To admit a fault, an error, acknowledge bad logic, a foolish position, is at the very core of human interaction, without such basic diplomatic skills our societies would dissolve into constant ferment, dispute, and animus.
Humans consider sorry a most distasteful four-letter word, hard to formulate, difficult to expel from the larynx, causing a seriously wounding deflation when expressed. All conversations tend in some way to be interrogative, enquiring, the seeking of advice, direction, perhaps commonality. Such interactions must by nature contain questions and answers, forms of address open to being straightforward or complex, or at worst leading and deceptive. Any two-sided object has a head or tail, a top or bottom, a right side or reverse. This physical rule is followed in forms of verbal interplay, except of course with the cunning strife avoiding inclusion of a third physical state, compromise.
Accommodations are a politic way of ending disagreement, reaching an understanding without concession, meaning no one is at fault, ever having to say or even think sorry.
We have entered the aftermath, the time that follow disasters, destruction, realignments, realizations of mankind’s unimportance to the universe. When kings are overthrown, emperors toppled, the mighty humbled, those having power made small. Humanity scrambles to have some overriding relevance, some magical import that raises them above all other beasts upon the planet, a right to existence that overshadows all others, yet is so easily and often brought low by tiny and primitive agents.
Challenged by powers beyond our natural defenses we are obliged to delve into the darkness at the very edges of scientific research, trying to assimilate how mankind’s uncontrolled predatorial appetites opened the door to enemies we are unable to vanquish without unilateral efforts. Humanity is momentarily forced to join together to overt calamity, a scenario that could with unbelievable ease and speed sweep our species back to its stone age.
We survive, barely, and immediately revert to the very foolishness’s that are our wont.
Historically I feel well, just dandy, but recently I haver noticed a growing inclination to suffer bouts of feeling slightly under the weather, not quite the ticket, perhaps only ninety percent right. More alarmingly all together is my inability to override these vague feelings with explanatory analysis, corrective imagery, even positivity. Vagary is a most disconcerting state, hazy enough to be evident, but too misty to be describable.
The planet has just endured a plague of indisposition, a panoply of symptoms from extremely debilitating to mildly discomforting. The seeds of peculiarity have been sown in our subconscious, to be aggravated, alarmed, at the slightest change from supposed normality. Attention to body temperature had been raised from an occasional check, to habituality, an occasional winding bears the overwhelming threat of chronic lung disfunction.
My previous healthy status is oppressed by recently learned indicators, substantially overriding any natural optimism that time and experience had carefully constructed.
Being ‘real’ does not infer presenting yourself honestly. It rather suggests continually projecting whom you wish you were in a perfect scenario. We have little choice in our reality, we are genetically tied to our heritage, physically enmeshed with our biological traits, psychologically produced by experience, and understanding. Choice is an extremely late diner at the table of persona, requiring a freedom to ignore the ingredients and in some nouveau cuisine fashion reinvent the sandwich as a random filling uncaptured on both sides with baked dough. Fanciful affectations or clever dressing do not change substance, cannot disguise a strong flavor from taste buds, hide a heavy accent with subtle pronunciation. The truth will out, prevarication disassemble, pretense evaporate under steady heating.
Most humans, if they ignore their gullibility to pretense, admiration for the theatrical, have a natural sense of the genuine, an attraction to honesty, plain speaking, open emotionality. Being ‘real’ should embrace these qualities, rather than obliterating them.
The manner in which humanity reacts, copes, with the various happenstances that beguile them, varies hugely, dependent on degree of effect, discomfort, joy, all the host of emotional states so forcibly packed into the human psyche by experience, consideration, education, or simple naked surprise. Some fall into deep, dark, internalized moods, carefully considering every nuance, facet, possibility, till settling upon an overall viewpoint. Others explode publicly, exposing all and sundry to their shattered or fixated opinions.
My solution is always the same, I write, not with particular care or incision, but rather in a flurry of words, of expressed perspectives, showing perhaps not my opinion, for that can easily change under the myriad of unpredictable circumstances life so easily vomits haphazardly, but rather as an immediate cleansing process, exuding the well-founded particulars I momentarily consider relevant. Long term viewpoints, settled positions, should ever be internalized, for they expose the core of a persons being, their soul, their very Jungian anima.
