girl, and her voice was quiet but rang like a bell.
(In the distance the villages were burning, and people were screaming and running from the tall, dark, crooked figures that followed them in jerking steps)
"Please let me pass", I shouted once more, my eyes in the distance; I had to help.
"You cannot pass" the girl said again, and this time the earth shook with her voice.
I looked at her, at those empty black eyes, as lightening shook the sky above us. "Who are you?" I whispered. The girl did not reply, but continued to look at me, her face blank and relaxed. "Why are you doing this?" I shouted, and my horse reared again as I stuggled to control it.
"It is not me" her voice was high, petulant, "this is your doing, surely you know that?"
And then I screamed and the edges of my vision began to curl and blacken like burning paper, and the scene behind the girl began to fall apart so that there was only me and her. And as burning strips fell from the sky she moved closer: her skin flayed then dissolved away, and her jaw stretched forward until her face was like that of a horse; her arms extended to a grotesque length, and her hands turned into fleshy claws.
The creature reached towards me and I could not move. It was blind, but its talons sought my eyes, grasping my forehead. We were joined; my torso growing out of its body, and all around us there seemed to be fire and smoke, though all was blackness (yet rented with a sick unnatural light). We were falling backwards, down, down, as the horses mouth moved towards mine, its lips curling back in hatred.
I was lost.
This was Hell.
"Let me pass", I shouted over the roar, but she just looked at me, her head on one side, her dark hair flat against her skin.
"Let me pass", I shouted, and my horse reared, its eyes and nostril wide, sweat matting its hair (and in the mud ran streams of water mixed with streams of blood).
"You cannot pass" replied the girl, and her voice was quiet but rang like a bell.
(In the distance the villages were burning, and people were screaming and running from the tall, dark, crooked figures that followed them in jerking steps)
"Please let me pass", I shouted once more, my eyes in the distance; I had to help.
"You cannot pass" the girl said again, and this time the earth shook with her voice.
I looked at her, at those empty black eyes, as lightening shook the sky above us. "Who are you?" I whispered. The girl did not reply, but continued to look at me, her face blank and relaxed. "Why are you doing this?" I shouted, and my horse reared again as I stuggled to control it.
"It is not me" her voice was high, petulant, "this is your doing, surely you know that?"
And then I screamed and the edges of my vision began to curl and blacken like burning paper, and the scene behind the girl began to fall apart so that there was only me and her. And as burning strips fell from the sky she moved closer: her skin flayed then dissolved away, and her jaw stretched forward until her face was like that of a horse; her arms extended to a grotesque length, and her hands turned into fleshy claws.
The creature reached towards me and I could not move. It was blind, but its talons sought my eyes, grasping my forehead. We were joined; my torso growing out of its body, and all around us there seemed to be fire and smoke, though all was blackness (yet rented with a sick unnatural light). We were falling backwards, down, down, as the horses mouth moved towards mine, its lips curling back in hatred.
I was lost.
This was Hell.
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Don't stop
One of the things that scares me the most,
Is that one day it will stop hurting;
That I'll become satisfied with what I've got,
And that I'll give up trying.
Is that one day it will stop hurting;
That I'll become satisfied with what I've got,
And that I'll give up trying.
Saturday, 1 November 2008
Remembering Abkhazia
First we hear the wailing; women crying among the silver-blue leaves of the olive trees. The sound appears to be coming from somewhere behind a ramshackle building made of bits of corrugated iron and clay bricks with bits of straw sticking out of them. Rounding the side of the building, we find a group of perhaps 20 - 30 people gathered around a roughly rectangular pit in the ground.
They are burying a son. He was 19 years old. A freedom fighter or terrorist; a terrorist or a freedom fighter, it doesn't really matter now. He looks hardly more than a boy in the photo clutched by his brother (his lips pressed tightly together, his face grim). What does his mother care of the conflict now? Her son is gone; she knows nothing but this.
His brother speaks to us of his hatred of all Georgians. They used to break bread together; now they try to kill one another. The pain and suffering of these people is all too obvious, but I cannot truly know what it feels like. It is not I who have lost a brother; a son.
Still, I cannot help but think: "What if this boy was also responsible for a scene such as this, 50 miles away over the de facto border? What if somewhere there a mother is weeping too? A mother who also now knows nothing of conflict and hatred, only the pain of losing her child?"
He would surely be hailed as a hero by this poor, war-torn community. And perhaps, 50 miles away, some other son is being hailed as just such a hero by his friends and relatives. But in the heart of a conflict, such paradoxes are often forgotten: ignored by those who control the conflicts, many miles away, sitting in leather armchairs in spacious, well-equipped offices, and pushed to the back of the minds of those immersed in it by the pain of suffering - the anguish of losing those that they love.
What bitter madness. Spilt blood begets more spilt blood, and more mothers are left to weep. The blood mixes with the handfuls of soil that are tossed in on the wooden box. Behind the roughly-constructed lid of that box lies the boy that was once a child, once a baby, once a stirring in a mother's belly.
The earth drops like rain, and tears wet the ground.
They are burying a son. He was 19 years old. A freedom fighter or terrorist; a terrorist or a freedom fighter, it doesn't really matter now. He looks hardly more than a boy in the photo clutched by his brother (his lips pressed tightly together, his face grim). What does his mother care of the conflict now? Her son is gone; she knows nothing but this.
His brother speaks to us of his hatred of all Georgians. They used to break bread together; now they try to kill one another. The pain and suffering of these people is all too obvious, but I cannot truly know what it feels like. It is not I who have lost a brother; a son.
Still, I cannot help but think: "What if this boy was also responsible for a scene such as this, 50 miles away over the de facto border? What if somewhere there a mother is weeping too? A mother who also now knows nothing of conflict and hatred, only the pain of losing her child?"
He would surely be hailed as a hero by this poor, war-torn community. And perhaps, 50 miles away, some other son is being hailed as just such a hero by his friends and relatives. But in the heart of a conflict, such paradoxes are often forgotten: ignored by those who control the conflicts, many miles away, sitting in leather armchairs in spacious, well-equipped offices, and pushed to the back of the minds of those immersed in it by the pain of suffering - the anguish of losing those that they love.
What bitter madness. Spilt blood begets more spilt blood, and more mothers are left to weep. The blood mixes with the handfuls of soil that are tossed in on the wooden box. Behind the roughly-constructed lid of that box lies the boy that was once a child, once a baby, once a stirring in a mother's belly.
The earth drops like rain, and tears wet the ground.
Shopping List
Milk £1.20
Bread 75p
Butter
Bailing out UK banks: £250 billion
Providing aid to roughly 4 million starving Zimbabweans: £70 million
Olive oil 500 ml £2.50
Immediate aid to 2004 Tsunami victims from UK government (> 250,000 killed, many more made homeless): £75 million
War in Iraq (Immediate costs incurred by US): Order £300 billion
Estimated eventual cost to US of Iraq invasion: Order £500 billion -£3 trillion
Parsnips
chee
Estimated cost of meeting the Millennium Development Goals when they were first proposed: £20 - £30 billion per year for 16 years = < £600 billion in total (to be shared among all the nations signed up to the MDGs)
Chicken wings £2.50 ish Curry sauce (x2 Monday and Fri)
Overall costs of Iraq war to US (estimated by Pentagon prior to invasion) ~ £25 billion
Cost of antiretroviral drugs for management of AIDs in Nigeria, approx £34 per person per month
Replacing Trident nuclear arsenal: £20 billion
Deoderant for Tim £1.50 (maybe)
Bread 75p
Butter
Bailing out UK banks: £250 billion
Providing aid to roughly 4 million starving Zimbabweans: £70 million
Olive oil 500 ml £2.50
Immediate aid to 2004 Tsunami victims from UK government (> 250,000 killed, many more made homeless): £75 million
War in Iraq (Immediate costs incurred by US): Order £300 billion
Estimated eventual cost to US of Iraq invasion: Order £500 billion -£3 trillion
Parsnips
chee
paracetamol
Estimated cost of meeting the Millennium Development Goals when they were first proposed: £20 - £30 billion per year for 16 years = < £600 billion in total (to be shared among all the nations signed up to the MDGs)
Chicken wings £2.50 ish Curry sauce (x2 Monday and Fri)
Overall costs of Iraq war to US (estimated by Pentagon prior to invasion) ~ £25 billion
Cost of antiretroviral drugs for management of AIDs in Nigeria, approx £34 per person per month
Replacing Trident nuclear arsenal: £20 billion
Deoderant for Tim £1.50 (maybe)
Autumn Mornings
I love those crisp autumn mornings,
The leaves on the trees golden,
The sky clear and the Sun bright,
Mist rising off the dewey grass.
Everything is still,
And I am cocooned in warm clothing,
Though my nose and cheeks are cold.
It's like a new start,
Fresh and invigorating,
The cleansing of the world.
The leaves on the trees golden,
The sky clear and the Sun bright,
Mist rising off the dewey grass.
Everything is still,
And I am cocooned in warm clothing,
Though my nose and cheeks are cold.
