There's life in it yet...

I sat at my computer last night and re-read the entire text of ‘The Year of the Monkey’. It’s significantly better than I remembered it. I moved chapters around and discarded the ‘jumping around’ notion to make it read chronologically. It’s easier for me to work on and will be an easier read. I realize now that I have wasted an inordinate amount of time playing with structure, instead of ‘just writing’. Something has clicked, and though I’ve said this before, I now see YOTM progressing.

Therapy

Just finished reading 'Therapy', David Lodge. Not the most cheerful comedy ever, but insightful. And leading me to a re-write of YOTM. Or possibly, I realise as I write this, abandoning it in it's present form altogether, and taking half the idea to work it up into a full novel. I can't escape the fact, or course, that the endless questions and self-analysis are futile attempts at procrastination, and nothing is going to write itself.

Coming off!

Having read 'The God Delusion', 2006, by Richard Dawkins, and, perhaps more powerfully having watched a series of programmes called 'Root of all Evil?', I have decided that I must take a stand against religion, that it would be morally wrong to remain 'sitting on the fence'. Here goes:

Throughout the world, we standardly make certain evidential requirements before we accept the truth of some statement: whether some experiment supports or disproves a scientific hypothesis does not depend on the country where the experiment was performed, and whether I am guilty of some crime or not should be decided regardless of my wealth and views, solely on the basis of the evidence before the court.

But there is one area in which societies usually don't make the same requirements, and that is in the area of people's religious beliefs, where we allow them to hold and express beliefs – and even act on them – that run counter to the best shared evidence we have, or that are at least not supported by generally-accepted evidence. In certain conversations we all step very carefully, don't we, worried we might offend?

It is because we feel we cannot challenge religious beliefs in the same way that we challenge other beliefs, that religion is liable to be exploited for other, political ends, and that it plays a role in much of the violence in the world, and not only large-scale violence – despite the fact that all major religions ostensibly preach peace, (at least when they are presented to outsiders.)

We therefore have to accept that all the 'nice' religious people, by claiming for themselves a certain area where the beliefs they hold are not to be subjected to the usual scrutiny and measured by the same standards of evidence that we, and they too, expect in all other areas of our lives, are giving cover to the 'fundamentalists' and 'extremists'.

It had always felt wrong that the 'nice' religious people so easily disowned violence perpetrated by their fellow-believers, in the name of the same god they believed in. I have now come to think that not only can they not disown it, they are implicated; and not only in the violence of their fellow-believers but in all religiously justified violence, in the name of any god.

This is not me, by the way, but Kai Arste, Atlantic College. (http://www.kahome.co.uk/index.php). However, I could now quite happily write and claim this as my own. I'm coming off the fence.

Still nothing...

Some ideas, nothing concrete. For now, enjoying living. Have some copies of 'Alpha to Omega' on their way, so will make an effort to sell some more... No longer annoyed with myself for not writing; just not writing.

Another school year comes to an end...

...and that's about it really.

It's been a while. I'm teaching. Preparing for big changes next year as Drama develops and IB CAS and TOK take all my time in preparation. TOK promises to be interesting - teaching Theory of Knowledge to 16-18 year olds. Revisiting philosophy. An idea for a novel is brewing, based upon the 'Henry Porter and the Stone Philosopher' parody which never really got off the ground. The debunking of religion could feature strongly - citing academic and philosophical components of the debate, but leaving Henry to make up his own mind. Possibilities. It needs a powerful twist though.

And YOTM has advanced not a jot. It deserves better than this. Perhaps this summer will see some progress. I seem to remember postulating the same thing about a year ago...

More food for thought

1. How would it be to see snow for the first time?

Incomprehensible, assuming one were already an adult and had no conception of it from TV or similar exposure. That’s hard to imagine in this day and age though. Maybe it would even be frightening. Children see new things all the time, and would be completely unfazed.

2. Which would you choose if you had to: to be deaf or blind? Why?

I have always thought that being blind would be more frightening. Having considered it seriously in the light of a friend who is deaf and now going blind, however, I think I’d prefer (tough choice, I know) to be blind. If you are deaf you are truly cut off from other people, unable to communicate effectively, to appreciate music, to listen to speech. I think this form of isolation would, in the final analysis, scare me more.

3. Which job could you never do? Why?

Work in an abattoir. I’m a vegetarian.