My preference for written expression does not reflect any concept of my scribblings being of particular import, having long term relevance, or that an audience somewhere awaits with bated breath upon the very edge of their favorite reading chair, rather the exercise is for a readership of one, myself alone, the only mortal or immortal I can guarantee will peruse my honeyed phraseology. Orators speak stridently, with great loquacity, painting pictures for our ears of marvelous canvases of experience and panorama. I was a childhood stutterer, my speaking voice was a battle, a struggle against repetitious or prolonged words and sounds, delivered by the hand of some demonic force upon my vocalizations. Eventually the stigmata largely faded, only reappearing under extreme stress or emotional turmoil, but the fear, that terror of certain simplistic sounds remains unresolved.
And so I type, fast, furiously, splurging meanderings upon a screen, onto a page, asking fingertips to promulgate my voice.
The fascination with Celtic and Norse traditions, symbols and legends grows exponentially, as modern humanity searches for something that feels more genuine than the two false gods of the twenty first century, science and technology, both having in turn failed to fulfill any of their promises. Science has not brought renewal, rather it has led to a rapidly dying ecosystem, and technology has taken the very nature of mankind and scoured away all that has made our species distinct, the advanced and cultured communication skills, face to face emotional interaction, any real sense of vital community. The old worlds are somehow seen as more enlightened, in touch with forces of nature and spirituality, directly connected to the universe without the need for extraneous links or associations.
Were the Norse or Celtic worlds enlightened, spiritual, connected with nature? Aligned with the natural world most certainly, the only known forces were climatic, humanity lived, died, prospered or failed through the tolerance of the weather, nothing more, nothing less. To be expected those powers were given god like qualities, and were worshiped not through love or devotion, but rather through fear for their possible acrimony. Spirituality was encouraged by pure chance, the mathematics of probability. If certain circumstances arose a predictable result would ensue, so humanity hoped, desperately, for the beneficial, the good, the positive affirmation of the gods, or more correctly just plain good fortune, in response to their concerted worship. Enlightenment, learning that is, follows a predictable curve. The more human understanding of the forces surrounding themselves evolved, the more educated they become, the more planetary movements are shown to be repetitious, seasons predictable, multiple languages scriptable and speak-able, the full meaning of forty-two self-apparent.
That other possible meaning of enlightenment, being to obtain spiritual knowledge or insight, definitely does not relate to the dark ages. The dark ages were morose, difficult, deadly in so many ways that survival itself was a major victory. Humanity had no real inkling about themselves, their own qualities, weaknesses or capabilities, an understanding of anything more complex that left and right, up or down, a fear of the unaccountable, mysteries being pronounced magical, the manifest effects of demons, witches, sprites and hobgoblins, innumerable imaginings simply created to give a face to the inexplicable.
I know of no one of genuine Celtic or Norse heritage who would wish for a return to such terrible turmoil and ignorance, to want to fight every single day to simple exist, let alone flourish. Reenactors, those with a bent towards fantasy are seduced by the apparent glamor, simplicity, panache, straightforwardness of such an age, but would shy away from such endless daily degradation in reality.
Ethical and moralistic agendas did not come about by chance, force, or even necessarily by planning, rather such true enlightenment arose as a solution to a problem, a remedy for multiple murderous infections, including ignorance, selfishness, usury, and an unending struggle simply for the survival of all, not just the fittest.
There are certain secrets that were once quite pointedly locked away in my subconscious, formative events that wrote large in my development but were for numerous seeming sensible reasons were better kept safe away from the comprehension of others, particularly family and judgmental peers.
I came to terms with the events slowly and painfully over several decades before I felt confident enough to open that very private space for others scrutiny. That first exposition was cathartic, allowing for the first time in many years my mind to wander openly about my memories, without the previously necessary safeguards of heavy drapes to disguise unpalatable segments. I still feel obliged to keep specifics, the more intimate details vague, generalized. For detail, explicitness, is the enemy of outrage, sometimes making the most horrendous activities less disturbing by clinical analysis and dissection.
On occasion a current event will find and worry the still palpable scars, causing involuntary shudders to descend my spine, and grimaces to momentarily invest my features. Such discomfort keeps me emotionally real, constant, undaunted in my everyday attention, alert to those unrepentant evils that eternally ferment beneath some individuals seemingly harmless exteriors. Also I am reminded that trust once dissipated is unrenewable, some misdeeds cannot be forgiven no matter any changes in circumstances or shows of contrition.
Evil has many faces, but all the visages have one commonality, a lack of self-control, no ability to diagnose situations ethically and act accordingly, not understanding the differences betwixt right and wrong, what scientists are inclined to now call sociopathy, as if making wickedness a disease changes it from a chosen act to some excusable repercussion of self-engrossed behavior.