It's like a new start,
Fresh and invigorating,
The cleansing of the world.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
When I was Young
I remember when I was young,
Chubby cheeks and wide bright eyes,
I remember how the world seemed to glitter,
Filled with the scent of fairytales.
I remember how everything felt.
How hot tears would spring unforced,
At the death of a bird with a broken wing.
I remember the pain,
And how it made everything else seem special.
I remember love,
Unconditional,
Blind to faults,
Strengthened by weakness.
How I miss those days,
When the heat of emotion burned bright.
I wish I could return, if only for a day,
To feel the warmth of those flames again.
When I was young.
Chubby cheeks and wide bright eyes,
I remember how the world seemed to glitter,
Filled with the scent of fairytales.
I remember how everything felt.
How hot tears would spring unforced,
At the death of a bird with a broken wing.
I remember the pain,
And how it made everything else seem special.
I remember love,
Unconditional,
Blind to faults,
Strengthened by weakness.
How I miss those days,
When the heat of emotion burned bright.
I wish I could return, if only for a day,
To feel the warmth of those flames again.
When I was young.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Cardiff Half, 2008.
Today I ran the Cardiff half-marathon. If there's one thing I've learned from today, it's not to underestimate the effect of running 13 miles. In fairness, I didn't really underestimate it - I knew my preparation had been hopelessly inadequate, and I was also aware that there are serious consequences to doing a run when you are underprepared. People have been killed as a result of it, and I'm given to understand that one person in his twenties had passed away on the Cardiff half last year.
I was, therefore, willing to swallow my pride and give up if things got too intense. I do a lot of exercise, and my stamina is pretty good, so I had set myself a somewhat throwaway time of 1 hour 30 minutes. As the race approached, however, I realised that that was somewhat ambitious.
Actually, I kept up with the 1-30 pacemaker for about 8 miles before starting to drop off. My legs felt empty. It had seemed, looking at the people around me, as though I had been in reasonable condition for much of that time, but I guess experience makes a difference, and I just felt as though I couldn't cope. I started walking, attempted a jog, walked again, then stopped. I started to experience a very strange light-headed sensation and felt as though my body were numb, and bobbing up and down water. This got me worried - thoughts of the 20-year old and all those you hear who collapse after or during the Great Northern Run dogged me. This was stupid; it was idiotic to expect to do this kind of race without sufficient practice... I almost gave up. It was mostly because I was expecting to see my parents in the park (and hadn't already done so), and I didn't want to worry and disappoint them by dropping out that I tried to continue.
After a while walking, however, I managed to jog slowly for about a mile or so. People around me tapped my shoulder, giving me words of encouragement, and it is, perhaps, only as a result of one particular guy's enthusiasm as he ran past that I decided to keep it up.
Somewhere around 10 miles I passed a man who had collapsed and was being looked after. His face was pale, and his lips grey. By then, however, I had recovered sufficiently to not be put off. I loped along slowly until the 1-40 pacemaker caught up with me. He was also instrumental in keeping me going. His enthusiasm was infectious, calling at the people around him to keep going, that the end was close. The thought of still being able to finish at around 1-40 also spurred me into a fast finish, and I ended up crossing the line with the clock reading just under 1 hour 40 mins.
There's something about putting yourself under that kind of stress that makes you feel extremely emotional. After the race I saw my parents, and spent some time with them, which was great. After they had gone, however, I suddenly felt very alone. All around me were groups of people waiting for loved ones to cross the line, in particular girlfriends. Happy, smiling, waiting for their loved ones to finish. Seeing my parents was very special, but it brought it home to me (yet again) how I also needed another kind of emotional support.
I tried to find some of my other friends who were running, but without success. The clock by now was reading 2 hours 20 minutes, and I joined the groups of people around the finishing straight to cheer and clap others in.
As it happened, this turned out to be one of the most rewarding parts of the event, and a demonstration of how it is possible for people to be kind to others (even if only for a short while). Firstly, it was gratifying to see so many runners who had finished willing to cheer on the others, who were finishing later.
And then, the runners themselves. There were of all kinds. People with mental disabilities, overweight people, older people. All of them, pushing beyond their physical difficulties to complete a gruelling run. I knew: my legs were aching; my feet were hurting, I had almost given up. The challenge was mental as well as physical, and the achievement of these people was certainly no less than that of the runners who had finished the race over 1-2 hours earlier. If anything, it was more. These people, in some cases, must have signed up to this race in a bid to improve their fitness; in others, they were continuing despite any physical problems they had to overcome. They were striving to improve themselves, or else not to be beaten by the course. They crossed the finish line in tears; they crossed it smiling. The point was that they did it. It was truly inspiring; and I thank God for their courage.
I was, therefore, willing to swallow my pride and give up if things got too intense. I do a lot of exercise, and my stamina is pretty good, so I had set myself a somewhat throwaway time of 1 hour 30 minutes. As the race approached, however, I realised that that was somewhat ambitious.
Actually, I kept up with the 1-30 pacemaker for about 8 miles before starting to drop off. My legs felt empty. It had seemed, looking at the people around me, as though I had been in reasonable condition for much of that time, but I guess experience makes a difference, and I just felt as though I couldn't cope. I started walking, attempted a jog, walked again, then stopped. I started to experience a very strange light-headed sensation and felt as though my body were numb, and bobbing up and down water. This got me worried - thoughts of the 20-year old and all those you hear who collapse after or during the Great Northern Run dogged me. This was stupid; it was idiotic to expect to do this kind of race without sufficient practice... I almost gave up. It was mostly because I was expecting to see my parents in the park (and hadn't already done so), and I didn't want to worry and disappoint them by dropping out that I tried to continue.
After a while walking, however, I managed to jog slowly for about a mile or so. People around me tapped my shoulder, giving me words of encouragement, and it is, perhaps, only as a result of one particular guy's enthusiasm as he ran past that I decided to keep it up.
Somewhere around 10 miles I passed a man who had collapsed and was being looked after. His face was pale, and his lips grey. By then, however, I had recovered sufficiently to not be put off. I loped along slowly until the 1-40 pacemaker caught up with me. He was also instrumental in keeping me going. His enthusiasm was infectious, calling at the people around him to keep going, that the end was close. The thought of still being able to finish at around 1-40 also spurred me into a fast finish, and I ended up crossing the line with the clock reading just under 1 hour 40 mins.
There's something about putting yourself under that kind of stress that makes you feel extremely emotional. After the race I saw my parents, and spent some time with them, which was great. After they had gone, however, I suddenly felt very alone. All around me were groups of people waiting for loved ones to cross the line, in particular girlfriends. Happy, smiling, waiting for their loved ones to finish. Seeing my parents was very special, but it brought it home to me (yet again) how I also needed another kind of emotional support.
I tried to find some of my other friends who were running, but without success. The clock by now was reading 2 hours 20 minutes, and I joined the groups of people around the finishing straight to cheer and clap others in.
As it happened, this turned out to be one of the most rewarding parts of the event, and a demonstration of how it is possible for people to be kind to others (even if only for a short while). Firstly, it was gratifying to see so many runners who had finished willing to cheer on the others, who were finishing later.
And then, the runners themselves. There were of all kinds. People with mental disabilities, overweight people, older people. All of them, pushing beyond their physical difficulties to complete a gruelling run. I knew: my legs were aching; my feet were hurting, I had almost given up. The challenge was mental as well as physical, and the achievement of these people was certainly no less than that of the runners who had finished the race over 1-2 hours earlier. If anything, it was more. These people, in some cases, must have signed up to this race in a bid to improve their fitness; in others, they were continuing despite any physical problems they had to overcome. They were striving to improve themselves, or else not to be beaten by the course. They crossed the finish line in tears; they crossed it smiling. The point was that they did it. It was truly inspiring; and I thank God for their courage.
Friday, 17 October 2008
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
The Toy Shop
The toy shop was tall and narrow, at the start of a quiet street on top of a small hill - it looked as though the building had been squeezed onto the end of the short row of white-front houses as an afterthought.
Its windows were high and crooked and didn't line up with one another. It had stone roof tiles and a single elegantly shaped brick-red chimney pot.
Inside, it was bright and colourful. Everything was packed close together - there was only enough room for a single line of adults and small children to snake their way between the shelves.
And the shelves were full of a myriad of toys. Stuffed teddies of all shapes and sizes - some with ribbons round their necks, some with waistcoats and spectacles, others naked with round bellies. Wooden train sets, lovingly constructed; medieval castles and colourful nutcrackers. Dozens of different kinds of marbles, smooth and round - some with swirling patterns on their surfaces, some clear but coloured, others misty like an enchanted morning.
And up the creaky stairs there was even more: rocking horse and dolls houses; dusty books and minature furniture. The children would stand and gape, clutching their caps in front of them, eyes wide. They would drag their parents to see this and that treasure, and their shouts and laughter rang through the building.
Except for in one corner, in the furthest room of the upstairs floor. A dark corner in which a pile of minature Arabian rugs appeared to have been piled in a heap - discarded, or else convering something.
