Five Hundred Words

 

I have decided today that I should write at least five hundred words a day. I can’t say what these five hundred words will be about, or when I will finish writing them, the only thing I am certain of is that I should write them. I am thinking that they will help my own ability as a “writer” in more/many ways, better than “experience” and “practice”, because these words that I want to write will not be about experience and I don’t think that they are practice.

 

Writing about experience, adapting the feeling and then remoulding it as prose, does not mean that the writing will be genuine, or more importantly good. It means that it is something that happened. It does not mean that it is something worth telling. Experience as a story is long and full of mistakes; it has details or erasing the past and hoping that someday the future will come good. Think of a book on a subject in history. I often think of World War Two books when I think of history books, full of repetitive monologue detailing and individual or an event. Sure, the ones which strike me as the most unfortunate instances of monologue are those which are poorly written and rely on the extensive archive of real responses to the catalogued event. That is why, I suppose, World War Two books come to mind, so much written because there is so much information readily available in print and increasingly in video archives also. It comes to the point that we must rely on film to give us an exciting portrayal of battle and modern history. Experience, as a story, borrows the same techniques that history writers have employed. The technical disassembly of the past, piece by piece, removes the unrealistic element necessary in dramatic prose deconstructing the adult need for imaginative wandering. Demographic and statistical reportage leaves no room for imagination.

 

Writing for practice should be discontinued from the age of twelve. Every piece of written material should be assigned a goal. Even if it is to be written as “practice” the final result should be achieved. When someone exercises, they do so to stretch their legs and perhaps lose some weight. And, metaphorically speaking, this can also be the same with writing. But writing is very different. How can you exercise your writing skill without telling about something? How can you stretch your fingers without expressing your opinion or describing events, fictional or real, and then not expect for it to be taken into account as a product of a writer’s written material. A good friend of mine once told me when I first started writing, for every good poem I write I will have, or at least should have, a minimum of fifty poems which I deem to be not as good. But these fifty poems are each worthy of their own merit and each one transmits a certain message, story, or point of view, and has its own deconstructable individual particulars. Be they “bad” or “good” (relative terms are the biggest obstacle a writer can challenge), they are all written for a reason. Take this example. I have on many occasions picked up my pen and wrote with no intention of writing anything in particular, in the sense that “particular” means that I don’t have an actual writing goal declared. The only goal I have set myself is that I want to write a poem and I have been inspired, by the weather or something for example, and I have a line or phrase in my head which I will use as a springboard for where the rest of the poem will take me. This happens to me quite a lot. The end result is something altogether different from my original perceived piece but it does stand out as something unique and distinctive in quality. And, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, it has no reference or connection to the weather except for the original line or phrase which initially “inspired” me to write down the poem. In this case I have achieved my goal. I have written a poem, expressed myself, and allowed the words to form a message detailing whatever it was I was trying consciously or subconsciously to say. This cannot be considered as practice or exercise.

 

Leonardo’s sketchbook is considered a priceless work of art. And, every writer should consider their own notebooks of constructive notes and self criticism, or practice notes, as their own work of priceless art. This self designed history of progression cannot be written down. Only the trained eye of the writer himself will find what he can or cannot consider to be worthy progress and it is not a story, it is the life of the artistic mind transcribing the results of individual battles and a war of words and experience to emerge from ones own shadow.

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Pandemic

I’ve been confused by the declaration of “swine flu” as a pandemic. To be honest I looked the word up in the dictionary just to be sure that I wasn’t getting it confused with epidemic. Pandemic means prevalent, but epidemic can be seen as sudden and widespread. But each definition appears to imply that each is more serious than the other.

 

If an epidemic is a sudden widespread occurance (not accounting for the violence of its effects), does this not incur that it may be a once off? And likewise with pandemic, it is my understanding that this determines that the illness or problem is all over the place and here to stay.

 

But both words increase the ambivalence of the disease’s effects. Words, which classify events in terms of their effect on society, contain the disease within the parameters of its definition. In a way, declaring a disease as pandemic implies that its spread has allowed it to be restrained by terminology. We can easily assume that this classification implies that authorities actually control it, which is quite the contrary.