My initial answer to the evil doer is to get medieval, but of course such barbarity offends my liberal inclinations, yet somehow seems wholly more appropriate than sharp words and confinement. There is no effective cure for wickedness that I am aware of, please do advise me if you know better.
The ambiguity of attraction is an eternal mystery, why the most unsuited of relationships piques the appetite like no other variety possibly can, to the detriment of both emotional and mental health. We have all loved the impossible, whether represented by the real or fantastic, the next-door neighbor, the stranger across a crowded street, the flickering image on a screen, the character leaping from the pages of fiction, or even arousing biography.
The inadequacies of the human natural dating application is legendary, causes more heartburn than cooked cheese, more misery than bitter conflict, more divisiveness than familial alienation. To have loved and lost is quite dastardly enough, but to have loved unrequited is ironically equally as devastating. A flame can be carried unappreciated and unencouraged from childhood to demise, as an uncompromising weight ceaselessly squashing the soul.
Love is rarely fair or wholly productive, the embers burn exceeding bright, but in their consumptive manner are often destructive beyond repair or renewal. I well recall my first great passion, dearest realistically unattainable Mary, to me the vision of idealistic perfection, but in reality a cunning fallacy set in my path for wholly disreputable motives, to me an unattainable pinnacle, to others a very easily available convenience, but innocence and naivety easily accept such contradictions in matters of amore, particularly first.
I would like to claim that maturity brings a real change is susceptibility, yet in all honesty the strings of our most vital but easily tainted organ are still played with concerning ease. The mere form of another wafting passed in anonymity is quite capable of raising the pulse alarmingly, making the imagination blossom with an abundance of sweet irresistible visions. We are a fish that easily falls prey to that particular variety of hook and bait that exists unilaterally in our natural environment.
No doubt the dreams of the recluse, the imaginings of the solitary, even of the anchorite are still filled with such foolishness’s, much to their endless purgatory.
Real life and drama are conditions best left at different sides of the proscenium arch, once mixed the chance of any act making sense beyond an unacceptable degree of surrealism is highly unlikely. There is a certain propensity for this base life rule to be ignored, for the most commonplace of events to take on a wholly unnecessary tragic, dramatic, or comedic turn, presenting a simple daily interaction as a four-act production with overly ostentatious emotional and expressive thespianism.
Jaques most poignant monologue from, ’As You Like It’, is probably more repeated than any other stock Shakespearean verse, “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances;”. Unfortunately, the truth behind the cunningly sculptured turn of phrase is sadly missed. Jaques quite correctly conjectures than humans participate in reality as if playing a part in a theatrical production, without attending consequence or verisimilitude, becoming enraptured by histrionics, spurning the factual.
All of my accounts might be considered histories, as they do tend to be chronological, have pertinent points annotated as suited, and hopefully reflect upon social situations and perspectives as applicable. Perhaps a little too philosophical, comedic, or fantastic to be true studious accounts, reflecting quite blatantly my own very skewed outlook, as all accounts not carefully contrived to be solely dispassionate must be.
True history is remarkably plain, unadulterated, pedantic in pace and meter, the chroniclers equally uninspired, neutral, without horse in the race as were, often so detached as to appear emotionally disinterested. Personal involvement, clearly defined opinions, would of course tend make such works autobiographical in many senses, being reflections of feelings and outlook wholly individual as opposed to abstractly educational. Interestingly most published histories tend towards this later weakness, being very slanted towards a particular set of values or point of view, for example Winston Churchills undoubted masterpiece, the multi-volume, ‘History of the English-Speaking Peoples’, is full of language unashamedly monarchist, politically disingenuous, unapologetically classist, racially divisive, but only because it reflets the author himself, his education, his social outlook and an unquestionable reflection of the society and period from whence he arose.
Every time I put pen to paper, fingertip to key, words into spoken sentences, I admit to being completely partisan, for as a human with strong ideals and ideas, I cannot help but color any subject matter with my own very particular palette. My only redeeming quality from his weakness is that I quite openly admit to bias, predetermination, having spent many decades giving deep consideration, not necessarily independent or even handed, to most every subject it is my inclination to make comment upon.
My views, shadings, are most certainly inclined to occasional change, to metamorphosize if you will, specifically in the light of others literary and verbal outpourings, which I try to listen to or read most attentively, even of not at first inclined.