If one of the adults would try to lead the children towards that corner, they would suddenly become shy and quiet. And if the adults then laughed and took them by the hand to lead them closer, they would dig their heels into the floor and tug their hands away and begin to appeal to their parents, their voices high and scared.
The adults would laugh and give in, taking their children back to the rest of the shop with puzzled smiles.
For the adults had long since forgotten to hear the voices that came from that corner - whispers, inviting the children to play. Insistent, beautiful, dangerous voices, calling to the children to join them. They would not hear how, as they tried to coax their children further towards the back of the room the voices would become hungrier, more like hisses in the dark. Or, as they led their children away, how the voices would once again become melodious and playful, like the tinkling of glass, telling them to come back soon, come back soon, come back soon...
Its windows were high and crooked and didn't line up with one another. It had stone roof tiles and a single elegantly shaped brick-red chimney pot.
Inside, it was bright and colourful. Everything was packed close together - there was only enough room for a single line of adults and small children to snake their way between the shelves.
And the shelves were full of a myriad of toys. Stuffed teddies of all shapes and sizes - some with ribbons round their necks, some with waistcoats and spectacles, others naked with round bellies. Wooden train sets, lovingly constructed; medieval castles and colourful nutcrackers. Dozens of different kinds of marbles, smooth and round - some with swirling patterns on their surfaces, some clear but coloured, others misty like an enchanted morning.
And up the creaky stairs there was even more: rocking horse and dolls houses; dusty books and minature furniture. The children would stand and gape, clutching their caps in front of them, eyes wide. They would drag their parents to see this and that treasure, and their shouts and laughter rang through the building.
Except for in one corner, in the furthest room of the upstairs floor. A dark corner in which a pile of minature Arabian rugs appeared to have been piled in a heap - discarded, or else convering something.
If one of the adults would try to lead the children towards that corner, they would suddenly become shy and quiet. And if the adults then laughed and took them by the hand to lead them closer, they would dig their heels into the floor and tug their hands away and begin to appeal to their parents, their voices high and scared.
The adults would laugh and give in, taking their children back to the rest of the shop with puzzled smiles.
For the adults had long since forgotten to hear the voices that came from that corner - whispers, inviting the children to play. Insistent, beautiful, dangerous voices, calling to the children to join them. They would not hear how, as they tried to coax their children further towards the back of the room the voices would become hungrier, more like hisses in the dark. Or, as they led their children away, how the voices would once again become melodious and playful, like the tinkling of glass, telling them to come back soon, come back soon, come back soon...
Monday, 6 October 2008
Diary I
What a ridiculous sitaution to be in, especially for me. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to be meeting up with a friend of mine for lunch. I haven't seen her (yes, exactly) for a while now, and I've been worrying about what I'm going to wear.
You see, my situation is this. As you might have guessed we were 'involved' in the past. We spent a very pleasant week together some time ago, then didn't see each other for about a month. Before we separated, I think we could have been on the verge of getting together and starting taking the first tentative steps in a relationship, but when we met up again when we got back to town, I wasn't sure where we would stand.
Our first few meeting was a little awkward because of this. When we parted afterwards, I kissed her, but I'm not sure either of us knew what it meant or how it had been received. We didn't kiss after that, although the awkwardness disappeared, and we were getting on very well. I felt comfortable being affectionate with her, and that's not something I'm used to.
Anyway, for reasons I won't go into, something happened to make me think that actually she wasn't serious about things, or wasn't willing to play her part in making things work, or didn't actually want us to be together, or something. So we drifted apart again for a while, until one day I decided to email her to explain why it was I hadn't attempted to contact her.
Since then, we're in reasonably frequent contact. She has a boyfriend. We've seen each other from time to time but not met up properly for a while. And so that's what we're planning to do. Tomorrow.
Trouble is, because of the way things 'ended' between us... or more accurately, because of the way in which nothing really started for us to end, when it really seemed as though something should start... it's proving hard to decide... what... to... wear...
You see. If we were to have the chance of starting things up again, I would be very happy about it. I think I've learned my lesson with her. I shouldn't have let go when I did. I shouldn't have let her slide away from me. Or maybe I should, but just don't understand why... anyway! The point is that she did mean something to me, and she still does, even though I guess a large part of me is capable of living with us 'just' being friends.
It's certainly not my intention to try to separate her from her boyfriend, even if I were capable of it. And yet. One day, she may be single again. So! What to wear? Do I make an effort to look attractive? Do I splash the eau de toilette liberally and mess around with my hair to make it look slightly more styled, in the hope that she won't forget me; so that if she does one day separate from her current boyfriend, she might bear me in mind? (Oh man, how pathetic does that sound? Really, perhaps it's time I grow up...)
Or is that too much like trying my luck, when she's still in a relationship? Because usually I don't really try too hard. Certainly I don't often style my hair unless I'm going somewhere where there's likely to be an adundance of single females. And if I try, does that also mean that I'm trying to interfere? Argh!
But am I just worrying for nothing? It's been a while - most likely she's over me by now, right? Trouble is that when I've seen her recently things have been, well, normal. And the point is that normal before led to us getting together (in all but official terms). Soooo.....
Sod it. Smart but not in your face. Right? Ohhh... nuts!
You see, my situation is this. As you might have guessed we were 'involved' in the past. We spent a very pleasant week together some time ago, then didn't see each other for about a month. Before we separated, I think we could have been on the verge of getting together and starting taking the first tentative steps in a relationship, but when we met up again when we got back to town, I wasn't sure where we would stand.
Our first few meeting was a little awkward because of this. When we parted afterwards, I kissed her, but I'm not sure either of us knew what it meant or how it had been received. We didn't kiss after that, although the awkwardness disappeared, and we were getting on very well. I felt comfortable being affectionate with her, and that's not something I'm used to.
Anyway, for reasons I won't go into, something happened to make me think that actually she wasn't serious about things, or wasn't willing to play her part in making things work, or didn't actually want us to be together, or something. So we drifted apart again for a while, until one day I decided to email her to explain why it was I hadn't attempted to contact her.
Since then, we're in reasonably frequent contact. She has a boyfriend. We've seen each other from time to time but not met up properly for a while. And so that's what we're planning to do. Tomorrow.
Trouble is, because of the way things 'ended' between us... or more accurately, because of the way in which nothing really started for us to end, when it really seemed as though something should start... it's proving hard to decide... what... to... wear...
You see. If we were to have the chance of starting things up again, I would be very happy about it. I think I've learned my lesson with her. I shouldn't have let go when I did. I shouldn't have let her slide away from me. Or maybe I should, but just don't understand why... anyway! The point is that she did mean something to me, and she still does, even though I guess a large part of me is capable of living with us 'just' being friends.
It's certainly not my intention to try to separate her from her boyfriend, even if I were capable of it. And yet. One day, she may be single again. So! What to wear? Do I make an effort to look attractive? Do I splash the eau de toilette liberally and mess around with my hair to make it look slightly more styled, in the hope that she won't forget me; so that if she does one day separate from her current boyfriend, she might bear me in mind? (Oh man, how pathetic does that sound? Really, perhaps it's time I grow up...)
Or is that too much like trying my luck, when she's still in a relationship? Because usually I don't really try too hard. Certainly I don't often style my hair unless I'm going somewhere where there's likely to be an adundance of single females. And if I try, does that also mean that I'm trying to interfere? Argh!
But am I just worrying for nothing? It's been a while - most likely she's over me by now, right? Trouble is that when I've seen her recently things have been, well, normal. And the point is that normal before led to us getting together (in all but official terms). Soooo.....
Sod it. Smart but not in your face. Right? Ohhh... nuts!
Sunday, 5 October 2008
Falling Leaves
Autumn has come, And Christmas is near.
The street seems half deserted.
The solitary figure of a man walking down the pavement,
Hood up against the cold.
Autumn has come, The leaves are falling.
Yellow fluttering leaves filling the air.
The street seems half deserted.
The solitary figure of a man walking down the pavement,
Hood up against the cold.
Autumn has come, The leaves are falling.
Yellow fluttering leaves filling the air.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
The Cold Blue Air
What must a bird see?
And how must it feel?
Does it feel alone?
Lost?
Isolated?
Free?
So high in the sky...
So small in all that air.
And how must it feel?
Does it feel alone?
Lost?
Isolated?
Free?
So high in the sky...
So small in all that air.
Sunday, 14 September 2008
Longing
What does it say if you want to experience that pain?
The tears, like crystal beads in the sunshine.
The anguish,
Not physical, of course.
Because the pain means that it matters,
Or mattered.
The pain means you were the difference.
The tears, like crystal beads in the sunshine.
The anguish,
Not physical, of course.
Because the pain means that it matters,
Or mattered.
The pain means you were the difference.
Friday, 12 September 2008
Stunted pathways
The alley was narrow and dark and twisty,
Its walls were high; topped with sharp razor wire,
The sky, a light strip, high above.
Grafetti scrawled on the black bricks,
Expressions of anger, hatred and violence.
The windows above were small and dirty.
Even the plants growing from between the bricks were wrong,
Flowers too dark,
The edges of their leaves too yellow.
