Robert Fisk: "Cockroaches" Is what the Israelis call the Palestinians

No matter how many times he had declared his escalating dislike for Egypt or for the Arab's midieval and ignorant perceptions, I still have to admit Robert Fisk is one of the few political literature geniuses of our time.

His most recent publication "The Age of the Warrior", which is a compilation of most of his recent coulmns in the Independant, is not only a satisfying read in terms of its rightfully biased political analysis, but it has also proven to be highly entertaining in terms of writing style and linguistic construction. Although only a handful of pages through the book, I have long decided that his approach to both analysis and language are ones to learn from and emulate. Ever since the preface really -where Fisk deliberately and systematically clarified the origins of the name of the book- I had decided that Fisk should be a role model. And I has also decided that my writing and perception should be upgraded with the assistance of those columns that make The Age of the Warrior. That decision ultimately lead to one of the most surprising and personal decisions I had taken in my career thus far; to continue writing seriously and eventually take that up as a profession.

Ever since I got over my ambition to become a spy when I was 9 (thanks to Harriet the Spy and the Woman who Disappeared), I wanted nothing else than to become an author and a writer. Writing since that very young age was one of the few cures to my wounded soul or my overly excited heart... it grew through time of course, rather than simply keeping a silly little diary, I had ventured upon more serious attempts at writing fictional stories with characters. Only when I failed to please my own taste did I decide to write only one page short stories. And after that failed to pass my editing and re-editing and re-editing, I began to write about the simpler things in my life; the ones I know I would like someday to remember and to be remembered by when my grandchildren come across them.

But I think the day for self-authored notes about oneself has passed, and I think the day has come to discover a new dimension to my capabilities as an editorialist or a columnist.

Still, as wonderful as all those conclusions and decisions may be, I remember that haste only leads to impatience. And impatience eventually leads to quitting. And quitting ultimately leads to self pity and wallowing. So, there is absolutely no reason to jump in with both feet just yet; one toe is quite enough.

I'll know when I can take myself and my new perception to writing and analysing seriously; it is when I can find the links between literature and current events and most definitely it is when I can come up with ingenious metaphors such as the ones Fisk uses in his book... you know... something that would match the greatness of Fisk when he says: "...Israelis leaders have variously beastialised their enemies as 'serpents' and 'cockroaches'. Pardon? What on earth does that mean?"

I need to send this man a thank you postcard for making this wonderfully outrageous point!

Harry Potter Lessons: What Was, What Is and What Will Be

I started reading Harry Potter again. Yes, from the very beginning.
Flipping that book open and seeing my mother’s note on the first page was in the true sense of the word overwhelming. I felt like I was being pulled back in time to that moment when I first saw it; when she first got it for me.
It’s something to walk down memory lane in your head. It’s something else to start really wandering about it.

I don’t really know what made me pick that book out from my bookshelf that’s literally filled with tens of books I have not yet read. Maybe it is the fact that I’ve been stumbling along relics that belong to the same day and age as that book; things and people that belong in the past… more specifically: that belong back in 1999.
10 years ago. That number is utterly stupefying. I never thought I’d actually live that long. I didn’t even know back then that 2009 was even possible! And yet here I am, 20 years old, alive and well. I remember how the future was unknown; how I didn’t even know where I’d be in the next 3 years and who would be my friends. I remember I took it one day at a time, because –let’s be realistic- I wasn’t going anywhere. I most probably would be in the same school, around the same people, with the same friends. Why would anything change? There was no reason and no seen catalyst for change, there were no complications. Honestly, I liked it better that way.

Now, 10 years later, I’m in the same position, however with a different outlook. I do not know where I will be in 3 months, let alone 2 years. And there is one thing I can take for granted: nothing is predictable; literally everything can change. Everything.
That’s why they call that age of 10 the age of innocence. So little worries, so little surprises. Most of the time it all goes as planned, because more or less, our parents plan it for us, and they always make sure it goes through. It’s sweet to watch that old film that is my past and smile at how at how small, innocent and simple I was and at how I knew nothing and -most of all- at how I now know all the things I wanted to know back then. It’s sweet… except it has a slight bitter taste to it; it hurts just a little bit to be so bluntly faced with how much I’ve grown up.
Yet no matter how bitter it may be, it gives me faith in the future and in destiny. See, at that time, 10 years ago, I had no knowledge of the Prisoner of Azkaban, the Goblet of Fire, the Order of the Phoenix, the half blood prince or the Deathly Hollows. I would’ve died to know; it was so exciting and so intense with every book that came out and every new note my mother wrote me. It consumed 8 years of my life thinking, contemplating and building theories about what is going to happen at the end. Now here I am, knowing it all and so confidently rereading it all.