 

I’ve thought about the ramifications of the recent phenomena of influenzas originating in the third world. Several years ago Bird Flu was ravaging Asia and spreading, unbelievably and unpreventably towards “The West”. As far as I know it has since “died out” or is, at least not such a priority to warrant world wide press coverage. Its presence and the fear which came with it was something unwitnessed, by me, ever before. Never had I seen an effort to prevent the spread of something that could not be prevented. Previously, SARS and Foot and Mouth Disease in Ireland were prevented by exclusion, isolation and stringent methods to maintain an uninfected population. But bird flu could not be isolated by closing borders. No matter how stringent the methods employed birds can cross borders and infect the population and move on. In a sense, the world was powerless. Hope was placed in tamiflu and countries lined up to buy stockpiles of the drug. I won’t make any guesses as to who got first pick etc.

 

Now swine flu, another disease from another over-exploited poor country, Mexico. Born in pig farms which raise pigs in awful conditions for the American bacon market, swine flu placed the world spotlight on Mexico. What is most interesting about the disease though is the worlds reaction and I’d like to use my own experiences to highlight this.

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Regulation

 

Today in the newspaper I read an article by a solicitor outlining the significance of the hiring of a particular law firm to advise a government body in relation to financial issues or something like that. What was important was that this law firm also had responsibility for advising an Taoiseach, several banks, several developers, and a number of other significant parties involved in the economic collapse in 2008 which has led to the current recessive state that the Irish economy lies.

 

While I have many things to say about pessimism and the state of the Irish economy (and more importantly those who talk about it all the time), that’s not what I want to talk about. I couldn’t understand how an educated and wealthy person could conceive of advocating regulation of the legal business. “Regulation” appears to be some form of reaction, positive or negative, to the actions of others outside the physical or legislative manipulation of the power wielders. Surely as adults we can recognise something that is not in control. By instigating and constructing barriers and controls on manoeuvrability we restrict the organic direction of growth. The regulating of business purely because it has gotten stronger than the power which attempts to administer it is clearly a second attempt at preventing disaster. What may appear as a necessary evil to bring about clarity and control only leads on to further disintegration through corruption by other means.

 

Regulation doesn’t mean it is controlled, nor does it mean that it is regularised. By placing standards in terms of written words detailing the required actions of individuals or parties their purpose is determined, not by the individual, but by the words. Organic progress is outlawed and restricted to the boundaries of a field, much the same as a park would operate in a city. As beautiful as the natural surroundings may be they are nothing by human made and unnatural. Growth is restricted to the fences built and unchecked growth is liable to be chopped down at the mercy of new roads or homes purely for taking its own direction.
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Memory

 

Returning to a place I haven’t been in for quite a while always brings back memories. Recognising some object or place after an extended absence tingles something inside emotionally, or possibly physically.

 

Take this one incident that only happened a few moments ago. I was in my brothers room chatting briefly with him and I picked up an odd looking plastic container. According to him it was “obviously aftershave” which I can’t say that I have to agree on the obviousness of it, but at the same time the recollection of another time when I found a similarly designed perfume bottle in my grandmother’s house and I ended up spraying perfume into my eyes. 

 

I stared at the hole of my brother’s aftershave bottle, thinking if would it be a wise thing to actually spray myself in the face again. All I can remember from the previous incident was the intense pain that I felt, screaming in agony, thinking that there was a chance I would never relieve myself of this agony and I might never ever see again. In a way I felt that this would not be reason enough to not try this again. The difference in levels of pain for an adult and a child are certainly different. Memory and distance of time from the previous incident has been clouded over and surely my perception of the new incident would be entirely different.

 

I aimed the nozzle away and squirted it in the direction of the wall trigger-happily contemplating aiming it at my face. Surely a fraction of a millilitre of the liquid could not damage or cause too much pain? In the end some other instinct told me that it would hurt, and even though it might not hurt as much as it did when I was much younger (I think I must have been about ten years old), it would not hurt and thirty minutes of retinal agony was not what I really came up the stairs to do.