Where it led, I could not see.
What lay there waiting for me, I did not know.
I thrust my hands into my pockets,
Tucked my head deeper into my hoody,
And tried to walk faster.
Its walls were high; topped with sharp razor wire,
The sky, a light strip, high above.
Grafetti scrawled on the black bricks,
Expressions of anger, hatred and violence.
The windows above were small and dirty.
Even the plants growing from between the bricks were wrong,
Flowers too dark,
The edges of their leaves too yellow.
Where it led, I could not see.
What lay there waiting for me, I did not know.
I thrust my hands into my pockets,
Tucked my head deeper into my hoody,
And tried to walk faster.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Green Leaves and white clouds
I think it was Bob Geldof who said during an interview that nature was uncompromisingly beautiful on every scale. It's a quote whose sentiment has remained with me since hearing it, and I was reminded of it while standing outside University the other day waiting for a lift.
As cities go Cardiff is remarkably green, and the street outside my department is particularly nice, with plenty of trees as well as an interesting mixture of buildings. But I'm sort of used to it now and its impact on me is not so great. I guess I must have been thinking about something, however, when I happened to look up into the sky.
It's been a while since I had my breath taken away, but the view did just that. It's hard to describe how I found the clouds to be so amazing. Colours are often more vivid after rainfall, so maybe that was it. In any case, the mixture of the deep blue of the sky, the white of the clouds and the green leaves on the trees; the delicate pattern of the clouds themselves, with different sized details, and just the quality of the light was spectacular. I felt cleansed and refreshed, as though I had just run my hands through cold clear water.
Something so... everyday... and yet so beautiful. It would have been too easy to have missed it; to have not looked up, or to have not concentrated enough to pay proper attention to it. How much of the beauty of this world do we miss everyday?
It's all there. All we need to do is look.
As cities go Cardiff is remarkably green, and the street outside my department is particularly nice, with plenty of trees as well as an interesting mixture of buildings. But I'm sort of used to it now and its impact on me is not so great. I guess I must have been thinking about something, however, when I happened to look up into the sky.
It's been a while since I had my breath taken away, but the view did just that. It's hard to describe how I found the clouds to be so amazing. Colours are often more vivid after rainfall, so maybe that was it. In any case, the mixture of the deep blue of the sky, the white of the clouds and the green leaves on the trees; the delicate pattern of the clouds themselves, with different sized details, and just the quality of the light was spectacular. I felt cleansed and refreshed, as though I had just run my hands through cold clear water.
Something so... everyday... and yet so beautiful. It would have been too easy to have missed it; to have not looked up, or to have not concentrated enough to pay proper attention to it. How much of the beauty of this world do we miss everyday?
It's all there. All we need to do is look.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Bright and Shiny
Given the predominant tone of what I have written so far, you might think the name 'Bright and Shiny' isn't actually that appropriate for me. As it happens, I AM bright and shiny; my outlook on things generally tends towards being optimistic, although there are some exceptions. Part of the reason for this is my person belief in Christianity, which specifically emphasizes the role of hope.
Hope is important to me: hope that God will look after me; hope that things will work out right. Hope is, in fact, all we really have to go on. In deciding whether or not something that happens to us is to our benefit, we cannot, for example, try to vary all the different factors that led to things happening the way they did in order to find whatever 'route' optimises happiness (however we choose to define that... even assuming we use happiness as a measure of how successful some situation is). Some things that lead to short-term happiness also lead to long-term unhappiness. Other things that cause short-term pain and sadness can lead to long-term fulfilment, and so on. We've just got to hope that the path we're on is the best. We're not really much in control of it.
There have, of course, been quite a few films on this kind of theme. Think Magnolia, or Run Lola Run. Small changes in a situation can lead to a large difference in the outcome. In this sense, even mundane things can be viewed as miraculous as hugely unlikely 'coincidences', since they all go to shape what is currently happening.
Not that I'm trying to use this as an argument for our fates being predetermined, or our destinies shaped in every way by a Devine hand. I believe there is some mixture of 'God's will being done' and our own freedom to make decisions taking place; similar to how parents may choose what to do with their toddler during a day - where to go, when to eat etc - but allows them the freedom to run around in a field, or make a mess of themselves while eating ice-cream.
Getting back to writing, however, the trouble is that lots of my writing is inspired by the darker and twistier side of things. Sadness. Unfairness. Loneliness. 'Death'. These things have often been my stimulus to write recently. Actually however, even in these postings I think there is often an element of hope - athough I leave it to you to figure out where :)
In any case, don't give up on me. Happiness counts as well. And hopefully my writing will reflect that, even if such posts aren't hugely regular...
Hope is important to me: hope that God will look after me; hope that things will work out right. Hope is, in fact, all we really have to go on. In deciding whether or not something that happens to us is to our benefit, we cannot, for example, try to vary all the different factors that led to things happening the way they did in order to find whatever 'route' optimises happiness (however we choose to define that... even assuming we use happiness as a measure of how successful some situation is). Some things that lead to short-term happiness also lead to long-term unhappiness. Other things that cause short-term pain and sadness can lead to long-term fulfilment, and so on. We've just got to hope that the path we're on is the best. We're not really much in control of it.
There have, of course, been quite a few films on this kind of theme. Think Magnolia, or Run Lola Run. Small changes in a situation can lead to a large difference in the outcome. In this sense, even mundane things can be viewed as miraculous as hugely unlikely 'coincidences', since they all go to shape what is currently happening.
Not that I'm trying to use this as an argument for our fates being predetermined, or our destinies shaped in every way by a Devine hand. I believe there is some mixture of 'God's will being done' and our own freedom to make decisions taking place; similar to how parents may choose what to do with their toddler during a day - where to go, when to eat etc - but allows them the freedom to run around in a field, or make a mess of themselves while eating ice-cream.
Getting back to writing, however, the trouble is that lots of my writing is inspired by the darker and twistier side of things. Sadness. Unfairness. Loneliness. 'Death'. These things have often been my stimulus to write recently. Actually however, even in these postings I think there is often an element of hope - athough I leave it to you to figure out where :)
In any case, don't give up on me. Happiness counts as well. And hopefully my writing will reflect that, even if such posts aren't hugely regular...
Friday, 29 August 2008
Frozen vision
The Sun rises over the horizon like the crack of an explosion.
I struggle to raise my eyelids and look at it.
Hurts my eyes to do so.
Frozen. Cold.
The Arcic desert stretches away around me.
Flat... the horizon so distant.
Small waves of ice and snow.
Quiet. Peaceful.
The Sun is so intense.
It filld the flawless sky with bands of soft colour.
Beautiful.
I'm so tired. My lips are cracked. Lying on the snow.
I have no energy to move.
Just me and the Sun.
Cold.
And light.
I struggle to raise my eyelids and look at it.
Hurts my eyes to do so.
Frozen. Cold.
The Arcic desert stretches away around me.
Flat... the horizon so distant.
Small waves of ice and snow.
Quiet. Peaceful.
The Sun is so intense.
It filld the flawless sky with bands of soft colour.
Beautiful.
I'm so tired. My lips are cracked. Lying on the snow.
I have no energy to move.
Just me and the Sun.
Cold.
And light.
Sunday, 24 August 2008
Telescope stories V
And so I'm back.
How can I describe the emotions in the couple of days leading up to me leaving? During my trip away, I had had some concerns about a lump in my mouth that my doctor had said should disappear in 7 - 10 days (i.e. just before I left for Chile), but that was still there when I had gone away.
At the time I had pushed thoughts of the lump to the back of my mind. Two extra weeks shouldn't make much of a difference even if it needed investigating, right? Enjoy the experience of being in Chile; nothing you can do about it until you get back to the UK, so don't worry.
By and large I had succeeded in maintaining this state of mind. Nevertheless, at my weak moments while away, thoughts of the lump had returned, and it's presence had remained as a shadow in the back of my mind.
Two days away from leaving, and the prospect of having to address the issue of the lump suddenly became something I had to actively consider. At the same time, however, the thought of once more seeing my parents and friends was also at the fore of my mind, as though up until then I had hidden how much I missed them all.
And yet, while driving back down from the telescope site, with the Sun dipping low on the horizon, turning the scrub around us golden and throwing the mountains into sharp and dramatic relief, I was aware that I had to savour this sight; to drink it in as much as possible before I left, and to experience the moment without focusing too much on what was to come. After all - how often was I likely to be in an environment such as that?
But despite this resolve, before long I was leaving. The bus trip back to Calama airport early in the morning; the sight of the rising Sun throwing the Andes into hazy shades of pastel colour; the landing in Antofogasta - even dustier and remote-feeling than Calama - the 9 hour wait in Santiago airport, and, eventually, finding myself back in Toronto waiting for the flight back to the UK.
The UK. Strange: I've always been a bit dismissive of our country, and yet there is little doubt that both times I have returned from Chile, I have found myself looking forward intensely to being back on British soil. Not necessarily that I specifically wanted to leave Chile; but somehow returning to the UK felt comforting, like returning home allowed me to acknowledge a liking for our country (despite it's faults) that I usually disguise.