So I guess the lesson learnt from rereading Harry Potter is that even though I may feel intimidated and ignorant of what is going to be, at some point in the future, I will be confident and knowledgeable of all that was. Doesn’t mean my curiosity is satisfied though… it never is. But I think I can afford to be a little patient, because I will be there for the ending after all and no matter what it is won’t I?

A crazy Mathematician you say?

"People who are crazy, do not wonder about being crazy... therefore you are not, in fact, crazy"

There are two reasons this line got to me:

1. It's quoted from a movie about a crazy mathematician.
2. I sort of got one last assurance that I am, in fact, not crazy.

I discovered after watching that particular movie, that movies revolving around crazy mathematicians and their life's work actually fascinate me. And digging a little deeper into that feeling that overwhelmed me while watching it, I began bit by bit to find out why.
I have always been intrigued by the fact that genius -yet crazy- people who end up being the central characters of a movie are mostly and usually mathematicians. The more important reason behind my fascination, is their frantic passion for work, research and study; the way it is portrayed in a movie has always fueled my own ambition and zeal, that I had never succeeded in even beginning to take advantage of or apply in real life.

The main thing that always held me back from applying my potential for constant work that might lead to age-defying miraculous breakthroughs? Fear.
Fear of failure. Fear of impatience. Fear of loss. Fear of realization that even if applied, it might turn out to be a string of inadequacies and washed up thoughts.

I have always been convinced that I am in deed not the smart person some people (mostly or entirely my parents) like to tell me I am. I know that this is why I do not even try to experiment with my capabilities or potential. Because most of the time I just tend to come out as... let's just say... the antonym of the word "winner"... not matter how hard I try to rid myself of that result and that label.
I have to admit though, most of the time, it had been a self-granted label. I have never allowed any person the chance to name me as such; no one would be allowed to insult me in that way. Only I am allowed to label myself as that. Only then would it not be a humiliation. I jump to the opportunity whenever its scent presents itself; just to make sure no one sees it first.

The problem then occurs when I return to a state of soberness. When my system and veins are rid of all the intoxication that fills them. All the fear. That is when I begin to doubt my being; my sanity.
Which human being would be sane yet not begin to try to test out their full potential? Which human being would be sane yet back out of the competition just because there may be a 1 in a 100 chance they fail?

I think -contrary to what the voices try to say- millions. Even zillions.

I believe that more people than I think get scared everyday of facing something that they may very well be capable of doing, just because they are not strong enough to face themselves and their minds if they fail.

And let me just add a note to that thought: that no matter what it actually is they (we) do not face, it is a competition.
May it be becoming a parent, or studying for a test, or applying for a position, even if it is about facing a fear of closed spaces. It remains a competition. Human beings by nature (yes let's all face it) are competitive beings. No matter what we do, we compare ourselves to those around us. No matter what they do, we compare ourselves to them. We wonder if we are the best, or if there is someone out there that is going to do it better. And in some cases, we may never know.

I have been there, I have done that. And I shall never know.
With all the fear I have bottled up in my lungs and gut; with all the failed attempts to try, I have once reached a state of soberness for long enough that I got myself into one of the toughest challenges to face me in my life thus far (one grander than this blog about which I had once written: "I probably should not be pre-judging this newly-found trial arena before I even begin my attempts, but something tells me it won't not really work and the purpose would yet again be unfulfilled" and which I almost abandoned and let go of, if not for one spell of soberness).

How I came out of that challenge after its time had elapsed is a controversial topic. It, however, taught me one thing and brought out one question.
It taught me that no matter how much we try to deny its effect: Karma is a bitch. And it will get you every time, there is no place to hide and no where to go.

It also made me wonder the extent of instability and craziness that has overcome my constantly functioning mind. One day I'm up and letting go of all the problems and social dilemmas my life is facing, and the next day I'm six feet under because of them. Some things, some issues, as minor and insignificant as they are eat at me and feed on my insides. Deprive me of sleep and make me wonder at what my darkness calls "my incompetence" and what my sunshine calls "my modest triumphs".
So... am I? Am I crazy?

Well... since I started wondering if I am... I guess I'm not.

Recommended Movie: Proof

Recommended Song: Dream Catch Me- Newton Faulkner

Black Book Snippets

And I "wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend".*

I should have read this enamoring book whilst yet on the journeys that have taught me much and little at the same time. The comprehension that has been set on my mind, after four fragmented and hesitant days of reading and lack of such comprehension, has truly clarified the importance of such compilation of metaphoric thoughts. A compilation in the form of a book of life and of reference.

We weep for the end of innocence from the moment our eyes behold the light of every day and throughout every moment from then. And certainly we have wept the darkness of man's heart over and over during the fleeting minutes we felt a shared sorrow. At that moment the room became whole.