 

But this simple incident, while only lasting a small number of seconds, has prompted me to consider the role of memory. Memory has been creeping up on me every day since Jin Won and I came back to Dunboyne to live with my family. If I were to walk around the house and inspect every room it would be safe to say that every room in the house has changed but one. Some of the rooms don’t even show a sign of been different in the past their makeup has changed so much.

 

The other day I came across some photos of my older brother when he was thin. I was in most of the photos, or at least closely attached to them. Some of them sparked reminders of times that have long since been “forgotten” and I’ve moved on to more different (I won’t say important, nothing is as important as the present moment) things.

 

When we “forget” do we really forget that something has happened if we remember it twenty years later? Simple things which at the time were so traumatic which were forgotten a few days later creep up and remind me the more I live in this old house. The room I’m living in now, where I spent most of my pre-teenage years, is a completely different place to what it used to be. All that remains is the bookcase. Other bits of furniture are scattered around the house; a wardrobe in one room, a desk in the shed, a chair here and there, the beds long thrown to wolves in Dunsink or wherever.

 

I have read that memory works like a library, I suppose the best comparison is with a computer’s memory. But to be honest I shrink at the thought of humans copying a human to create a machine. While computers are well made and complicated, human memory must stand far above technological memory. Recognition is perhaps an excellent example of this. Human memory recognises the possibility of fact. Computers do not, for computer it either is or is not. People with bad memory can’t really be criticised for not remembering facts, such as names, or symbols, such as faces. I think most people remember one or the other, or of course both. Simply forgetting a person is not possible, simply forgetting a place is not possible. Memory allows recognition of things which may not be stored as facts but their existence is recorded.

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Success?

 

At the moment I don’t feel very confident about my position in the world. It is a strange feeling, one which I don’t really agree with but one that has been sneaking up on me for the past two to three years. In honesty, I don’t think the feeling suits me, and it is one I don’t like. Let me explain it.

 

I feel as if I am not performing to the best of my ability. I look around me and I see people with positions working and doing what I want to do. People who have worked into a position that I am far from attaining are surrounding me. This is the contradiction in my jealousy. I’ve always been one who doesn’t really care what anyone else does with their life. While I may have opinions about their positions, my respect for an individual’s own decision has remained intact. Everyday I see cars and houses and things, things which I could get but I’m not altogether sure if I want them. I recognize them as status symbols, objects which have determined people at a level of success which places me on a pedestal lower or higher than them. The amount of things I own determines the height of my pedestal. But I can’t help but think that this pedestal is something that I do not want.

 

I have to ask myself where am I and what am I doing everyday? Everyday. The same answer always confirms the strength of my position but the world which radiates around my little island is like a storm washing away my sand forcing me to be something that I can not stand to witness even in those close to me.

 

I want to talk about this in more detail. The answer itself and my own explanation is therapeutic. I would like also to think that I can help someone else by explaining why I feel so miserable when I walk down to the shop and see other people - I want to know whether it is misery or hatred or regret. I want to know if it is me that brings this on myself. I want to know if there is any way I can block out these emotions and just think about me.

 

If I were to examine the success and passage of my life since I left for Korea in 2005 I wouldn’t be far from the truth if I said that it was uneventful. There have been a few moments which have been outstanding but these are mighty peaks on flat plain. I’ve been trying in the past couple of years to enhance myself and try to project myself more progressively to myself. Perhaps my vanity is what has been dragging me down so much these days.

 

When I was in Korea I got this feeling, especially in my last year there, that I was “just” an English teacher. No matter what I did, no matter how many things I organized and didn’t get paid for, I was an English teacher. No matter how I presented myself; attire, attitude, and positive or negative, I would be still an English teacher, and it does not matter if I am good or bad at it, because categorization has no room for individuality. For me there is some kind of stigma attached to that category in Korea. And I don’t know how I can define it.