One thing that definitely does stand out is how green the UK is. After spending almost three weeks away, most of it in an environment where the dominant colours in the landscape were orange, yellow and brown, the UK suddenly seems an oasis of vegetation.
And Cardiff! How strange to be walking back down the familiar streets; to see things that once were mundane but which now I realise to be special, and for no-one to know where I've been and what I've been doing and how different it all was to this. How many of the other people walking down the streets have similar stories to tell? Stories that I may never hear.
And once reunions with loved ones is complete, and I have slipped back into life in the UK once more, Chile will, once more, seem a long way away. I guess, however, it will always be there - the experience of being away an indellible mark on my history. I'd like to return one day, but it looks as though the reciever is being moved to Mexico, so it may have to be on my own initiative next time.
As for the lump? It turned out only to be a wisdom tooth coming through - the one on the other side of my mouth is in a place I can't reach with my tongue. If you have any problems with your mouth, I advise going to the dentist rather than the doctor...
How can I describe the emotions in the couple of days leading up to me leaving? During my trip away, I had had some concerns about a lump in my mouth that my doctor had said should disappear in 7 - 10 days (i.e. just before I left for Chile), but that was still there when I had gone away.
At the time I had pushed thoughts of the lump to the back of my mind. Two extra weeks shouldn't make much of a difference even if it needed investigating, right? Enjoy the experience of being in Chile; nothing you can do about it until you get back to the UK, so don't worry.
By and large I had succeeded in maintaining this state of mind. Nevertheless, at my weak moments while away, thoughts of the lump had returned, and it's presence had remained as a shadow in the back of my mind.
Two days away from leaving, and the prospect of having to address the issue of the lump suddenly became something I had to actively consider. At the same time, however, the thought of once more seeing my parents and friends was also at the fore of my mind, as though up until then I had hidden how much I missed them all.
And yet, while driving back down from the telescope site, with the Sun dipping low on the horizon, turning the scrub around us golden and throwing the mountains into sharp and dramatic relief, I was aware that I had to savour this sight; to drink it in as much as possible before I left, and to experience the moment without focusing too much on what was to come. After all - how often was I likely to be in an environment such as that?
But despite this resolve, before long I was leaving. The bus trip back to Calama airport early in the morning; the sight of the rising Sun throwing the Andes into hazy shades of pastel colour; the landing in Antofogasta - even dustier and remote-feeling than Calama - the 9 hour wait in Santiago airport, and, eventually, finding myself back in Toronto waiting for the flight back to the UK.
The UK. Strange: I've always been a bit dismissive of our country, and yet there is little doubt that both times I have returned from Chile, I have found myself looking forward intensely to being back on British soil. Not necessarily that I specifically wanted to leave Chile; but somehow returning to the UK felt comforting, like returning home allowed me to acknowledge a liking for our country (despite it's faults) that I usually disguise.
One thing that definitely does stand out is how green the UK is. After spending almost three weeks away, most of it in an environment where the dominant colours in the landscape were orange, yellow and brown, the UK suddenly seems an oasis of vegetation.
And Cardiff! How strange to be walking back down the familiar streets; to see things that once were mundane but which now I realise to be special, and for no-one to know where I've been and what I've been doing and how different it all was to this. How many of the other people walking down the streets have similar stories to tell? Stories that I may never hear.
And once reunions with loved ones is complete, and I have slipped back into life in the UK once more, Chile will, once more, seem a long way away. I guess, however, it will always be there - the experience of being away an indellible mark on my history. I'd like to return one day, but it looks as though the reciever is being moved to Mexico, so it may have to be on my own initiative next time.
As for the lump? It turned out only to be a wisdom tooth coming through - the one on the other side of my mouth is in a place I can't reach with my tongue. If you have any problems with your mouth, I advise going to the dentist rather than the doctor...
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Telescope stories IV
Again, it is the highway that provides the focus. It snakes over the mountains, like a river of information; of stories and intrigue.
This time, the story is of a highjacking. The astronomers had been driving down from site late at night, and had stopped to assist a group of people. Except the people then pulled a gun on them and drove them back into the mountains.
What would they have felt during that trip on the highway? Fear? Or unexpected calm? One can't really guess, right? They were eventually put down somewhere on the caldera; their vehicles and possessions taken, and left to the cold dark night. They made it back. The hiked until they found the highway, and hitched their way back to San Pedro.
Some of the other astronomers won't use that road at night now. Happily, we haven't up at the telescope late enough to be worried about it. While at San Pedro, I've been dreaming more, and sure enough, the night I was told of that story, I dreamt of being kidnapped. Sometimes you wonder if the stories from around the fires are told for the benefit of the rookies; something to help their over-active minds form ghosts out of the shadows of the night. But I think it did happen; it was real.
Another story from the highway.
This time, the story is of a highjacking. The astronomers had been driving down from site late at night, and had stopped to assist a group of people. Except the people then pulled a gun on them and drove them back into the mountains.
What would they have felt during that trip on the highway? Fear? Or unexpected calm? One can't really guess, right? They were eventually put down somewhere on the caldera; their vehicles and possessions taken, and left to the cold dark night. They made it back. The hiked until they found the highway, and hitched their way back to San Pedro.
Some of the other astronomers won't use that road at night now. Happily, we haven't up at the telescope late enough to be worried about it. While at San Pedro, I've been dreaming more, and sure enough, the night I was told of that story, I dreamt of being kidnapped. Sometimes you wonder if the stories from around the fires are told for the benefit of the rookies; something to help their over-active minds form ghosts out of the shadows of the night. But I think it did happen; it was real.
Another story from the highway.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Telescope stories III
The road into the mountains,
hot and black tarmac,
amid yellow shrub.
On the roadside,
the little white and blue shrines,
to those who passed this way,
but didn't return.
'Animase'... prayers to God,
You have taken our loved ones from us,
and we prostrate ourselves before you.
Behind are the mountains,
tall and dark,
impressive and cold,
detached from the concerns of mankind.
The slow-moving lorries wind their way,
like beetles,
bonnets open to cool the engines,
loads covered with tarpaulin and cord.
Onwards, onwards,
up and up,
'til daylight ends,
and the stars blaze brightly in the sky.
Friday, 1 August 2008
To those far away
I can't say it was about me. I'm pretty sure it was, but it still seems conceited to say so. And even if it wasn't, it hardly matters - the message applied to me all the same.
We had a fundamental difference of opinion. I said love was mystical, she maintained love was a convenience. There was a connection, even though we seemed opposites in so many ways, and the connection was strong.
But was it love?
I'm not sure if I knew at the time, and I still don't know now. Is it childish to expect love to be immediate and clear, like a bolt of lightening? In any case I postponed, and she moved away.
But she is not forgotten, and the world is a small place.
Now I see her smiling, and I sincerely hope the smiles reflect true peace and happiness. But I still feel our connection remains - an invisible thread between our minds. What will come of it? Who knows. Should I even be writing this? I think it's OK - this is addressed to the freeze-frame version of her that existed 4 months and 20 days ago. Maybe none of this matters any more... like pale ghosts floating over distant cities.
But maybe it still applies. What I have to say is that if it is right that we are to be together, then I believe time will tell. Everything in its right place; everything in its right time.
For now, continue what you are doing, see what comes of it; be true, be happy. And I will try to do so too. But you are not forgotten.
You are not forgotten.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Telescope stories II
The mountains of Bolivia.
The colours.
Black and blue and grey,
and pink and yellow and green.
How can I describe this?
How can photographs capture its essence?
You have to be here.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Telescope stories I
Sometimes you forget how much small things count.
At the telescope site, things are pretty basic. That's ok... you kinda expect it, but the toilet is something else. The toilet is the bane of my time up at site. Apparently it cost about £10,000, so you might expect it to have a (heated) gold seat or something.
But no.
The toilet is an incinerator. In other words you... do your business... into a gated metal retainer which has a replaceable paper liner. You then close the lid and press a little peddle on one side of the toilet which opens the metal retainer and allows the contents of the toilet to drop through to the section below.
This is where things get nasty. Because below the metal retainer is the incinerator, which of course burns everything pretty quickly. But the smell of evaporating urine is not something to be savoured. And, of course, the room in which the toilet is situated is pretty small, and so constantly smells of the stuff.
And you have to stay in there because you have to replace the paper lining once everything has passed through, amid the hissing and the fumes.
Even worse than this, you're only allowed to flush four or five times an hour, or the incinerator cools down too much to boil the urine as it drops. Oh, and you also have to make sure the heater has been switched on in the first place. I'll leave it to you to imagine what happens if either of these rules are broken.
All in all, I far prefer to go outside.
And you thought astronomy was romantic?
Friday, 25 July 2008
Postcards from Chile
And so, I'm back in Chile.
It's different to last time. Last time, I didn't know where I was going, what it would be like, or how I would cope with it. Last time, I arrived at San Pedro at night, after a gruelling series of flights that included a 9 hour wait in Santiago. I had almost turned back at that point.
