Self irony and laughter

There are moments when we take ourselves too seriously.  Sometimes the best defense against absurdity both in our personal and political lives, is to laugh at it. The antidote to our zeal for truths is just to picture our place in the universe; we occupy such an infinitesimally small dot that taking life too seriously simply makes no sense at all.  Our lives are a sheer coincidence in a long series of coincidences which probably includes both sexual blunders and astronomical collisions or near misses.  In Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose, William of Baskerville in his debate with Jorge of Burgos argues that laughter helps us “to undermine the false authority of an absurd proposition that offends reason.”  For Willian, “the only truth lies in learning to free ourselves from insane passion for the truth.” Because he made room for doubt, William had the intellectual flexibility to accommodate new ideas. By contrast, Jorge's zealotry and “insane passion for the truth” left him so resistant to any challenges to his worldview that he preferred to destroy all the books he held dear rather than to allow Aristotle's subversive book on comedy to come to light.

Nixtieq

Xi drabi thossok hafna bniedem meta thoss hafna toqol. Kien hemm zmien iehor. Niftakar iljieli twal naqra u nara netflix bi hsieb ta xi vaganza jberren f' mohhi. Nippostja selfies mal-kotba qabel nitfaghhom fuq l-ixkaffa. Ritwali. Ghext hafna emozzjonijiet ta' karattri li habbejt li haduni f'  postijiet varji. Tawni bizzejjed, mhux iz-zejjed ghax facli imbghad titfahom fuq l-ixkaffa u tinsihom. U vicin tieghi kelli xemx li tahmi u ddawwal b'entuzjazmu ta min jaf jghix, u li forsi kienet tiddi wisq fiz-zmien ta' ftit bizzejjed. Norqod fil-fond bla ansjeta. Kollox ftit imma bizzejjed. Bla riskju. Bla tghaffig u tqanqil. Hsibijiet lucidi waqt il-mixja ghax-xoghol, nanalizza s-sitwazzjoni tal-pajjiz f' mohhi. Kuntent imma mhux bizzejjed. Imbghad fi zmien il pandemija qomt u ftaht. Irrakkuntajt ruhi.  Bdejt nahseb fi vjaggi mimlija riskju. Bilkemm kapaci naqra ktieb bil-herqa. Ridt inkun karattru fin-novella li qed tikteb lila nfisha. Kollox beda jidher sabih waqt il-mixjiet. Skoprejt dettalji fil-bini ta' madwari li qatt ma rajt qabel. Roqghat ta' hdura f' nofs il-gungla tal-konkrit.  Bkejt u fraht... hafna. Xrobt, pejjipt, qsamt u ktibt. Rigali. Il-holm ergajt bdejt niftakru u nhossu. U sibt muza naqa msahhra.   Imbghad il-muza telqet f hin bla waqt. Forsi ghal ftit, forsi ghal hafna u ghax hekk ghandu jkun. Vojt. Twist fin-novella assurda li bdiet tinkiteb. Kapitlu li qisu ma bediex jew forsi footnote f'kapitlu ta' hajja ohra. Imma l-hajja ma tistennix. Inrid nibqa nghix u nhoss. Nixtieq inkompli l-vjagg fuq il- ferrovija. Nixtieq il-paci ta qabel u l-ftuh ghas-sbuhija ta issa. Nixtieq leggerezza deep. Nixtieq nhobb minghajr ma nghafas. Nixtieq ix-xemx u l-qamar. Forsi wisq. Nixtieq iz-zejjed. Nixtieq kollox.

P.S. Calm down... you need a good laugh and some self irony.