 

So, in a way I took a great step and now I am a student. But the whole time I have been a student, and a student who is married, I have felt a weight that I could not shift because as the husband in our relationship I could not, and still can not provide for the woman I love. I resorted to a waste of time job trying to earn some money but never felt that I was climbing a ladder but only falling down the pit of emptiness further and further every four hour shift I completed. Now, I wait for a new job teaching in July. I cannot feel that since I have left England I have had any weight lifted off my shoulders. I worry about Jin Won all the time, I worry that I won’t be able to live out the dreams we share together because I cannot support her strongly enough. I worry that this country will treat her as badly as England did.

 

I’ve been back in “the west” for almost a year now and something has changed inside me. I have seen the walls which surround the reclusive life I lived in Korea. I see the higher walls which follow me here. These walls are passable. They will not and cannot be climbed over. Climbing over them only leads another higher one waiting to be scaled, I want to avoid them and make them a non-entity - something which is there but which bares no weight on my shoulders or stands as a barrier to my progression. If I were to be specific, I want to have “success”.

 

Success cannot be something which is weighed as a product of the community. It is an individual achievement. The social structure which applies moderates of success and stability does not grant the leeway to allow for individual assessments of personal success. The assessment factors which determine success are universal; they consist of possession and possession only.

 

“Possession” is always the possession of goods. “Goods” are all those items which we strive to achieve. Marx has talked about this and called it commodity fetishism. Goods and/or commodities are not just limited to physical objects, and there is no physical escape from it either. The desire to possess a big car and nice house with all the trimmings is pure want for commodities. The need for a good job to stand above your fellow men is another form. Materialism, as it is has been coined more recently, is a double edged sword and a term coined to imply an opposite. Materialism, if we are to consider what Marx said about commodity fetishism, is what makes possession evil, what makes abstinence sacred, and determines that “success”, the accomplishment of an aim or purpose, the coefficient of materialism. What I mean here is that success, the result and need for it, increases the materialistic want of people. The proximity of success to the unsuccessful also complicates the equation and increases the probability that materialism will have a greater effect.

 

But before I get sidetracked I want to return to our understanding of “materialism”. Materialism is not a cultural phenomenon, nor is it a modern notion either. Materialism is humanity’s most basic instinct. The desire to possess something is what has driven society since its inception. The desire for material goods, which can be determined as anything which man wants as a means of defining status, has allowed humanity to progress beyond the point that they were animal-like hunter gatherers. Desire, our most basic natural instinct (so basic a new born child can utilize it), revolves the human world and no one individual can attempt to prevent this, no matter how strong they think their constitution to be.

 

Materialism, which I will determine as tendency to consider material possessions and physical comfort as more important than spiritual values, is self contradictory. If a person seeks to attain spirituality and avoid “materialism” their own quest draws them closer toward it. The hate of want and battle to escape it is as much a materialistic pursuit as saving up for a new television or car. Whether one looks for something in relation to fashion or practicality is of no consequence. Assessing something in terms of the pros and cons in relation to necessity leads the individual into a path towards possession. If that which they possess is a recluse hermit on a mountain, spiritual enlightenment, world-wide fame, a house and a car and a job (any job will do) to pay the mortgage and bills and have enough for a few pints at the weekend; it is of no consequence - we are all guilty of wanting.

 

Success is very much a part of this want. As I said, success is the achievement of a goal. The fulfilment of the achievement by meeting a standard is a success. Every achievement is individual and rated individually. So, how is it possible that a society can determine what a success is and what is not? There are no pre-written rules for successful living and there are no unwritten rules for successful living, because every success is individual and unique. By lowering myself into the pit of society and allowing my credentials to be put on a chopping board of opinion I, and only I, allow myself to be speculated upon in relation to my own worth. If society determines worth and categorically denies individuality, “materialism” is the only avenue for expression and happiness. Therefore by preventing the individual expression of the majority of people reclusion is forced on the members of society which allows for the domination of material wealth above that of intellectual, spiritual, and psychological wealth. It  blinds the notion of happiness to uphold that possession of physical objects outweighs other means of happiness.

