Good and Evil

A few days ago I had a revelation.  Something that I immediately wanted to write down, to share with somebody, to roll around in my mind, contemplate the meaning and ramifications of.  It was so meaningful that I forgot about it, and remembered again, at least twice a day, till I just made the time to sit down and start writing.

Remember the part in the Bible where it says that Adam and Eve ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil?  That this is why they were cast from the garden of Eden?  And another part of the Bible where Jesus said that unless we change and become like little children, we will never enter the kingdom of heaven?  Now, do you see where I am heading with this?

People are always harping about the fact that children trust completely, or that children have no ego, or that children are not cruel, or some other nonsense, but the truth is that children have no rules.  They do not have the concept of good and evil, we teach it to them, to make them in our image.

The double-slit experiment.  Proof that the universe reacts to intelligence on an atomic level.  Google it to find out more if you do not know about it yet.  Magic.  What if, when this whole concept of good and evil does not exist in the mind of the intelligent being, the physical rules of this universe are also discarded?  What if these two are linked in a fundamental way, and the less you believe in good and evil, the more flexible the other one becomes?

We are taught this knowledge of good and evil from the moment we start to observe other people.  Everybody is judging the whole time.  You are judging yourself, your actions, your thoughts, your reactions to other people and their actions and reactions, comparing it to past occurrences, and planning future occurrences.  Condemning or praising yourself as you see fit.

Truly believing that God loves you, that you are saved, must mean that you will stop judging yourself, will stop condemning yourself, will put the whole concept of good and evil aside, and become like a little child again.  It is that simple.  Complete trust.

I look at my life, my actions, my thoughts, and I am ashamed.  I am not able to do this one, simple thing, and I am ashamed to say that I do not think that humans, as a species, still have the capacity.  Only the fact that we are still here gives me hope.  It must mean something, right?

Writing.

Writing is not a job for sissies.  It is a demanding job, something that can drain you, leaving you empty of all emotion, empty of any resemblance to a human being; and that is when it is going not just well, but great.  It is a job like no other, running you ragged for months. Then leaving you desolate for even longer, convinced that you are wrung dry, that not a sentence will ever be birthed from your mind, that you will die a mumbling fool, struggling to string single syllable words together in a manner a four-year-old child may understand.

It is also a passion that will keep you awake and writing for days, spitting out verbal photos, painting stories and imagining the truth in a new, articulate way, showing the way for the next generation of wordsmiths and connoisseurs of the written art.

Writing is not something you do, it is something you ARE.  You ARE creating a mindset, a space for an imagination to be, to share with other like-minded readers.  It is an art to draw in inquisitive minds, to sketch an outline for a person with an imagination, to GIFT a person with the ability to see an idea you had, but to allow them to fill in their own details.  It is a gift, and it is a curse that let you image and fill in the worst you can imagine.

The double-edged sword, the true love that hates you, the only true lucky packet that may have a diamond or an exploding turd, or both; it is the roll of the dice, the fall of the cards, the push or the pull; the smile or the frown; the helping hand or the fist.  Writing is like bungee-jumping; you are either falling with the certainty that this is to your death, or shouting with joy that the rope held this time.  There are the few moments when you are just slowing down, moving from sheer terror to exquisite joy, but these are just seconds, not stages in your life.

I am a writer, and none the better for the wear this fact of life is adding to my life.  It is not making my life any easier, it is not adding a lot of value to my life, and it is not even making sense in my life.  It is, however, complicating my life, ruining a simple life, adding stress to my life, making me despair, adding depression and unwanted emotional baggage.

Suffering, for my art, because of my art, through my art, is my reason for living; and it is not enough, so I seek out the dark, bleak, hurtful spots, and BLAZE with emotion through them, living every moment, FEELING every hurt, every pain, every slight, and reporting them as faithfully as possible, to fill bland lives with emotion.

I am a writer, and you are my audience.  We need each other, because we are a team.

We live a story

This is so true, but so difficult to process and accept.

Extract from 'The Name of the Wind', written by Patrick Rothfuss.

“You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. We don’t understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.” Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. “That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.” “That’s only the smallest piece of it,” Bast said. “The truth is deeper than that. It’s…” Bast floundered for a moment. “It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.” Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. “No, listen. I’ve got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug. “And sometimes that’s enough.”

His eyes brightened. “But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you…” Bast gestured excitedly. “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn’t seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.”


You become what you tell yourself you are.

I can remember believing in myself, KNOWING that I am more intelligent than most people, knowing that I am special, that I am unique, that  have a path that is mine and mine alone.  I did not compare myself to others, the thought did not even cross my mind.  How can you compare two people?  Each and every one is unique and special.

Years disappeared without any insight or growth on my side, because I started to compare, to compete, to judge myself and find myself wanting.  I started belittling myself, ignoring my strengths, focusing on my weak points, comparing them against the strengths of others, and finding more and more to worry about.  Until I believed my new story.

Suddenly I find myself with the insight to understand this, to realize that I have been living a lie, that I am better than this.  Unfortunately it is still just in my head, not written in my cells, and I am looking around desperately for a way to believe like a child again.  To have that unwavering confidence again.  Because I am worthy.

Winklespruit

A week at the coast, which basically boils down to two days travel and three days to spend some time enjoying yourself, is way, way too short. Luckily I spent three mornings watching the sun rising from the sea, and this made it a bit more bearable.

We were staying nearly on the beach, so we walked down to the beach to take these photos.

OK, I admit.  I spent three mornings looking at the sun rising, but only took photos the one morning.  Luckily the morning the sky looked the best, according to me.

This following photo was taken half an hour after the previous photos, but it looks like a photo taken at night.  No Photoshopping, still untouched. 

