It was a night like any other,
Unextraordinary, as I. Not a brave soul in the world
Remained, that I may be saved
From the sadness of life, from myself even.
A night like the one before, with a pen, alone
Save some music, and distant ties of blood and love
More distant by the day, more distant with the dying,
With the closing of doors, shutting of windows,
With the pouring of gravel.
A cruel man, in a cruel world, each made by the other
As iron sharpens iron.
A desolate forest of lives and darkness, and sadness,
Some mistaking an oasis, for the world.
If the lives of the destitute, are so happy
Then go be like them. Sitting on thrones,
Condescendingly mistaking smiles for happiness.
There is but life, and its demise.
There is poetry, and art, and these are alive
For when the music is gone, so are we.
No more light in her eyes, with the last breath the candle dies.
But life, life carries on, and I feel my stomach yearn
Because I must live, and eat, if my life is to be.
We sit at our tables, and I wonder,
Looking out into the loneliness,
When will anything be my own.

15/05/2011

Hemophiliac.

A Cripple

Sometimes the words don't flow, but you have to write them. Its not always so easy to say something, but there are times when you feel you have to say it. Finding the words aren't easy, especially when they're tinged with raw emotion. But we have to. Its in art that we life on. If no information is ever destroyed, then hopefully the emotions that we try to convey live on in the cosmos, that someone may learn something, gather something from them, and be more compassionate than we are.

Four years ago I saw a street cleaner. I sat next to him on a bench outside a Starbucks, each of us sipping on our coffees, in our own solitude. His appeared more permanent than mine. I didn't speak to him. He finished before I did; spoke to no one, got up and carried on with his work of picking garbage up off the streets. One of his legs was slightly bent and twisted, and he walked with a limp. Some part of that brought a lump to my throat. His solitude, his lonely coffee, his disability, his line of work. A multitude of factors immersed in each other, creating a heartbreaking picture of how sad life can be. More than the sadness, his perseverance despite his condition is what brought a lump to my throat. To see a man unable to walk properly, engaged in manual labour that required him to walk an entire road, and more. To spend the better part of his day on his feet, in his coloured overalls, collecting the rubbish that we didn't have the decency to throw in the dustbins. Walking a road filled with shops, and cars, and people; people engaged in conversations, busy with life, on phones, despite his solitude. It was poetic, almost like a punishment meted out to those that displeased the gods of ancient Greece, it was ironic. I'm not one for irony though.

A few days ago I saw him again, all this time later, a reminder that none of our lives change so much. His less than mine, but seeing him, and feeling those same feelings, perhaps not so much either. Four years on, and he's still there; with the same bright uniform, the same black skin, the same wrinkles in his face, and the same limp. Still walking down the road, picking up our garbage, consigned to a life of manual labour despite himself. Maybe he's happier than I am when I see him, than the emotions he evokes in me. Maybe, but still it makes me sad. That we are all required to toil and struggle, some with handicaps, and extra hurdles. I see in him the futility and repetition of life, the universal laws that govern us all. I see in him the weakness of all that we are, our disabilities, and our lonely walk through a life overflowing with people, all walking on the same road, about their lives in their own bubbles, ignorant to the existence of others. He makes me forget to ask whether the moon is still there when no one is looking. I see in him all humanity, which sounds rather grand and delusional, but I see so much in him and he breaks my heart.

Maybe he's God, or a god, or even a prophet. Now that would be poetic. Perhaps even and angel. Maybe I see him for a reason, when everyone else just seems to carry on. Not yet possessing the voice to speak to him; to reach out and not just be another life on the road. Another being. Perhaps he can be more than my mirror. Maybe I just don't know the prayer.

The Dream

This morning I woke
From a beautiful dream,
Filled with a life
I'd never seen.
Of love, happiness,
And music so serene
No wonder then,
That I went back to sleep.

