Where I live

Where do I live? You ask? Why would you? Can’t you see from there?

I am here. Always here. Never fear. No favours asked. At last

I can tell you. The road has cast its path far enough. Just.

Then, from where I stand, where my feet did land from flight,

From fright, from cautious contemplation. Knowing only

What I know is true, some more of what is not, and less, for sure.

I can hear the gospels calling from the given and the fallen

Who claim to know what stands behind the doors and walls

Of this house. They are welcome. There are no rules to bare.

No potentate to stare down while I wake or sleep.

What is here is fare, not fear. What is worn is fixed

 Without the perquisite of service due, respect and grace 

Of those who patch and plough with blows from a blunt axe.

Here, where I live, the carpets feel the pace of treading mills

And grinding tills, showing threadbare to the floor beneath

A flake of paint floats on ponds of tears. Wretched smears

Of battle grime exposes bones and blood I fear is mine.

And to be sure I know I am home, the hinges creak and stick

Against the youthful glare of imagined times, all mine.

Oh, how such reflections bare the scars of learning, 

Of yearning, of vacant pages in desperate ages, never sure

Of what to find, who to ask, walking blind before the mirrors

Of what is real, then holding still to its infinite uncertainty.

Now, I see the cracks and feel the sharpness of the ragged edges

And know they are mine and mine alone. For me to stare and share.

To value as the Kintsugi jar. Know not the gold that makes the mark

But all the damage done, the mistakes made, the battles lost.

The ground beneath is still intact and the vessel still holds blooded clots.

This has always been where I can be found. Right here, alone.

Living outwards from my home. Ruminating the grains of knowledge

Wondering, waiting, watching for that which I don’t understand.

Where I can chose to know or let it glow in its own light.

What aches me is the giving in, resolving to a noisy din of others

Who claim to know who made this home, that which it has become.

For some the answers are it’s all. Then comes the failure of the fall.

To repair, the angst of despair, the need to be forgiven for what they are.

Mistake me not. My dwelling is as close to the worms caste 

As I am to any other. And treasure just the same. For it is here

That everything exists that I own. There is nothing broken here

That cannot be repaired by me alone, reaching within, then holding On to others while repair is done. All that remains is the stoic’s bow.

To know, as anyone need know. Which question to ask: not last, First. 

The sceptic knows one lifeline thoughts are built upon.

We are reasoning mammals, the builders kit on which

We all build our home. Any visitor who claims to know more than that

Never to know the beauty of finding the cellar filled with unwavering doubt.

You have found me. At last. Drink well from the doubters cup, drink up.

Feel the freedom it provides, no longer answering to the stalkers deride.

Even in the darkest hour, when distances are not within my power

There is the memoirs of others in other places, still there, staring,

Baring witness to my presence in their dominion. Tasting

The tang of their lives, fragments of what they chose to hide.

Walking the path of many lives, hearing the cries of welcome.

I view the garden of their home and smell the roses just the same

Then feed on the culture of what they are. Designed by nature

No less, nothing greater. Home to the odours in the heat of day

Reminding me of what I was; no longer in that home. Growing

From the soils of spoils and boast, lost in the remote suburban fame.

Fair game for others, wealth for stone banks, suits of destine.

Epicurean delights. Not mine. Someone else’s Devine.

So, next when you ask. “Are you at home?” Know well

I am always here. Straightening the frames, polishing the bell

Shining the shelves, sorting the books, sweep and cook

Listening, sipping on the pleasures I find, in words of mine and others

Fluffing the covers, making teas for me and others, view

The world from open windows, wondering which way

The wind blows. Counting friends on one hand, holding out

The other so I can understand what comes. It is the sum

Of all things. From nothing to nothing comes a small glimpse

Of something we call real. Our home, for a while. 

Welcome. I am home.

PATHWAY TO SANITY

The pathway to sanity has been long and arduous. Here I was thinking I was normal. Tension and anxiety were simply a part of everyday life. Not so, it seems. There are expectations set by those around us we are obliged to note, admire, aspire towards, achieve and bequeath to those that we also surround. In its simplest form, these aspirations include good health, social contact and mental stability. As Kishan puts it: Physiology, Psychology, Sociology; the guides to good health. Those who advocate this persona usually have a strong jaw, lots of hair, have a connection with their god and drive a very expensive car. Oh, yes. They are more than likely from California, USA. Personally, I prefer the Moscow mafia. 