I am inhabited with the rooted conviction that these thoughts are not only mine, and that in fact a "we" is more appropriate than an "I". As simpleton-like I could sound, and as exhausted and over-credited it is, my conviction flows unobstructed. For once I do not dignify the judgments of "simplicity".

Further than that, as human and emotional as those words sound and look, they also connect to a more real moral that the author has dared divulge: "The shape of society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system however apparently logical or respectable"*.

Such a powerful and daring moral behind a story. Just a story.

Ironically enough, I am interrupted by the infamous debates that might very well determine the future of a country that believes in the logical and respectable system. And this moral rings even further truth in the light of that timely interruption.

I wonder if they have ever read that book carefully, maybe then they would have been more aware of their assured utterances.

I also wonder at the perfect opportunity that this moral and quotation could have offered us, but unfortunately had gravely missed us. This moral becomes most appropriate to the reflections we pondered and searched for some time.

As needed as this moral was at that time, it has been far more needed by this faithful reader, thinker and believer.

Finally, the summation of a brief learning expedition found crossing my path in the midst of heart wrenching times. Finally dawn has been cast upon my mind through the dust and fog, for I had lost the entire purpose and all the conclusions that had come to me as spontaneous as life itself. I had lost it all on one flight "home".

But again the interpretations of this witted comment are as endless as its implications and consequences. It is a study in itself. A study of human behavior and of its attachments and efforts.

Its importance comes in the strings that attach it to the lost innocence of man and his dark heart. Has the digression and distraction from the fact that society comes down to the individual lead us to the lost innocence? As we forget, and as we put our faiths in abstract ideas with -admittedly- little foundation, we stray from the most simple and obvious idea. Society is the individual. The individual defines Society.

Before their arrival, it was Eden. After mankind, the shattering of civilization, the death of wisdom, and the proliferation of sadistic acts of murder seem to take over this once observed heaven. A degradation from civility to savageness; to the times man had thought he had escaped long ago.

Those who learn the secret? ...They die grusome deaths by the hands of their own societies.

I try; I struggle against the urge of reflection on our own societies, and "their" societies.

Yet, I do not fight the questions: Who becomes Jack Merridew the savage hunter barely recognizable since his birth on their isle? Who becomes Ralph; the believer in civilization; he who defies the temptations to the darkness of the hearts... he who mourns the loss of the true wise friend with the broken specs?

I fear the unknown answers.

I do not fear, however, the realizations nor the true colors that come to life basked in the sun's glories.

... I finally recognize the subjects of my adoration. Tell me about my life, read it out line by line, and I shall tell you more about my treasure hunt.

*The extracts used for quotation are from "Lord of the Flies" by "William Golding", which coincidentally becomes yet another recommended reading.

The Great Path to Nowhere

I think it's healthy to have a billion thoughts running through one's head. I think it's brilliant to know that none of them make sense.
I think that's how you know you're a genius.

Those who said that in the midst of a defining mess one finds one's greatest defining path, obviously knew more of their share of the world than they should.

That however does not mean that I do not have a serious correction to this statement. One in that case may truly find the "great path", but it should be made clear that the path is actually located in a completely different dimension than the one that is actually a mess.

One's life is nothing but a combination of dimensions; some intertwined, some not. Some intersected, some completely separate. I can only see it as a really complicated solid geometry diagram: planes X, Y, Z and L scattered around the paper, teasing me while I try to make sense of it all.

There is a personal life, there is a public life, and there is the life in between. The life that they see, that they barely sense, that they sometimes accidentally crash into. To each dimension its layers, its own routes... it stops making sense after a while... doesn't it?

No matter how long I try to think about it, it still confuses me. I still cannot get to the bottom of it, and I still cannot decide what to decide. My mind is never organized nor systematized enough to do that. I lost the highly required "since, therefore" process with freshman year.

What I do know is that when I realized the mess that is one of my layers, the others instantaneously cleared themselves out ahead of me. They formed the paths that call out in their highest and brightest notes.

But, it's never as easy as it seems, the trick is to find the way to those paths; to find the key to escape the closed box that is in a state of total destruction and travel all the way to the cleared out road that is waiting for those specific pair of feet.

All that effort and all that determination that are needed need to be mustered. They need to be engraved in the memory for good. It happens often that as one walks the road to their end, they lose focus and the original plan. The shiny distractions by the sidelines are too difficult to overcome as they become torturous temptresses that continuously haunt the soul.

No matter the clutter, no matter the disarray I should always keep in mind the ends that have always been mine, and the inspirations that have always reignited the fire beneath the skin.