Death of a Statesmen

I don't think I've seen as many Facebook status updates from people talking about how Pakistan has gone down the drain, or how the country has gone to the dogs, as I did last Tuesday. Updates warning about the fall of civilisation in Pakistan. Condemnation and disgust. Sadness, outrage, fear. The outpouring of emotion was immense, for the death of a statesman, a governor. Salman Taseer's death was no doubt frightening, in that it showed that the extremism has infiltrated every sphere of being in Pakistan. It was scary because now we know no one is untouchable. Its one thing when Benazir Bhutto is killed by lax security measures, but quite another when the security itself is doing the killing. But its ironic, that once again, only the killing of a name matters to people. Only when someone is a celebrity, or even a pseudo celebrity, when someone is someone, that their death signifies the beginning of the end of civilisation. Only when a healthy, privileged, man or woman, who by general standards of mortality in their country have lived a reasonable length of time are the people brought to tears by the tragic robbing of the rest of it. The masses hold vigils, light candles, march on the street, dedicate articles and columns, even obituaries in western publications like the economist and financial times (no less). For surely the death of a statesmen is a forewarning to the death of the state itself. A 66 year old man selected for his post by one of the most corrupt men the country will ever know is murdered, and so is the notion of a state along with him.

Never mind that children are dying daily in that same country. But living in poverty, they have no names. They are too young to die early, and so their deaths are not tragedies of lives cut short, worthy of newspaper columns, or facebook statuses. Not even a 140 word tweet. But why do they even need a tweet; unlike Mr. Taseer they don't have their own Twitter accounts, or followers? The country itself has not gone to the dogs when the blown up limbs of innocent women and children are fed to those same dogs, because the country is not in the rural masses. It is not in the impoverished majority who have been overrun by the forces of extremist and intolerance. Democracy does not reside in the spirit of the poor, the undercast, the non-muslim, the weak, the uneducated. Morality is not theirs to defend. We shouldn't mourn the death of the village, only the knights that were sent there to protect it, or in most cases to plunder it. No facebook status updates when CNN reports that the Taliban are buying children in Pakistan for suicide bombings, or editorials of outrage. No need to claim the country back, because we have no names to print in the articles. The soul of the country is still intact when 700+ people witness a public execution in Waziristan, but the minute a successful businessman, entrepreneur, governor, and chosen representative, a favourite of one of the most corrupt families ever to grace the country, who have robbed the scant wealth of the country for their own gain, we are in need of an exorcism.

Yes, he was an opponent of the Blasphemy law, one of a very few in political office who openly did so. Every man's good deeds should be recognised, and above that, any death is a tragedy, especially a murder. But this was not the moment the country lost its soul. With his passing the floodgates to doom did not open. That happened a long time ago. It happened in the villages and towns. It happened when the Taliban restricted women's education in Pakistan. It happened when men weren't allowed to shave their beards, or people weren't allowed to practice their faith the way they wanted to. It happened when people felt that blowing up holy places was ordained by their Lord, which was different from your Lord, or anyone else's Lord. It happened when people hijacked a Prophet, who was not the same as your prophet, and then claimed he had to be protected by his own captors. It happened with the blood of the innocent weak. It happened while all this was going on and we watched. The death of a nation does not come with the death of its warriors, but with the first death of a child.

The Happy People

I've never met a happy person. I've met people that were happy at times, or that had happy moments. I met people that smiled on occasions. But I've never met anyone that was actually happy. Happy with life, happy with their lives. That didn't feel dissatisfied about something. Who didn't want more from it. Life is not happy. If you think it is you're either kidding yourself, being delusional about your mundane, repetitive, meaningless existence, so that you can just about bear to carry on with it, or you're part of a very very small minority for whom it is. Even for that minority, it only is for moments, longer moments than for others, but still they're only moments. We're all programmed to be unhappy. Dissatisfied with what we have and who we are. The minute we have something we want, we want more, and so the emptiness just carries on till one day we don't wake up.