The key connection to all of these people is they have a way of making you feel uncomfortable in your own skin, not unlike wearing woolly trousers without jocks.

How often have you greeted someone with “how are you?” Or simply put: ‘are you OK?’ A response in regard to the physical and physiological well being is expected,  even if it will only be of consideration if the answer is: “I’ve been poorly” or some such refinement. Even the standard response of “I’m OK “ gets a peculiar look of disbelief and a questioning: “Really? You look like shit”.

No one is really OK.

And you haven’t even mentioned your mental state, which is probably considering murder at this point. That’s a no-go area in any conversation. Loonies, psychos, anyone suffering from any sort of -pathy, druggos, and the rest of the mental cases are not the sort of person others feel comfortable talking to. 

This will lead to a warranted conversation relating to recent illnesses, operations, medication, healing and lingering. Some exchange and debate will follow, and often includes the comparative intensity of pain, possible cures, alternative medication and the name of a better doctor. 

A ‘better’ doctor has been advised to me. It seems the existing one, Kishan, the Buddhist from Sri Lanka, has finally run out of ideas. Either that or he’s sick and tired of experimenting with my well being. 

“I think you should see a psychiatrist, ” he added as he looked at his watch, fiddled with his pen and gave me that look he might give his teenage daughter when she asks for some cash or a sleepover with her boyfriend.

Finding a shrink in Darwin is akin to finding an extra finger on my left hand. Nevertheless, I did find one within walking distance of home. How convenient, I thought. Perhaps she does house calls.

I called the number.

“How much? That much? What about for an old pensioner? Fuck, lady. That’s more than I’d pay for a weekend away with the woman of choice. I’ll dwell on it,” and I hung up, as hard as one can on a mobile phone. I mumbled to myself for a few minutes, rang back, apologised for my manner and booked an hour somewhere into next month. Chances are I’ll have topped myself before then and will avoid the pain of the psychiatrist's bill, all $1500 of it. 

She better be good or I’ll bleed all over her carpet or throw myself in front of her white Mercedes. 

By the time the appointment came around, I was feeling ok. Should I cancel? Under advisement from Christine and Kishan (he’s Buddhist, Sinhalese, Type A, doctor/mate/confidant I pay to talk to) I appeared in the waiting room of doctor Caroline,  carrying as intense a look as I could muster. Not much point turning up full of good spirit and positivity. She’d have nothing to do for all that cash I was parting with.

We passed the first 40 minutes establishing who I was and what I had done. I did think it might be worth spending more time since interest in myself exceeds that of anyone else. I was aware of the meter ticking. I talked quickly, refrained from elaborating, kept the jokes and sarcasm to a minimum, and declined from telling her how to do her job. She wrote frantically, only stopping to attain continuity with the story of my life. Try packing your entire existence into 40 minutes. I was beginning to realise that 71 years had passed without more than a ripple. 

I was also beginning to realise where all this was heading. I could predict her next question. I knew answers well in advance of the question. I began to feel like the inquisitor of my own existence. How bored she must be, listening to this. No drama to speak of, no pitfalls, no abuse, no trauma. Just me and whatever I decided to tell her, became ‘me’. I could be whomever I want and she wouldn’t have known one way or the other, which is probably what I wanted. I was losing the plot and she was gaining one, albeit a false and misleading one. 

But who are we beyond what we tell others we are? We have many personas. Each is chosen carefully for the audience. I am the child for my great-granddaughter, the understanding grandfather to my grandchildren, the philosopher to my blog readers, the antagonist to the ignorant, the carer to Christine, the dog hater to the neighbourhood, the man who talks to strangers. Yet I am none of these. I become what I need to be in the presence of others so I might survive. I live a lie.

I tell her this; the doctor with the white Mercedes. She looks me squarely in both eyes, smiles honestly and says the magic words: “We all do that.”

All of a sudden the cost of consultation seems worth it. 

“Then who am I,” I ask. 

“You are the person who does all these things.”

How simple. How profound. How natural. It fits. It always has. What I do, what we all do is what we are. There is nothing to search for. There’s no guiding light or script or road. We are on it already. What we chose to do is what we are. If we seek the truth and not see what we do as the truth then we miss the whole point of existence. Only humans trouble themselves so much over such things. The ant crossing my computer like a daredevil on a tight rope is not bothered by the thought of falling or the idea of being talked about. It is what it is: an ant. We are only marginally removed from the nature of the ant in as much as we have a few more chemicals which determine our physiology. 