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A thought on five hundred…

 

I’ve been working on this project to write five hundred words every day in the hope of improving my writing ability. My first thought is that I haven’t been writing as much as I declared I would almost a month ago and I also don’t think that my skill as a writer has improved.

 

Too often I have found myself wanting knowledge I don’t have and try to continue on with pure unacceptable waffle that reads more like theoretical nonsense than rolling transparent prose. I’ve also found myself driveling on like it is some teenage angst diary. I suppose I kind of knew that this would happen but at the same time I’ve been struggling to take myself away from that angle but for some reason “me” is all that I can really write about.

 

“Me” is not a particularly universal subject but in the twenty-first century I don’t believe that a universal subject exists anymore. The world is full of experts on everything so why not make an expert on “me”. I won’t even venture to be pretentious and argue the “me” can be “you” or “all of you” or any other nonsense like that. “Me” is purely “me”, and I believe that I am the foremost expert on this subject. This would make writing about “me” very interesting for those interested in “me”, at least for those who don’t already have strong background knowledge in “me”.

 

Great! Now I could argue that my writing now has purpose.

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Distractions

 

So myself and the wife were just talking, clearing up some issues which have been creeping into our lives that have been causing a certain amount of consternation. We love each other more than anything and since we have married we have encountered more difficulties in one year than our previous three years together. Water off a ducks back I say, and with that I want to firmly declare that our relationship has never been stronger and that she is the most fantastic woman indenting footsteps on the planet. I dare anyone to challenge this proclamation!

 

But what of our “talking” as I mentioned earlier? Ever since I’ve known my wife we’ve always had dreams. Over the past few years we’ve built these dreams into a world of the future, one where whatever happens we can get by without having to worry about “recessions” and “IMFs” etc. Our relationship has always centred on us. As much as we have promised each other that we will not change our lives once we have kids, we know that it will change. But what way should it change? We won’t know until we have children and there is no way that we can prepare, the only thing that we can do is wait for the moment that it happens.

 

What I really wanted to talk about, “talking”, was what we started talking about, and that was distractions. Distractions, as the word may imply, allow one to focus on something else outside their general view. We all set ourselves goals and hope that they may be achieved. We account for certain things and allow other instances which might not have been planned beforehand. But when you set a dream for yourself and you tie yourself to it so tightly that it is impossible to free yourself, except by pain of death, which is compromised by external ideas.

 

We, as a couple, have our plans. Our plans have been set in stone for about a year now, maybe more. While they may be unstable, and by chance unattainable, these plans are the route we’ve decided to take. Life, in this sense, is a journey and whether you take the motorway or the peaceful winding country road, it decides when and how you get there. I have to say that I’m not a fan of the motorway; I prefer the country roads with little villages to stop off in from time to time, the fields and scenery to look at along the way. Her the world does not seem to fly by, as it does on the motorway behind the trees and high banks piled up at either side to streamline you from A to B. On a winding N, or even A route, you are at the mercy of the man in front and you can chose to live by his speed or overtake him and be in charge of your own driving.

 

These country roads, as I’ve said, have a lot more to look at. My wife likes to give me a hard time when I find these roadside attractions more interesting than the actual road itself, usually she catches me as I’m arching my neck around to catch another glimpse at an old building as the car cruises by a one hundred kilometres an hour.

 

Sometimes when I’m on roads like these I like to keep a little bit of important information to myself, leaving her a little helpless and me firmly in charge. Like when we went down to Kerry at the start of June. We blasted down the N7 in the direction of Limerick from Dublin. Having left the house around eleven o’clock the sun was shining right in the front windscreen and the car being well battered from years of abuse only had one way of cooling the temperature; the good old window wound down letting the wind blow the head off you. Grand says I. But for four hours not so grand, especially when most of the journey is at the prick of a pin distance away from the legal speed limit (because if there’s a speed limit, the limit implies the maximum and minimum speed, and sometimes a little over when you know the roads and are fairly sure Templemore’s finest won’t be behind any bushes, ag fanacht le camera agus gluaisrothair). The tornado like roaring in the car didn’t go down to well as did the greenhouse effect, but battles are meant to be won or lost so we soldiered on in the hope of winning.