We went to a nearby bird sanctuary  the one morning.  Besides some domesticated ducks, there were hardly any other birds to be seen.  So I took photos of flowers.

Spent about two hours at this bird sanctuary,  about a third of the time running after butterflies.  They do not like to be photographed.

At least flowers have the good manners to stand still, or as still as the wind allows them to.  I like that in a flower.

Civil Servant

Definition of civil:
adjective

1)    relating to ordinary citizens and their concerns, as distinct from military or ecclesiastical matters.
        "civil aviation"
    synonyms:    secular, non-religious, lay;
        "a civil marriage ceremony"
    non-military, civilian
        "civil aviation"

2)    courteous and polite.
        "they were comparatively civil to their daughter"
    synonym:    polite, courteous, well mannered, well bred, gentlemanly, chivalrous, gallant, ladylike, gracious, respectful;

Definition of servant:
noun

1)    a person who performs duties for others, especially a person employed in a house on domestic duties or as a personal attendant.
    synonyms:    attendant, retainer
2)    a devoted and helpful follower or supporter.
        "he was a great servant of the Labour Party"
    synonyms:    helper, supporter, follower

Definition of civil servant:
noun

1)    a member of the civil service.
    synonyms:    public servant, government official, government worker, civil-service employee

I think I know why the reality of 'civil servant' is South Africa is so different from the idea I have of what a civil servant should be.   Very selective reading.  On my side, I look at civil, and see/understand "courteous and polite".  I look at servant, and see/understand "devoted and helpful".  In the mean time, the 'civil servants' themselves see/understand "government official".

Definition of official:
noun

1)    a person holding public office or having official duties, especially as a representative of an organization or government department.
    "a union official"
    synonyms:    officer, office-holder, office-bearer, administrator, executive, appointee, functionary

Obviously, the definition they finally have of civil servant, is as a person in government with an office.  I can see why we have quite different expectations when it comes to what they are supposed to be doing.

Liberty

Breaking with your family is the most dearly bought liberty. It means breaking with parts of yourself. Breaking off parts of yourself.

Read this a few minutes ago, and it struck a sore spot, like stepping onto a thorn that goes right through your shoe's sole.  The hurt is that much worse because you have already taken precautions, and you felt safely armored against it.  Wondering how to get rid of this without inadvertently stepping or sitting or pressing into another; and the whole time this pain is reminding you that it is still there, it is something that must be dealt with as soon as possible, and you are focusing so much on the pain that everything else is just background noise.

Firstly, I had to make sure what is understood by this word, liberty.  After reading all the long and confusing definitions as penned by much wiser men, I thought of the one sentence I have ever used with this word in it.  "I am not at liberty to say."  So, I see liberty as the state or condition of people who are able to act and speak freely.

I broke with my family because I was given the choice between them and my wife.  At that stage the choice was easy to make, and even though we talk to each other again, and have some kind of contact, the break was clean, and the connection we have is fragile at best.

I am a solitary type of person, and when people move out of my life, I do not spend a lot of time or effort to keep in contact.  Not something I am proud of, but something that I am aware of, and think about changing.  Sometime in the future, as soon as I feel the need to contact somebody from my past.

Breaking off parts of yourself.  I knew I have done that, I just never thought of this as one of those times.  The pain was not there; the rebuilding, slowly and agonizing, was not there; and the feeling of completing this 'rebirth', this restructuring of priorities and change of viewpoint, was never realized.

Parts of me may be stunted, broke off and was never replaced, never healed, never acknowledged.  It is scary, when I think of all the personal growth I achieved, or thought I achieved, without even realizing this chunk of me that may be missing.

Healing will be a nuisance, with hidden scar tissue a possible factor at any stage or moment.  Tackling it now is a given, but just to investigate, not to create a 'quick fix'.  Maybe it was healed in the first place, maybe the piece that was broken off was minute in the first place, but I'll look and find out just the same.  Rather be sure about something this important.

Emotions

Mine is haywire.  Completely.  I sit and read the news on the internet, and suddenly something grabs my heart and my eyes are full of tears.  I listen to the radio, and suddenly a sentence will grab me and squeeze a hiccup from my heart.  Random sentences, with no impact on me when I read or hear them a few seconds later.

I sit and talk with my wife, and there is nothing.  No emotion, no feeling, no feeling because I have no feeling at all, nothing.  There is not even the emotion I have when interacting with somebody at work.  Just this lack of any feeling at all.  And then, hours or days later, I crash because there was nothing at all, and it took me that long to notice it.

At one stage I was suicidal, but at the moment I am just tired of everything that is happening around me.  I do not want to do anything about it, because I have this big fear of failing at everything.  Fearing that I will make decisions that will be irreversible, changing my life, and the lives of everybody around me, for the worse.  Not as if nearly any change will be better than this fog I am living in.

Why is our perception of what others think so important?  It is not as if they think that much about us, I know I hardly think about anybody else at all. It is not as if it really mean that much, but we still convince ourselves that we need it.  Is it because we just need confirmation for our actions, something to indicate that we are as important as we know we are?

Emotions define the way you live your life.  It defines the way you interact with others, it adds impact to any and all  interaction you have with others and it is the driving force behind all conversation with yourself.  Internal and audible conversations.

I have grown used to, and afraid of, the failure of intense emotions.  Damping them to a minimum, trying to minimize the damage, the pain, the hurt of losing trust again and again.  Growing stagnant around them, bottling them up, trying to compress them out of existence.

Adding and compressing at the same time never works, so I am trying to have just a small hole to stop a complete explosion.  Unfortunately, as most people know, the hole tends to get bigger because the pressure inside is trying to equalize, as soon as possible.

What will be worse?  An empty shell, or a broken one?  Time, as always, will tell.