And when I had arrived in Calama - essentially a mining town in the mountains of the Andes -and been transferred onto a rattling minibus reminiscent of school trips, we travelled out into the desert, our headlamps casting pale pools of light onto the road, beyond which the grey desert disappeared into blackness.
We drove for about an hour, and when the road ran out San Pedro began. The night I arrived there had been a power cut (I guess), and none of the streetlights were on, so the buildings just suddenly seemed to emerge from the ground. As we drove through the dusty streets, people would drift into our vision, like creatures seen from a deep-sea submersible. Some were riding bikes without lights, others were just standing in doorways or sitting on street corners, illuminated by the lights before being swallowed once again by the shadows.
Then there were the dogs... lots and lots of dogs, wandering around the streets alone or in small groups. They looked like wild dogs, with extended jaws and shaggy coats, and most of them were big. It all felt very surreal and not a little druggy, as though I had found myself in some Kafka-esque town of lost souls.
But this time, things were different.
The lights were on when we arrived, and the dogs seemed to have gone. It seems strange to me that so many dogs seem to have disappeared from the streets in just a year. And something else seems to have disappeared with them. The atmosphere of the town is subtley different. As we were walking around yesterday there were a group of Indians performing in the main square for tourists. Our Chilean friend smiled at this and told us that it was all fake; that even the language they were using wasn't the original lanuage of the Indians. The people still appear to be as poor as ever, but their poverty seems less noticable now, pushed into the background so as not to disturb the tourists, perhaps.
There's the sense that what is replacing San Pedro is a kind of picture postcard; an image of what Chile 'should' be like. There seems to be less 'raw spirit' to the place. Much as I found my experience last year challenging, there was something... real... about it, which you don't find in the usual destinations. Now it seems like that's being eroded.
Is this really what tourism does to a place? Does it plaster over the real nature of an area a glossy version of what visitors are led, or have come, to expect?
In a sense I feel lucky. I'm working here; and not (explicitly at least) a tourist, so no-one has had to pretend to me. I feel I've come closer to what San Pedro is really like, or at least what it was like, 'warts' and all. And somehow I feel that that will have been the more rewarding experience.
It's different to last time. Last time, I didn't know where I was going, what it would be like, or how I would cope with it. Last time, I arrived at San Pedro at night, after a gruelling series of flights that included a 9 hour wait in Santiago. I had almost turned back at that point.
And when I had arrived in Calama - essentially a mining town in the mountains of the Andes -and been transferred onto a rattling minibus reminiscent of school trips, we travelled out into the desert, our headlamps casting pale pools of light onto the road, beyond which the grey desert disappeared into blackness.
We drove for about an hour, and when the road ran out San Pedro began. The night I arrived there had been a power cut (I guess), and none of the streetlights were on, so the buildings just suddenly seemed to emerge from the ground. As we drove through the dusty streets, people would drift into our vision, like creatures seen from a deep-sea submersible. Some were riding bikes without lights, others were just standing in doorways or sitting on street corners, illuminated by the lights before being swallowed once again by the shadows.
Then there were the dogs... lots and lots of dogs, wandering around the streets alone or in small groups. They looked like wild dogs, with extended jaws and shaggy coats, and most of them were big. It all felt very surreal and not a little druggy, as though I had found myself in some Kafka-esque town of lost souls.
But this time, things were different.
The lights were on when we arrived, and the dogs seemed to have gone. It seems strange to me that so many dogs seem to have disappeared from the streets in just a year. And something else seems to have disappeared with them. The atmosphere of the town is subtley different. As we were walking around yesterday there were a group of Indians performing in the main square for tourists. Our Chilean friend smiled at this and told us that it was all fake; that even the language they were using wasn't the original lanuage of the Indians. The people still appear to be as poor as ever, but their poverty seems less noticable now, pushed into the background so as not to disturb the tourists, perhaps.
There's the sense that what is replacing San Pedro is a kind of picture postcard; an image of what Chile 'should' be like. There seems to be less 'raw spirit' to the place. Much as I found my experience last year challenging, there was something... real... about it, which you don't find in the usual destinations. Now it seems like that's being eroded.
Is this really what tourism does to a place? Does it plaster over the real nature of an area a glossy version of what visitors are led, or have come, to expect?
In a sense I feel lucky. I'm working here; and not (explicitly at least) a tourist, so no-one has had to pretend to me. I feel I've come closer to what San Pedro is really like, or at least what it was like, 'warts' and all. And somehow I feel that that will have been the more rewarding experience.
The Girl on the Plane
The girl on the plane wasn’t exactly conventionally pretty, but that’s exactly what makes some people beautiful, right?
She was seated just in front of me, to my right. She had beads in her hair, and her skin was smooth and lightly tanned. She wore a multi-coloured scarf around her neck and a simple bracelet round one of her wrists. The only ring on her fingers was on the wedding finger, but it didn’t look quite delicate enough to be a real engagement ring.
I had caught her eye a couple of times, and we had exchanged smiles. I even thought I had caught her looking at me on more than one occasion. We didn’t speak, but continued to catch each other’s eyes, smile, then look away.
And when the flight was over, we smiled one last time at each other while disembarking. I saw her a few times while passing through immigration; at baggage claim, and when I had moved back upstairs to check-in for my connecting flight and saw her from above at one of the desks outside arrivals.
Even when waiting at my gate for the next flight, I hoped that any moment she would turn up at my gate, destined for the same place as me. Then perhaps we could have laughed and made some joke about following one another.
But it didn’t happen. And now I’m 200 miles away, and the chances of meeting this girl again are all but zero. Got to keep moving; got to keep hope. One day, one day…
She was seated just in front of me, to my right. She had beads in her hair, and her skin was smooth and lightly tanned. She wore a multi-coloured scarf around her neck and a simple bracelet round one of her wrists. The only ring on her fingers was on the wedding finger, but it didn’t look quite delicate enough to be a real engagement ring.
I had caught her eye a couple of times, and we had exchanged smiles. I even thought I had caught her looking at me on more than one occasion. We didn’t speak, but continued to catch each other’s eyes, smile, then look away.
And when the flight was over, we smiled one last time at each other while disembarking. I saw her a few times while passing through immigration; at baggage claim, and when I had moved back upstairs to check-in for my connecting flight and saw her from above at one of the desks outside arrivals.
Even when waiting at my gate for the next flight, I hoped that any moment she would turn up at my gate, destined for the same place as me. Then perhaps we could have laughed and made some joke about following one another.
But it didn’t happen. And now I’m 200 miles away, and the chances of meeting this girl again are all but zero. Got to keep moving; got to keep hope. One day, one day…
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Notes from Toronto
At breakfast this morning I couldn't help but smile a little; I'm not used to this kind of treatment.
I'm currently in stuck in Toronto, en route to the Atacama desert in Northern Chile to help out working on a telescope there as part of my phd. I left the UK on Sunday, but the flight out of Heathrow was delayed by 2 hours and as a result I missed my connection in Toronto and have been delayed by 2 days.
Since it was their responsibility that I had missed the connection, the flight operator had to put me up in a hotel and provide for my sustinance, so for the past day and a half or so I've been enjoying being treated a bit like a VIP: food and lodging provided for with nothing really to do except rearrange flights and stuff related to my travel.
I say I'm 'stuck' in Toronto; I'm not exactly unhappy about it. I have mixed feelings about going to Chile. The location of the telescope is fantastic and extremely beautiful, but it's a bit of a daunting trip when you're travelling 'on your own', especially when your destination is pretty remote and you don't speak the first language of the area.
The hotel I'm staying in is your of your typical 'close to the airport' sort. It's pretty smart; there's plenty of space in my room and the food is good. After breakfast I decided to be a true Brit and went for a walk out of the hotel.
To be honest, the area isn't spectacular - it appears to be in the centre of Toronto's energy producing district, with masses of pilons and generators not far from the hotel. Nevertheless I often like going round less tourist-y sections of a place. You get the experience of understanding a bit better what the other aspects of a place are like. My grand tour consisted mostly of walking up and down the road outside the hotel, then watching the planes taking off from the airport until I started to get worried that someone might report me as a potential terrorist.
I'm never quite sure about Canada. I can't help either trying to compare it to the US or Europe, rather than attributing it its own identity. Certainly the layout of the city in this area reminds me of America: the big, wide, desolate roads; the heavy trucks, big cars, and the shiny buses, and the oversized buildings, seemingly built to appear grand but scattered about haphazardly so that they end up appearing isolated and lonely, flawed by their very grandeur.
But there do appear to be definite differences between Canada and the US. For one thing, energy and environmental awareness appears to be much more widespread. In my hotel, for example, there is a box specifically for recycling in my room and reminders about re-using towels, and on the road outside is an advertisment encouraging people not to 'AC it up'. True, this may just be because I'm in an energy producing area, where companies are willing to promote an environmental message in order to encourage a positive corporate image. Nevertheless there does seem to be more awareness of the issue here.