I think this is such a mess; it becomes the perfect embodiment of my being. As dizzy as a daisy in a London storm.

And in response one more of my trusted friends says "Life is full of nonsense anyways. Who says everything should make sense"

Such Great Heights

Is it okay to feel sadder about other people's memories than one's own because one wants to belong "there" more than one wants to do so "here"?

An uncompromisable friend 4 time-hours away unknowingly gave me one of the most valuable moments of clarity I have encountered as of yet.

Old Shoes saved for a road that never was... and never will be..

I look at it the same way I used to look at those Picasso paintings in the museums in France. I slant my head to the right and then to the left. Then I just gaze at it.
I know where it fits in my own life. Perfectly. But from one angle, it looks like an incomplete sentence. From another it looks like a perfectly fine one because the whole point is about realizing reality. A third angle shows me affection towards things that will never be, but if only they could be. Upside down it may look like a cow eating strawberries.

I begin to wonder how different people from everywhere would interpret it. How would it fit in their own lives. In the middle of my interrupted sleep I can almost hear the unuttered whispers of those who are going through their own transitions and their own moments of angst. Maybe they're going through their boxes-filled-with-treasure.

Ironically enough, at the same time I think about those kids that are -again- 4 hours away having to say their goodbyes. The ones that are moving on with their lives. Or at least still trying to.


Recommended Music: Drop In the Ocean- Michelle Branch
Life In Technicolor- ColdPlay

Curiosity Killed the Cat 9 Times... And the 10th Did It In

I am the person who can not survive without elaboration.

Take away all elaborate descriptive analyses of life and I suffocate... and maybe die... just like a little gold fish... you know... the pretty ones that have a 3 second memory span?

Ever since I was a little girl, this has been my game and this has been my mind boggle.

I remember when my mother used to tuck me into bed at 8pm every evening. And I'd ask her to tell me something. Anything. So she just thinks of something random and that is when my favorite game was to begin.

I would ask her "why?" Just like that. No matter what it was she was saying. So being the good extremely patient and easily entertained mother that she is, she'd try to give a sensible response that would be comprehended by a 5 year old... as if that would satisfy. Another "why?" follows the first response, and then a third "why?" follows the one before. Needless to say, it goes on and on until she decides enough is enough and that mommies cannot explain everything in one night.

I think when I was that age -and as far as my memory allows me- I was only curious about things that are much more complicated and sophisticated than the minds of kids with 8pm bedtimes. Things like God, and life and death. Things like wars, and military tanks and guns and things like "why don't they get the most powerful boxers or wrestlers from their countries and have a match and whoever wins then wins the war instead of killing all those people?"

Honestly... I just did not understand the stupid illogical logic that older crazy people were following. It's just stupid... wasting all those lives when it can just be settled by a simple wrestling match.

To this day I feel sorry for my mother who had to find quick satisfactory responses to even quicker and more difficult questions.

But then came the times when I can no longer ask someone that deliberate why.

To certain secrets of the world I have reached my own conclusion that has thus far kept me relatively patient. The only conclusion that has ever satisfied me was that human kind will -might- find out about God's great plan and all the secrets that come with it on Judgement Day. What Stonehenge is all about; whether the Loch Ness existed; what really happened with the Prophets; who the evil Pharaoh that chased Moses really was and whether I'm his descendant; and whether the Bermuda Triangle is really cosmically-odd or not, there is still a chance we will find out. Even if not. I calm my self with that.

All the same, by now, my habits and games have finally caught up with me. I cannot stop questioning and it seems it will never stop. I cannot stop asking others and I cannot stop feeling ashamed with every question I ask. The lameness and the misunderstandings that get to me each time. And every time I promise it would be the last time. But my curiosity towards my life does not stop. My need and urge to reach a target and to stay still there also do not stop. No matter how many times I convince myself that they have and that I have reached the epitome of all places to be, they do not stop.

I constantly feel the need to attain my own access key to others' minds and their thoughts. The reasons behind their thinking and their justifications are left unheard while there are those who ache to hear them. Because if they do they would finally find themselves or find what they are not. And I only find that when one is left unchallenged that that habit of constantly searching for elaborations gets one into "one heck of a mess".

....

The words feel familiar and the road feels even more so. My curiosity gets to me one more time; I interrupt this messy attempt to being relevant to the public and to finding salvation from my own twisted thinking in publishing it. I get up to open a dusty and worn-out black book. I find the exact words, phrases and sentences sketched out. I reach out for another, and it is the same.

For once... I finally see it.

I run around in circles for years on end with no absolution.

The first time I am awakened to the cruelty of the fruitless, targetless and lost hunt I have been on for the past 2 years, is the time I can no longer hide from it.