4. Is there a book you have read and would actively persuade others NOT to read?

’Testament of Youth’ by Vera Brittain. I was supposed to read as part of my A-level English course and could never got more than half-way. It was just plain self-absorbed diatribe about the Second World War. Technically, it doesn’t count then, since I haven’t read it all. Now I never leave a book unfinished, however bad it may be. Having written a couple, I know the time and effort it takes, and as a reader, I owe at least that to the author.

5. ‘In 1990, compared to the two previous decades, The US saw the highest juvenile arrest rate for violent crimes ever; teen arrests for forcible rape had doubled; teen murder rates quadrupled, mostly due to an increase in shooting. During those same decades, the suicide rate for teenagers tripled as did the number of children under fourteen who are murder victims.’

( ‘Emotional Intelligence’ Daniel Goleman Bloomsbury 1996.)

Why would anyone want to bring children into this world?

Because of sunsets and sunrises. Because of the ocean. Because of the smell of the air after a storm. Because of a grandparent’s smile. Because of humanity’s inherent optimism. Because of the sound of laughter. Because of the dew on a rose on a spring morning. Because even if they fall in love just once, just fleetingly, just momentarily and have that feeling returned, then it is worthwhile.

Chapter One, maybe...

Chapter One: Paris 2003

Airports, by the very nature of their existence, are not places we want to be. Or so she thought. This was dead time. A transition from A to B which could only be waited out, be endured. A milling swarm, an ant nest without the purpose or direction. That was her first impression. Observing now, she could make out patterns in their movements, sense, almost, in their randomness. There was a steady stream to the bank of video screens announcing departures. There was a rapid discussion, sometimes heated, often confused, as voyagers disputed the meaning of the information thus presented. Typically someone, and usually a man, she noted somewhat glumly, would cut short such discussions and lead his tribe off in one direction with impressive confidence. Surveying the scene, she was playfully satisfied to note that it was more than once that such a group returned only to set of in a new direction, their guide reduced to trailing the rear, protesting the logic of his error. She considered the airport as an analogy of her own life: on hold, between destinations, waiting, in fact, to live. One stage finished, another to begin. And now, until something happened, something as yet unknown and buried beyond herself, she was in limbo. She liked the image, content to be blown as an autumnal leaf. Then she saw that it wasn’t such an apt image after all. She wasn’t allowing life to direct her arbitrarily; she was taking charge, choosing her destination, setting the ground rules. It was more a leap of faith, stepping out over the water, and trusting to luck, love and life to break her fall, envelop her and lead her home.

She amused herself with trying to recognize different nationalities as they passed, differing in their roaming, traipsing and prowling according to a benign melding of social programming and DNA. The Japanese were easy, preceded by their ubiquitous shutter-click stereotype. A stereotype, after all, she mused, has its foundations somewhere in reality. She recalled with a wry smile her arrival in London, and her new found friends’ jibes about onion sellers and stripy T-shirts. She had been at a loss to understand their references, far less their hysterical teenage guffaws. In turn she had been mildly disenchanted by her failure to find a plethora of pin-striped, pasty-faced bowler-hatted gents a la Magritte. But these Japanese were indeed photographing each other at customs, in the arrivals hall, saying their goodbyes, even buying their coffee and croissants. The Dutch were too easy, head and shoulders above the crowd. She was cheating now, she admitted to herself, slyly casting glances at the flights around which people were gathering. Near the departure point for a flight to Athens, a small group of Mediterraneans was arguing heatedly with a tired looking BA official, who was attempting to enforce the airports No Smoking policy. Their flight was two hours overdue, she saw. She recognized the mannerisms and general belligerence from her two weeks last summer on Kefalonia. She had been enamoured of what she saw of Greece, but to a similar degree, less than persuaded by what she had encountered in the Greek male.

It was this train of thought from which she was aroused by a persistent tug at her sleeve. Looking down, her eyes were met by others, older then her own, rheumy and kind. In contrast to the calm and compassionate face before her, she was then attacked by a barrage of sounds in a high pitched shriek. Already her past was catching up with her. ‘Xin loi,’ she managed to recall, and then dried up, embarrassed, adding unnecessarily, ‘I don’t speak Vietnamese.’

‘Ah, bon. Vous etes Viet-kieu hein?’ Vous. Always the politeness of form from elderly Vietnamese. Ridiculous considering that this grandmother must be three times her own age. Adopted already, she made her way to the check-in counter, pulling the suitcase of Ba Huong, as she had introduced herself, an early and unwelcome coincidence to tease at her mind.