Another noticable difference seems to be the level of advertising. In America, I found the frequency of enormous billboards lining the major roads to be almost oppressive: an aggressive strategy to encourage people to tie themselves even futher into the consumerist way of life. Here, billboards are smaller and less frequent. They don't force their way into your everyday experience. They're there; but at as part of the background rather than 'in your face'.
The attitude of the people here also seems less edgy and more relaxed. On my way to the hotel on the first night my driver, who had moved to Canada from Pakistan five years ago, described the people of Toronto as among the most welcoming he had ever met, and I can see why. In America it always feels to me as though the potential for conflict can develop quickly; the people are often forthright in their views and have little trouble with expressing themselves.
Not that that's a bad thing, or that Canadians are incapable of acting in a similar manner, but there still seems to be less tension here.
My time in Toronto is drawing to a close. Tonight I'm due to be flying on to Chile, where the atmosphere is pretty much bound to be very different again. It's just been raining heavily and there's the possibility of thunderstorms later. I'd like to return to Toronto at some point and explore further the nature of the city. For now however, farewell.
I'm currently in stuck in Toronto, en route to the Atacama desert in Northern Chile to help out working on a telescope there as part of my phd. I left the UK on Sunday, but the flight out of Heathrow was delayed by 2 hours and as a result I missed my connection in Toronto and have been delayed by 2 days.
Since it was their responsibility that I had missed the connection, the flight operator had to put me up in a hotel and provide for my sustinance, so for the past day and a half or so I've been enjoying being treated a bit like a VIP: food and lodging provided for with nothing really to do except rearrange flights and stuff related to my travel.
I say I'm 'stuck' in Toronto; I'm not exactly unhappy about it. I have mixed feelings about going to Chile. The location of the telescope is fantastic and extremely beautiful, but it's a bit of a daunting trip when you're travelling 'on your own', especially when your destination is pretty remote and you don't speak the first language of the area.
The hotel I'm staying in is your of your typical 'close to the airport' sort. It's pretty smart; there's plenty of space in my room and the food is good. After breakfast I decided to be a true Brit and went for a walk out of the hotel.
To be honest, the area isn't spectacular - it appears to be in the centre of Toronto's energy producing district, with masses of pilons and generators not far from the hotel. Nevertheless I often like going round less tourist-y sections of a place. You get the experience of understanding a bit better what the other aspects of a place are like. My grand tour consisted mostly of walking up and down the road outside the hotel, then watching the planes taking off from the airport until I started to get worried that someone might report me as a potential terrorist.
I'm never quite sure about Canada. I can't help either trying to compare it to the US or Europe, rather than attributing it its own identity. Certainly the layout of the city in this area reminds me of America: the big, wide, desolate roads; the heavy trucks, big cars, and the shiny buses, and the oversized buildings, seemingly built to appear grand but scattered about haphazardly so that they end up appearing isolated and lonely, flawed by their very grandeur.
But there do appear to be definite differences between Canada and the US. For one thing, energy and environmental awareness appears to be much more widespread. In my hotel, for example, there is a box specifically for recycling in my room and reminders about re-using towels, and on the road outside is an advertisment encouraging people not to 'AC it up'. True, this may just be because I'm in an energy producing area, where companies are willing to promote an environmental message in order to encourage a positive corporate image. Nevertheless there does seem to be more awareness of the issue here.
Another noticable difference seems to be the level of advertising. In America, I found the frequency of enormous billboards lining the major roads to be almost oppressive: an aggressive strategy to encourage people to tie themselves even futher into the consumerist way of life. Here, billboards are smaller and less frequent. They don't force their way into your everyday experience. They're there; but at as part of the background rather than 'in your face'.
The attitude of the people here also seems less edgy and more relaxed. On my way to the hotel on the first night my driver, who had moved to Canada from Pakistan five years ago, described the people of Toronto as among the most welcoming he had ever met, and I can see why. In America it always feels to me as though the potential for conflict can develop quickly; the people are often forthright in their views and have little trouble with expressing themselves.
Not that that's a bad thing, or that Canadians are incapable of acting in a similar manner, but there still seems to be less tension here.
My time in Toronto is drawing to a close. Tonight I'm due to be flying on to Chile, where the atmosphere is pretty much bound to be very different again. It's just been raining heavily and there's the possibility of thunderstorms later. I'd like to return to Toronto at some point and explore further the nature of the city. For now however, farewell.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Counting Bodies
Typical.
In 1984, the Bhopal industrial accident in India is thought to have killed between 5,000 and 10,000 people and seriously injured 30,000 to 40,000; a liquid-petroleum gas leak at Ixhuatapec in Mexico killed 252, left around 1,000 'missing' and hundreds injured, and fire from a leak at a petrol line in Brazil killed at least 500.
In the same year, there were at least four other accidents that left hundreds of people injured.
Linden, New Jersey: 160 hospitalised
Metamoras, Mexico: 200 requiring hospital treatment
Cubatao, Brazil: 300 hospitalised
North Sumatra, Indonesia: 130 injured.
There were, of course, many other accidents on smaller scales. The number of injuries or killings that these accidents cumulatively represent is not clear.
It seems hardly surprising that almost all of these accidents took place in developing countries. I wonder who heard of these accidents at the time, and whether or not anyone would even have been interested in them had Bhopal not occured. What would the response have been if all of these accidents had taken place in the US, or in Britain?
And how many accidents like these, in the chemical or other big industries, are taking place today that we don't know about?
(Data from 'Corporate Killing, Bhopals Will Happen', by Tara Jones, 1988.)
In 1984, the Bhopal industrial accident in India is thought to have killed between 5,000 and 10,000 people and seriously injured 30,000 to 40,000; a liquid-petroleum gas leak at Ixhuatapec in Mexico killed 252, left around 1,000 'missing' and hundreds injured, and fire from a leak at a petrol line in Brazil killed at least 500.
In the same year, there were at least four other accidents that left hundreds of people injured.
Linden, New Jersey: 160 hospitalised
Metamoras, Mexico: 200 requiring hospital treatment
Cubatao, Brazil: 300 hospitalised
North Sumatra, Indonesia: 130 injured.
There were, of course, many other accidents on smaller scales. The number of injuries or killings that these accidents cumulatively represent is not clear.
It seems hardly surprising that almost all of these accidents took place in developing countries. I wonder who heard of these accidents at the time, and whether or not anyone would even have been interested in them had Bhopal not occured. What would the response have been if all of these accidents had taken place in the US, or in Britain?
And how many accidents like these, in the chemical or other big industries, are taking place today that we don't know about?
(Data from 'Corporate Killing, Bhopals Will Happen', by Tara Jones, 1988.)
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Vampire Stories part III
I'm standing in the middle of the dance floor. Multi-coloured lights flicker around me and flash across my face. In front of me dances the girl. She is young, but on the border of becoming a woman. Her body is strong and firm, every movement she makes is full of confidence - a challenge to the some of the deepest desires of men.
My body aches for her touch, and with the dream that after this night we might meet again - that she might reach a deeper instinct within me, and provide me with comfort and protection. Her hips move sensuously; her whole body changes shape in fluid motions. Her back arches inwards. There are tiny soft hairs on the back of her neck.
I stand motionless, dark and handsome. I can change my appearance now. Maybe she would even be attracted to me. But it does not last long. A matter of hours, and my face would crumble; dissolve like a rubber mask, and the desire she had for me would disappear, and she would wish to escape me as soon as she could.
I was once a human.
I am a human. But sometimes I am not.
She has been looking at me. She smiles down at the floor. We are closer. I run my hands close to her body, not daring to touch her. She flicks her hair around; her elegant neck, the smooth stretch of exposed skin between the base of her neck and her perfectly rounded shoulder.
I can smell her perfume. And underneath it I can smell her. My chest aches. She turns to look at me; our noses are almost touching. She holds the look then turns away. She presses her hips into mine and continues to dance.
That is all I remember.
At first the screams were not loud enough to drown out the music. They mixed together, like water and blood. Then people started panicking, shoving their way outwards to get away from the centre. More people started screaming. People are pushed over; the volume of the music suddenly reduces.
In the centre of the dance-floor, the creature continues to drink the blood of the woman lying limply in his arms, aware of the movement around it, but intent on its gorging. It can smell her more intensely than ever. Her head is a mass of dark hair and blood close to its cheek. Someone nearby slips and falls, and its head snaps upwards, red eyes shining in the gloom, fangs sharp, blood spilling over its grotesque pale skin. It snarls, warning them away from its meal.
Terrified faces look back in horror. Hands stretch for the exits. Out of the crowd, three bouncers emerge, pushing punters out of the way to reach the centre of the commotion. They are heavily-built, anonymous men, wearing dark uniforms and earpieces. Two of the men falter when they see the creature and its victim, but the third - with a bull-like neck - continues forward and swings for it.
The creature grabs the hand, stopping it dead. It crushes the big man's fist and slashes its claws across his stomach, opening four gaping wounds in his belly. It throws the man across the entire room. He crashes, back first, into one of the bars at the other end, flops to the floor and lies still.