Its not just a point of view, and its not just a perspective. You want to put a positive spin on famine, go ahead and delude yourself. Just take a look around. Of the 6bn+ people that live on this planet, how many live in poverty, or face starvation, or torture? How many of those 6bn live comfortable lives. Some smart Alec prick will probably start talking about the relativity of comfort, and what a good life is, and even happiness. Its all bullshit. Its all bullshit he's selling to himself and to you so that you can carry on buying your bullshit and living your delusion. Last year in the UK over 100,000 dogs were abandoned. Sounds like a ridiculous example, but really, its not. 100,000 of man's best friends, just abandoned, on the streets of all places. Its just an example. A pretty small example, but an example nonetheless. Just look around, they're everywhere. Like the people living in Gaza. Fuck the politics of it, and who's right and who's wrong. Fuck all that bullshit. The point is this, 1.5m+ people, including women and children, living in abject poverty in one of the most densely populated places on earth. No prospects, no future, no economy, hardly even any medication. For fuck's sake, until a little while ago certain types of jam weren't even allowed there. Where's the positive happy spin on that. Africa's a place I don't even want to begin to talk about. It's a fucking train wreck of misery. One genocide after another, corrupt leaders robbing their people blind and everyone just watching. Fuck the politics, I don't give a shit about all that right now, and its just another example, but please, take your happy pill and shove it up your ass if you think life is anything other than miserable. And then there's the selfish fuckers that wear fur. I mean, come on, think about it. These poor little bastard seals, rabbits, and other fucking Disney animals, clubbed to death, for nothing other than fashion. Some fucking animal, that got to experience life, that fought to live, that managed to be born, was killed, skinned, the rest of it thrown away, within a couple of months of life, just so that you can look good at a party. That's how fucked up life is. That's how meaningless life really is to us, that we would intentionally kill a living, breathing, defenseless creature, for a fucking party of all things. Just to look good at some fucking shitty party. I mean, how fucked up is that? Life in totality is just full of misery. If you're the son of some rich kid and you can just sit on your ass and masturbate your whole life, get the girls you want, go to the schools you want, live off your daddy like you want, then fine, maybe not for you in your little poncy ass world, but I'm sorry you little spoilt fuck, your life isn't life full stop.

Just look around, at everything, and yeah sure, there are happy moments, and happy things, and happy memories, but that's all it is. Moments. Fleeting at most. We're just about able to touch them before they vanish, at best. Its all we have, one happy moment, the memory of which is enough to carry on with all the shit waiting for the next. And if you walk around with a smile all day long, you belong in a loony bin. Seriously. Pick out your designer straight jacket, and do everyone a favour and check yourself the fuck in, and only come out when that smile is wiped off your face. We all wish that when the person of our dreams dumps us that the DJ would just play "when doves cry" while a chick twice as hot as her gyrates over you, giving you the type of lap dance that you'd sell your own mother for, but shit just don't happen like that. In fact, it would probably better if the bitch that dumped your ass was gyrating over you while "when doves cry" played in the background, but clearly that confused cow can never be happy either, hence you're in a strip club with some single mom with no other real prospects in life who's rubbing her one gift from god all over you to some cheesy ass Neyo song whilst thinking you're one sad pathetic loser, and even more so for having to come to a strip club and pay money for something a real man would be getting for free. All this while you're probably thinking she likes you.

There are no happy people, and there are no happy lives. Why else would we spend so much of our time in fantasy la la land. Watching movies about perfect lives, reading books about made up shit, addicted to celebrity magazines, the life of the queen, or the rich and famous. We consume copious amounts of fiction, and feel entertained. Its our reality away from reality, and its our biggest pastime. Its not fucking real, its escapism, and its all because some smart ass somewhere knows everyone's such a miserable fuck that they'd part with the little money they have to watch make believe people do shit better than they could ever do it. Then you go home and pretend you're wife is Angelina, and still you're gonna tell me you're happy. Just to rub it in, after going through the entire Hollywood male A-D list actors, she's probably pretending its Angelina too. That's how fucking miserable you really are, your damn woman is so sick of you she's used up every eligible guy to fantasize about and run them dry. She can't even get wet putting a George Cloony fucking mask over your head anymore, that's how miserable you are. You've used up George fucking Cloony, and now you're Angelina. We spend half our lives consumed in other peoples' lives and those people don't even exist. Now tell me how happy life is.

So I'm sorry to break it to you, and I'm sure I could have done a better job of it too, but life is not happy. This is not a definitive study, but neither is it just an opinion. It is what it is. A wake up call I guess. Most of all to myself. Accept it doesn't exist, and ironically, though you'll never really be happy, you might find a little satisfaction.

Anti-Social

Facebook, twitter, gmail, ping, bbm, whatsapp; you would have thought that in a shrinking world, and age of information technology, that we would be more social than we've ever been. We have the means to connect to any and everyone we've ever met. To keep their details forever stored. No more losing email addresses, phone numbers, etc. A permanent cyber connection. They're always a click away and they'll always be a click away. We can keep people posted about what we're doing, when we're doing it, where we are, who we're seeing, what music we like. Everything. We are connected 24/7. At home, on the move, in some places even underground.