“Our time is up,” the doctor with the white Mercedes informs me. How close to the truth she is. I chose not to share any of these thoughts with her, of course. She’s the psychiatrist after all and would only deem me suitable for incarceration or stronger medication. Or charge me more. 

“So what do you think, doc? Any hope for me?”

“I’m advising your doctor to increase your Efelaxine to 225mg/day and you could look at a course of therapy with a psychologist.”

“Do psychologists charge as much as you?”

There is no reaction.

“Did you consider the alternate option of having me incarcerated?”

Still no reaction.

“Is there anything you can tell me I don’t know already?”

“Mm.” 

There’s that sound again. She’s looking for a way of getting me back so she can have her way with me. 

“At the moment, I’m inclined to conclude you have Bipolar tendencies that might get worse unless treated.

“Is that like a magnet or a water molecule?”

She looks at me with a puzzled grin. 

“It’s ....”

“I know what it is. I’m the one with the weird brain, remember”.

Since I wasn’t getting a laugh from this audience I decided to take my leave after emptying my credit overdraft into her purse. My first thought on reaching sunlight was to enrol in a post-grad degree in psychiatry and psychology. This is not a good sign. One of the characteristics of those suffering from bipolar disorder is to believe they can do everything themselves and to become obsessed with knowing all things.

Here we go again.

I am somewhat relieved from my experience with the psychiatrist who drives a white Mercedes. Firstly, I have less money in the bank. What a relief, I think to myself. No extravagance for me this week. In addition, I’m convinced that normality is a figment of the imagination of many. Like bad behaviour, I just need a slap on the ear and get over it. This  seems reasonable and conclusive but I find that genes, chemicals and a sagging posture fight against every move I make; or don’t make. Knowing what is good for me isn’t a solution. It’s like having a bus ticket to Geelong and not wanting to go there. Who would? 

I’m not sure I want to be cured. Or normal. Or sane. Or human. Or that which others want or expect of me. 

THE ALMOST MONK

 Landing in Sri Lanka is much like a duck landing on a lake. Water sprays from every moving object. The Sinhalese, inhabitants of this floating jungle east of India, adore water; even worship it. Not without good reason. Most times it’s falling out of the sky in shit loads or they are walking ankle-deep in it. Even when it’s not raining it falls from my skin in sheets. I swear, if I stay here too long I will develop webbing between my toes.

Where ever there is water someone is bound to be fishing. Or swimming. Being a small island the sea is never far away, geographically at least. Travelling to the coast is a challenge, even by those who live nearby. Traffic moves at a snail's pace on all roads; narrow, congested and abused as they are. Few people walk more than a block or two unless they are carrying the shopping, a child or a slurry of building material. The heat is almost unbearable, certainly for a white, ageing tourist such as myself. The roads are congested with ‘tut-tuts’ ( a means of transport resembling a milk crate and sounding like my lawnmower), ageing buses and ancient motorbikes. Travelling 100 km could take all day by any of the aforementioned modes. Then again, there’s always a chance of not arriving at all. In spite of the abundance of Buddhists on the road, with their caring and considerate attitude to all life, there is an ever-increasing number of corpses to be found stuck to the bitumen, slaughtered by an on-coming tut-tut, truck or Toyota. 2700 people had the chance of reincarnation this year because of their miscalculation with fate and traffic. Perhaps it is their inalienable right to reincarnation that discourages any sane approach to road safety.

Our driver/tour guide/chauffeur, a good looking and cheerful soul going by the name of ‘Don’, wants to return as a monk in his next life. He started ‘monking’ when he left school. He fell in love shortly after. She had come to the temple to make a food offering. He spotted her in the crowd and pursued her relentlessly. So romantic. After 15 years of marriage, two children and a taste of western beauty he is less sure it was love and more confident with the idea of lust at first sight. 

Don tells me he doesn’t understand his wife. I reassure him that this is not an unusual situation

Don isn’t his real name. It’s his tourist name; for those who fail to get their tongue or patience around his given name: Surendra. There’s a drum roll with the tongue on the ‘dr’.Surendra appreciates the effort we make to get the pronunciation close.

Surendra laughs out loud, like a child among friends, his white teeth contrast strongly against his glistening brown skin. It’s not so hot today.  Moisture hangs heavily from the blackening sky and deposits a layer of softening dew on his skin. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that allows the stranger in me to connect with him. He speaks a Sri Lankan version of English I find easy to interpret. He listens intently, showing discomfort with my language that is typical of one who has English as a second or third language. I can almost hear him translate in his head as he hastens to catch the words and hold on to them long enough to grasp their true meaning. From time to time he squints, a sure sign that his brain makes no sense of the translation he has rendered and shaped in his head. Today he just stares in disbelief at what I have just said. I enjoy challenging him.