My body aches for her touch, and with the dream that after this night we might meet again - that she might reach a deeper instinct within me, and provide me with comfort and protection. Her hips move sensuously; her whole body changes shape in fluid motions. Her back arches inwards. There are tiny soft hairs on the back of her neck.
I stand motionless, dark and handsome. I can change my appearance now. Maybe she would even be attracted to me. But it does not last long. A matter of hours, and my face would crumble; dissolve like a rubber mask, and the desire she had for me would disappear, and she would wish to escape me as soon as she could.
I was once a human.
I am a human. But sometimes I am not.
She has been looking at me. She smiles down at the floor. We are closer. I run my hands close to her body, not daring to touch her. She flicks her hair around; her elegant neck, the smooth stretch of exposed skin between the base of her neck and her perfectly rounded shoulder.
I can smell her perfume. And underneath it I can smell her. My chest aches. She turns to look at me; our noses are almost touching. She holds the look then turns away. She presses her hips into mine and continues to dance.
That is all I remember.
At first the screams were not loud enough to drown out the music. They mixed together, like water and blood. Then people started panicking, shoving their way outwards to get away from the centre. More people started screaming. People are pushed over; the volume of the music suddenly reduces.
In the centre of the dance-floor, the creature continues to drink the blood of the woman lying limply in his arms, aware of the movement around it, but intent on its gorging. It can smell her more intensely than ever. Her head is a mass of dark hair and blood close to its cheek. Someone nearby slips and falls, and its head snaps upwards, red eyes shining in the gloom, fangs sharp, blood spilling over its grotesque pale skin. It snarls, warning them away from its meal.
Terrified faces look back in horror. Hands stretch for the exits. Out of the crowd, three bouncers emerge, pushing punters out of the way to reach the centre of the commotion. They are heavily-built, anonymous men, wearing dark uniforms and earpieces. Two of the men falter when they see the creature and its victim, but the third - with a bull-like neck - continues forward and swings for it.
The creature grabs the hand, stopping it dead. It crushes the big man's fist and slashes its claws across his stomach, opening four gaping wounds in his belly. It throws the man across the entire room. He crashes, back first, into one of the bars at the other end, flops to the floor and lies still.
Early morning memories
I like getting up early. I rarely do it these days... not properly early anyway, but when I do, it's usually a particularly pleasant experience. I remember walking through the streets of Cardiff one time at about 6 in the morning or something, heading to the train station (I think). All was silent and still. There were no cars about; the traffic lights blinked out of regimented habit. There was a sense of expectation or suspension, as though this time existed in some some kind of stasis separate from the usual way of things. It was just... calm, and non-threatening. I felt aware and connected to the people in the city, but (this is the best way I can think of describing it) in a similar sense to a matron might feel walking past a maternity ward full of sleeping babies.
The earliest I've been up recently was at 3 am to start the Welsh Three Peaks. We had to be at the start of the challenge at 4 am, and found ourselves on the slopes of Snowdon by 4.30. By about 5, it was light enough to see everything around us. Despite there being 80 other teams participating in the day (and, therefore, a lot of other people on the mountain), the sense of peace was still there, and the scenery was fantastic. Maybe that was part of it: as the Sun rose and the land was revealed in ever-changing hues of colour and light, you got the sense that there was something out there that was solid and reliable. The natural world itself and whatever caused it to exist. Thinking back to it now I think maybe I felt small in comparison to all that, but not in an 'Ultimate Perspective Machine' sense... rather in a protected sense.
I can thoroughly recommend climbing Snowdon at 4.30 in the morning... or walking the streets of a city on a clear, dry morning...
The earliest I've been up recently was at 3 am to start the Welsh Three Peaks. We had to be at the start of the challenge at 4 am, and found ourselves on the slopes of Snowdon by 4.30. By about 5, it was light enough to see everything around us. Despite there being 80 other teams participating in the day (and, therefore, a lot of other people on the mountain), the sense of peace was still there, and the scenery was fantastic. Maybe that was part of it: as the Sun rose and the land was revealed in ever-changing hues of colour and light, you got the sense that there was something out there that was solid and reliable. The natural world itself and whatever caused it to exist. Thinking back to it now I think maybe I felt small in comparison to all that, but not in an 'Ultimate Perspective Machine' sense... rather in a protected sense.
I can thoroughly recommend climbing Snowdon at 4.30 in the morning... or walking the streets of a city on a clear, dry morning...
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
TV Appeal
I lie in the bed. The sheets are clean, but feel too thin. It is cold here, but somehow I barely notice. I feel peaceful... relaxed... distant, as thought this is all a memory that I'm slipping in and out of.
Around the bed are machines. I'm not sure why they are there or what they are for. There are buttons and dials and wires and tubes; some of the tubes seem to be connected to me. There are display screens with little dots and bright wiggles. I seem to hear the faint noise of beeps.
Standing above me are two people, close to the bed, holding one another. There are tears in their eyes. I know I recognise them, but somehow I can't quite remember exactly who they are.
I feel a warm rush of love for these people. Why do they look so sad? Don't worry; there's no need to cry, no need to be afraid. I want to reassure them, but I no longer seem able to move my lips, or lift my head. Better to lie here and be still. I'm aware that I'm breathing slowly... so slowly. The scene fades away.
Around the bed are machines. I'm not sure why they are there or what they are for. There are buttons and dials and wires and tubes; some of the tubes seem to be connected to me. There are display screens with little dots and bright wiggles. I seem to hear the faint noise of beeps.
Standing above me are two people, close to the bed, holding one another. There are tears in their eyes. I know I recognise them, but somehow I can't quite remember exactly who they are.
I feel a warm rush of love for these people. Why do they look so sad? Don't worry; there's no need to cry, no need to be afraid. I want to reassure them, but I no longer seem able to move my lips, or lift my head. Better to lie here and be still. I'm aware that I'm breathing slowly... so slowly. The scene fades away.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Scrapbook thoughts
Why do people blog?
Is it to express themselves?
Or to hide what they don't want to share?
Is it for others to read?
Or is it for them to write?
Is it to express themselves?
Or to hide what they don't want to share?
Is it for others to read?
Or is it for them to write?
Love and Fear
I haven't had much experience of relationships. Not 'proper' relationships - the ones you think of when you say you're 'in a relationship' with someone. The reasons are many and complicated (but I guess that's the way with most things). Sometimes I worry that I've lost the ability to love - I've just spent too much time being single.
Sure, I have my fair share of friends - good friends who I care for deeply - but whenever I get close to someone when I'm not completetely certain of my feelings it seems that I start doubting that things will work out. I become afraid that when I'm out with this person it will feel like a lie; that things will inevitably end in a short time, and that I will have been responsible for allowing someone to come close to me and develop emotions for me - love, even - that are bound to be shattered, resulting in pain and distress. And what right do I have to take that risk?
But what is the alternative? Some take a pragmatic approach to this issue. Love is imperfect - a functional thing rather than something mysterious. Relationships are needed for emotional well-being; for company, and as a support in times of hardship. My view is different. Love - true love - is something that one can never hope to explain in practical terms. I may not have had experience of relationships, but I have had experience of love; of thunderbolts and of the world standing still. And if a feeling doesn't live up to this, is it really love?
So I wait for my thunderbolt. But my confidence is shaken.
I'm not saying that love can't be something that develops over time. I think I've had experience of that as well. But somehow that form of dependence seems weaker than the thunderbolts. It seems 'less'.
I don't like having regrets, but part of me wishes that I had been in more relationships when I was younger. Maybe when we are teens, it is easier to drop into relationships and not think of the consequences; not to have fears or concerns for yourself or for the other member of the partnership. And then to realise that this is just a part of what it is to share in a relationship with someone, and not to be scared any more. Perhaps I just need to grow up.
Sure, I have my fair share of friends - good friends who I care for deeply - but whenever I get close to someone when I'm not completetely certain of my feelings it seems that I start doubting that things will work out. I become afraid that when I'm out with this person it will feel like a lie; that things will inevitably end in a short time, and that I will have been responsible for allowing someone to come close to me and develop emotions for me - love, even - that are bound to be shattered, resulting in pain and distress. And what right do I have to take that risk?
But what is the alternative? Some take a pragmatic approach to this issue. Love is imperfect - a functional thing rather than something mysterious. Relationships are needed for emotional well-being; for company, and as a support in times of hardship. My view is different. Love - true love - is something that one can never hope to explain in practical terms. I may not have had experience of relationships, but I have had experience of love; of thunderbolts and of the world standing still. And if a feeling doesn't live up to this, is it really love?
So I wait for my thunderbolt. But my confidence is shaken.
I'm not saying that love can't be something that develops over time. I think I've had experience of that as well. But somehow that form of dependence seems weaker than the thunderbolts. It seems 'less'.
I don't like having regrets, but part of me wishes that I had been in more relationships when I was younger. Maybe when we are teens, it is easier to drop into relationships and not think of the consequences; not to have fears or concerns for yourself or for the other member of the partnership. And then to realise that this is just a part of what it is to share in a relationship with someone, and not to be scared any more. Perhaps I just need to grow up.
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