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.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
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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