 

I can’t really expand on why I keep my little secrets, it usually just angers herself to the point that any step out of line results in a dressing down. I suppose I like to throw in a little surprise into the journey. In the end my power-driving led us non-stop to Adare, which in fairness was the best spot to stop before the roads started winding and narrowing in Kerry. Now these new winding roads are of course very problematic for someone who struggles to maintain concentration on big bland motorway, so with great big mountains rising up from bogs you can imagine how well we got on there.

 

I’m not sure if it’s a personality thing. When we talk about our life plans, I am always a little more laisez faire when it comes to making a plan stick. Because, as I analogised already, roads have their side roads and other little things to look at; I wouldn’t want to leave something out from what I think is already a very interesting life that we lead! Here it is a question of priorities. In this case, we are driving to Kerry. That’s a five hour drive from Dunboyne, just outside Dublin, to Waterville in the BAONW in terms of accessibility from large urban centres. I look at this as an opportunity to see the rest of the country, while she views it as a necessary evil to get there and get away from all the mundane madness we tolerate at home.

 

I suppose you could liken it to international travel. Personally, I hate flying and flying is the most popular method of going in between countries, and increasingly in between counties. There are two reasons I dislike travel. First of all, I don’t like the idea of getting into a big metal box that mechanically throws itself into the air and with a lot of practised guess work throws itself back down on the ground several hundred or thousand or tens of thousand of kilometres away. I was thinking that driving isn’t much different, and I certainly feel that way when fellow motorists think it’s practical to drive with their car inches from the rear of my car at high speeds while trying to overtake with large HGVs approaching on the opposite side of the road. I suppose its not my own ability to drive, more the other cars on the road that I don’t trust, and maybe that’s why I don’t like flying. I’ve said it before that if I’m going to die I would prefer to be the one responsible for killing myself. The second reason I don’t like flying is what lies under the plane. I’ve have flown intercontinental on a number of occasions. From Korea to Dublin, and from California to Dublin (not direct, I’ve had the luxury of visiting Heathrow airport on some occasions which is another reason to not like flying) and when you fly over huge land masses, such as North America and Asia or Russia, I get the feeling that I might be missing something a lot more interesting below. Sure it would take a minimum of two months longer than my twelve hour flight, but wouldn’t it be so much more interesting? Even short flights (and I’m really doing my best not to complain about the seating arrangements on planes – knees, food, book, tv all within a few inches of your face) I can’t help but think of what I am missing below; hours of rolling beautiful countryside and old towns with markets, views, smells, tastes, arguments in foreign tongues, all ignored for the sake of biting the bullet and getting there in an hour or two instead of spending a few days at it.

 

Maybe this is just a romantic and impractical view on travel. Of course a lot of travel must be done practically. The global economy depends on it. Not everyone will view the world as a canvas or as an opportunity to see what they’ve never seen before. If everybody did do this, the chances would be that I would be writing this on paper if paper had even been invented that is. We as humans rely on diversity in our population to insure that some things go unmentioned and other things function as the backbone to society and human progression. I am of the opinion that the world relies on romantic views on what we see in the world. I would even say that these impressions are vital to the survival of humanity. If humans viewed everything with a definite purpose (and let’s not forget that I think everything has a purpose) then there would be no exploration. Exploration has revealed more for humanity than anything else. The ability to question, and to find the answers to these questions, is the primal force behind human development.

 

But with this ability to question and explore, basically find the truth, we must also rely on people who can control the rambling answerless journeys that people like me take in the world. If it wasn’t for people like my wife I don’t know where I would be and I am sure that I would definitely not know where I am going. Like the road down to Kerry, I would be stuck in Roscommon having a look around and really enjoying myself tremendously but Kerry would be a long way away and the rain and wind would be coming in, and I don’t think I would have planned where I would be staying the night… sure I’d be grand but god knows if that would save me from wandering around, wet, lost, and wondering how to get to Kerry.