In spite of this struggle with words, we manage to communicate with a great deal of ease. I’m surprised at the quality of his thoughts. His understanding of his culture is born from a deep belief that what he is, is what he thinks of his country’s history, religion and culture. 

Yet I crave to know more, beyond his countryman. What of the man who stands before me? What lays beneath the surface? What life has he lived? What has made this young man what he is now?

Surendra has exposed small fragments of his ‘other’ life; the one I choose to know of. The voyeur in me looks hard. I listen for signs of life beneath the tour guide exterior. His mind is like warm wax and his personal thoughts stick firmly as the dust from a long day. From time to time I ask: “what of your family?”, “What of your youth?” and Surendra brushes the dust from the wax ever so slightly. I can smell and taste the thoughts and my appetite is stimulated. I ask myself: What will bring him to raise the broom and loosen the secrets that I crave and he holds so dearly. 

“Tell me of your courtship? How did you meet your wife?.”

He draws in the warm air and seemingly gathers his strength. I make no sound. I must listen. I fear to breathe, least I will shatter the silence he needs. I let him speak without interruption, holding still, letting each word settle. If I am still, perhaps he will not notice my presence. This experience is new to him. He has yet to speak openly of his life, but there is pain that comes with it. He must conquer the pain. No, he must ride with it, as the bird on the wind. He is learning that the anguish is part of him and he must live with it, not fight it, but know it and know it’s placed in his life. His memories of painful times and events are no different to the scars on his lustrous skin or the rounded belly he carries as a consequence of his indulgences. 

Slowly, methodically, carefully, Surendra places his fears where they are safe and speaks more freely of his past. His eyes give way to the yearning to weep for losses and suffering. Moisture gathers and blood rises to the surface as the soft pain in his head pushes his thoughts forward. His moistened eyes look away from me momentarily. He speaks to the warm, thick air. None of this comes naturally. 

Converting thoughts to words isn’t something that any of us can do easily. We fear too much. We fear the permanency that comes with being heard, the misunderstanding that others might gather, the ‘truth’ that some might deny, the ‘lies’ that others might perceive. Surendra’s fears are ‘real’ but often unfounded. He must learn that the thoughts of others are not his responsibility. He can only be in control of his own dread; that which once held him silent in the presence of others. The pain of others is beyond him, out of his reach, out of his field of knowing, distant to any responsibility he feels he must own.

Surendra tells me of his life, at least the parts he is willing to share just now. It is early days. I should not expect too much from him. He is young and still to know the freedom that comes with age. He is yet to know that smart men know of others, wise men know of themself. He will see how his memories grow old with him. They soften as the wax in the summer sun, they change as the dust of years settles and sinks into the softening and malleable wax. The memories will become new, in the ages of time. They will still bring feelings with them but less of the pain and more of the simple joy of living. 

For there is no destiny that holds Surendra to a particular path. His life has not been written beforehand. He is not scripted to perform like a monkey on a chain. His is the creator of his own experiences. Each new event is the consequence of what has gone before. Where he is now is the best possible outcome of all that has gone before. The yin and yan of life give both: rich with poor, sick with good health, friendship with enemies, love with hate, good with bad, happiness with sadness. Surendra is learning to live with both sides of the token of life. He cannot hold the wax solid in the sun. Nor can he see the dust settle and stick. He will live with his truth. And just as we face life, he will face death; his own and that of others, because life and death are sides of the same coin.

As he faces his life, so will he see in his wisdom, that there is no pain that cannot be accompanied by the joy of living. 

Perhaps pain and joy are the same things. Surendra and I are still learning to see how that is so for both of us. For a while, we follow the same path. For a while, we are connected.

How sure are you?

How sure are you?

Step in front of a fast moving train and there’s a more than fair chance you’ll not survive to tell the story of why you were dumb enough to step that way.

In fact, if you suggested such I thing to a friend, they’d consider any anticipation  on your part they might survive with some measure of scepticism. And who could blame them?

There seems to be some things we can always rely on: the Sun rising and setting, taxes, death at some point, rising prices, and the applications of Murphy’s Law to name a few.

