Hope(full)

Ehhh....stop the music. Why, why, are people allowed to impress themselves onto others in the name of tradition. Why are the values behind a particular tradition not re-evaluated at least occasionally, to ascertain the continued value of the occasion? 'Tradition' should not mean an action that is justified a priori, and whose consequences are not to be questioned. Why is the human condition full of these lazy short-hand actions?

Ah, well, now that I've had this little rant of exasperation, I turn to something more pleasant, and perhaps more revealing. I spent the afternoon in my first attempt to translate a poem from Russian to English. It caught my attention first as it is also a beautiful song (do look it up) by: Владимир Высоцкий "Надежда". 

------******------

Hope

Now that the trembling in my hands has stopped,

Now – higher.

Now that my fear has down the chasm slipped,

Forever, ever…

There’s no reason to stop,

I continue, slipping,

And the are no peaks in this world,

Which cannot be scaled.

Amongst the untrodden paths

Let one be mine,

Amongst the unconquered borders,

Leave one to me,

And the names of those, who fell here

The snow will conceal…

Amongst these untracked roads

One is mine.

Here the sky-blue radiance of the ice

Pours forth over the horizon.

The secret of another’s footsteps

Is harbored by the granite,

And I gaze into my dream

Above their heads

And faithfully believe in the purity

Of snow and words…

And let no short term pass

I will not forget

How here, the doubt within me

I managed to destroy.

That day the water whispered to me:

“Good luck, always!”…

But what day, what day was that?

Oh, yes, Wednesday…

------******------

Happiness

"Shukhov went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: they hadn't put him in the cells; they hadn't sent the team to the settlement; he'd pinched a bowl of kasha at dinner; the team-leader had fixed the rates well; he'd built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled that bit of hacksaw-blade through; he'd earned something from Tsezar in the evening; he'd bought that tobacco. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it.
     A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day." Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.

Human brutality knows no bounds. The capacity to really do evil (harm, hurt each other without reason) is inexhaustible - instead it feeds upon itself and grows ever bigger.

This is only one perspective - Shukhov's, who'd done his outmost to survive a day in the 'Special Camp'. But his actions drawn from basic instincts of self-preservation undoubtedly precipitated events which hurt others around him. Who can blame him? When does stealing become virtuous? Like taking a couple of pens from a stationary cupboard at work for your friend.

Perhaps when you believe that you're struggling against "the system" - the machinery of society - the network of abominable interactions. Why is it that all of us forget the embarrassing moment that our very actions not only created it, but feed its existence. I guess this is because an individual realisation is not enough. It is not enough for a single person to gain 'enlightenment' of this fact, but that this liberating thought must permeate the collective consciousness. Only then can the fabric of a society be rewoven. But this is like asking an exothermic reaction to reverse itself. And perhaps in the end 'we get what we deserve'.

"Ivan went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: he had two new prisoners in the cells; he finally filled the quota for teams sent to live the "Socialist way of Life"; he'd beaten some lazy scum zek who complained that he didn't have any dinner; he'd arranged to get the largest shipment of flour and oats through for the camp; he'd fixed up his tommy and he enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled a pint of vodka through; he'd earned something from Pavel in the evening; he'd bought that sheep skin hat. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it. 
     A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day."

To live and not know why the cranes fly, why babies are born, why there are stars in the sky. Either you must know why you live, or it's all nonsense. Dust in the wind!

Hello there, I'm in a place where time is lazy, where it runs like thick oil seeping into the routine of your day which is consequently very unambitious. The hours are wiled away eating or lying around staring at the dusty earth, and brittle olive trees and thinking about nothing. The air is dry and hot; the dappled sun pleasant as it warms your skin. The idle touch of the wind reminds me that I'm still awake... and still thinking about nothing...

I've discovered I'm really quite good at thinking about nothing. :)

And what a luxury this is. To let your thoughts run wild, to explore anything and everything that strikes your fancy, to let your imagination string thoughts together on tenuous 'flights of logic' :) to think of the ordinary and beautiful and simple. To let yourself feel happy and sad and lost and found.

To be.