But its a lie. Its all a lie. We are slaves to the marketing departments of our egos. More image aware and conscious than we've ever been. We've all just been given an advertising space, accumulating false friends and phony acquaintances, to spread the message further and wider. Studio profile pictures, or that one lucky random shot that makes us look better than we ever really do. The hottest we've ever looked by some freak coincidence, or the cookiest, or coolest, or most blase. Whatever the product we're selling that month, that's the picture we'll adopt. And like all good advertising, we change the advert every once in a while to keep the audience hooked.

We are slaves to narcissim. There is no social, there is no socialising. We're all sales men and women whoring ourselves so that someone will "like" a posting, or comment on something we've done. Attention. "Look at me! Look at me!" One hand on the keyboard, or the mobile, and the other in a big tub of vaseline, ready to masturbate to the magnificence of our own profiles, of ourselves in a life we've meticulously constructed using the objects and items taken from our real lives, to make something better than we ever were or could be. There is just us. Our 200+ friends are inconsequential. Its me, me, me. Its an obsessive downward spiral, a swamp of self obsessed, image conscious, won't someone just love me, how many friends do I have, how hot do I look in that picture worship of the last diety standing in this godless world: yourself.

The Living Dead

An estimated 230,000 people died in the Asian Tsunami of 2004. The 2005 earthquake in Kashmir claimed between 70,000 and 90,000 lives, depending on the estimates one chooses to rely on. The earthquake in Haiti claimed as many as 230,000 lives. These disasters were all tragic, and resulted in a global outpouring of charity, to the tune of a combined $17 billion. The death tolls were headline grabbing, heart wrenching, and sympathy inspiring. The resulting emotions at the sheer devastation, punctuated by high death tolls, convinced people to reach deep into their pockets and donate generously. It was enough to force governments to pledge massive sums, ex-Presidents to mobilise and promise to use their considerable charm and swagger to not only secure pledges, but also to act as trustworthy custodians in their distribution.

In comparison, the recent floods in Pakistan appear tame. A mere 1,600 people estimated dead. A paltry number when compared to the previous major disasters. Even the earthquakes in Iran and China had more casualties. The fear is that lower death tolls would translate into less sympathy, which in itself may translate to less aid and charitable contributions. When thinking about the floods I was reminded of a discussion I had with a colleague post the July 7th bombings in London. The colleague refused to take the tube to work, deciding instead to add an hour to his journey by walking every day. We had a lively debate about the futility of trying to avoid an untimely death, and the nature of destiny. During that debate he said something which has stuck with me ever since, "It's not dying I'm afraid of, but there are things that are worse than death."

The more I thought about what he said, the more I was struck by his words. Which brings me back to the statistics I've quoted above. Above the numbers of corpses of those that tragically lost their lives in each of the disasters is a more telling number; the number of people "affected". The dead are just that – dead. Whilst we should mourn the dead, and feel a tragic sense of loss, we can do nothing for them. They are gone, resigned to our memories and kept alive within the people that they knew. Our charity is reserved strictly for the living – they are the ones that we can help, they are the ones that we can make a difference for –and ultimately, given the circumstance, it is them who we can save to ensure that the final death tolls aren't higher. When we give aid, the money goes toward sustaining and protecting the vulnerable living. And given the conditions, many of them are on very limited timescale within which we have to act in order to ensure they remain members of that exclusive state of being. Without our support they are resigned to become part of the depressing statistic of those "lost" – but in these instances we had an opportunity to ensure they wouldn't be.

Many of these people are alive in conditions that hang somewhere between life and death. That may be worse than death. Which once again brings me back to the statistics. Approx 11 million people were "affected" by the three previous described disasters – 5min the Tsunami, and approx 3m each in the Kashmir and Haiti earthquakes. The numbers affected in the current crisis are estimated to be above 13 million, more than all three combined. When weighing up the decision of whether to donate, and if so, how much, we should be guided by those that we can still help, and if we are to do so, it would suggest that Pakistan currently needs generous support.

When we react to disasters we should ensure that our focus is not on the number dead, but on the number that hover in a state of purgatory; the number who we can actually assist, and who the money, food, shelter, medicine, and other forms of aid can still help. In business education we are constantly told about our "sphere of influence" and trying to expand it. The dead are beyond that sphere and always will remain so, it's the living dead that we must ensure aren't.