But there are some things we can’t guarantee. Conception, for example. In spite of the effort we put into achieving fertilisation of ova with sperm and the disproportionate amount of sperm cells the male delivers to the ova, it’s still a bit of hit and miss. 

Increasing the chances of a version of a particular event occurring is often sought. In the case of conception the male might gain access more than once, the female might secure the sperm in a number of ways, an appropriate time is chosen for delivery of the semen, or, in the case of reducing the risk, a prophylactic might be used. Among some, a wish, hope or prayer might be employed either way, fertilisation under supervision is now a thing, and, as always the exuberant youths will always keep their fingers crossed instead of their legs.

All this assures us of only one thing: nothing is certain in love and war.

Mathematically, chance can be calculated, sometimes with a great deal of precision, which does seem a contradiction in principles. For example, according to motor vehicle statistics, there is a one in four chance of a motor cyclist between the ages of 18 and 25 of having a significant accident in any one year. The insurance companies and regulators use such figures to make rules and laws in an effort to reduce the probability of a payout or death.

Making a prediction on anything is prone to dispute if not done efficiently. With the kind assistance of Thomas Bayes the task has been made simpler with his rather sobering yet utilitarian Theorem stated thus:

For those who recognise it, they will also be familiar with its importance in all sorts of things including current predictions on climate change and stock market evaluations to name just two. For those who are baffled, fear not. You’ll still loose on the pokies just the same.

In spite of some knowledge on probability and it’s determination there are a number of things that puzzle me about chance and predictions that few will admit to understanding and none have explained to me in a satisfactory manner.

 Let’s say there’s a more than fair chance it might rain tomorrow. I dress accordingly, venture out, and return as dry as I left. Not a drop of rain fell. What happened? How wrong could the weather man be, and how inconvenient?

When I was told by the Bureau of Meteorology (BOM) I was assured there would be an 80% chance of rain. The result of the days precipitation was that there was none. What BOM should have said was there would be no rain where I anticipate walking.

Then, in an effort to get it right tomorrow I once again ask BOM to tell me how to dress when I venture out. They suggest, with a great deal of confidence, it will not rain.

Guess what? I get wet within minutes of leaving my door mat.

When challenged on these inaccuracies their response is quite predictable yet equally puzzling

Dear Mr Dinning.

Thank you for your enquire on our methods of prediction.

We do not predict weather; we determine probability of events based on current measurement and historical statistical data.

For yesterday’s weather, we determined that there would be a less than 5% chance of rain in your vicinity. We can only determine this probability with a certainty of 40%. 

We suggest you prepare yourself for all possibilities during this season as weather forecasting is not 100% accurate, except in retrospect.

 Yours sincerely

Chief meteorologist

Darwin BOM

So, my question is: Why do we have prediction in the first place? Most circumstances can be reduced to two possibilities: right or wrong, left or right, up or down, in or out, good or bad, plus or minus, yes or no. There are more complex issues with more than two possibilities but the ‘one way or the other’ approach seems to take care of most situations.

As my Old Man would say: “If you make a wrong turn along the way, you’ll surely turn up somewhere and it may well be a better place”.

But we fret when there is more than one possibility. Our greatest anxieties often have their origins in choice. We want to be sure. We want a particular outcome. We demand the right answer. We expect predictability. We want to be sure about the one thing we can’t ever be sure about:  the future.

I flip a coin or role a dice, play eeny-meeny miny-mo, read the cards or tea leaves in order to detach myself from any decision making. I don’t trust my own judgement so I place a great deal of faith in a process assumed more reliable that I could ever be.

Giving away our responsibility amounts to the suggestion that we don’t like to be wrong. We are under a misconception that it is better to place our decision making in someone else’s hands than to make a fool of ourselves. How foolish we might seem when we venture out on a sunny day with an umbrella clearly displayed for all to deride. How humiliating an adolescent might feel when explaining to her indignant parents how she got pregnant.

“But, mum, we only did it once!”

We might then wonder if once is enough; or never enough.

For most of us ‘fair to meddling’ seems to be adequate and ‘just in case’ takes care of most situations where probability and chance are playing their hand. It might be wise to be prepared for any possibility, although this seems a bit excessive. Betting on every horse in a race will secure you a winner but to what end? After all, there can only be one winner. Unfortunately, the likelihood that your horse will be first past the post is what keeps the thrill in the chase and the money in the bookies bag.

For me, I’ll always take the path of least resistance, expect nothing and be grateful when I am surprised. For any outcome is a bonus, even if it turns out to be nothing at all.