Schrödinger's cat turns Behemoth

Sometimes I really feel that life is like the schrödinger's cat, especially in those moments where life itself is pregnant with change and I feel that whiff that anything is possible. I often tell myself that all I have to do is to focus on my happiness and when the box is opened the cat will still be there. But the thought that the cat will die drives me nuts with anxiety, and I end up obsessively checking the box, only to realise that my state of mind will inevitably lead to the most undesired outcomes. Than I am reminded that whatever happens to the cat has little to do with my mind but with very material events which are random and unpredictable yet interconnected. So yes in a way my state of mind influences the course of events just as so many other things. So deep inside I know it is better let go of the cat and the experiment and just live. I don’t have to check the box to know the cat is alive. There is even a strong possibility that I won’t even capture the moment and the cat would have simply left the box on its own, perhaps having evolved in to a highly evolved super intelligent cat bent on turning the whole town in to catland, a cat which pranks the powerful and the corrupt. I would have unleashed a cat like Behemoth. And perhaps I won’t even be able to figure out whether its the same cat or not. For even if it survives, it won’t be the same cat after such an experiment. Cats have a habit of coming along the way, by some sheer random coincidence when least expected. They can’t stay long enough. Still betting on the law of probablity. One thing I bet on; receiving a hand written letter written in cat language which I have to spend the rest of my life deciphering. Or even better a knock on the door from Behemoth with an invitation to join a merry team of pranksters in a voyage from one station to the next along the Trans Siberian railway. P.S. I checked the box and the cat died.

Trains, roots and witches

One risk of this blog is that it occupies a dangerous space between the personal, the political and the public spheres. It is obviously spurred by everyday happenings, political anger and personal anxieties. It gives James the chance to stray away from the analytical impersonal style of a newspaper article. It also gives him the chance to write about his introspective thoughts, which are lurking beneath the surface. In many ways the past weeks of semi isolation have been an ideal context for a journey dominated by three images; roots, trains and witches. Roots because these represent what anchors us to reality and connect the future to the past, creeping incrementally and seeking new sources of nourishment without breaking the chain.  Trains because these represent the opportunity of a journey towards the next stations, a chance of a mapped out flight which may lack an ultimate destination.  Witches cause they represent magical realism, the small extraordinary happenings in very ordinary lives, the ephemeral joy of threading dangerously and the thought that it is better to be awake and exposed to risk than asleep and numb.  Yet these all live in contradiction with each other  in a world where as Heraclitus warned us you cannot step in the same river twice.  This may be why I changed my mind on stopping this blog upon the realization that the restoration of normality will not mean the end of this journey. 

Farewell

As a post covid sense of  'normality' sets in, this blog randomly resurrected by an ephemeral spark of imagination a few weeks before the health crisis erupted will probably go in to  another long period of hibernation. For while the health crisis is not over and may return back with even greater vengeance, the dreamy sensation of awe and fear which characterized the  past weeks is drawing towards an end.  Writing here had become part of the daily rituals and cocoons which gave solace and even bliss during isolation but which now sadly only serve to amplify a sense of dissonance between the imagination and  the real.   It is now also the time to let go of imagination and let reality set in.  Life should after all be celebrated in the material world, warts and all.  This was a dark period but one which created a space for reflection as well as an appreciation for beauty and imagination.  For this reason some things shall be missed. But all that can be possibly albeit improbably lived in a more fulfilling way outside.  It was a time when letting go was an acceptable way of coping with an unforeseen event.   This gave some of us a sense of freedom in the face of risk.  As expected the return to normality will be long drawn and bitter  process, which can be unfortunately  measured by the increase in the number of cars in the streets. There will be no grand finale.  No great liberation party awaits us. But  some of the utopian yearnings,possibilities, silences and moments evoked in this space will hopefully materialize in the experience of a life which perhaps can now be seen in a different perspective.  And it all goes back to the start of this journey; the roots which anchor us to a happiness grounded in every day struggles, deep heartfelt smiles, silences, emotions and realities.  

P.S. The author had a change of heart and the blog will not go in to hibernation. He was suffering from Monday morning/afternoon blues. This also forms part of the journey. 

Random incidents

Life can be perceived as a string of random incidents which collide at you.   So in the end the narrative of the self i.e. the way we define 'I' is simply the drawing of lines connecting these random dots.  The clearer the line, the clearer we can recognize ourselves in this pattern.  In a way we are turning meaningless random incident which just happen in to meaningful and sometimes defining moments leading to other significant moments.  But the way we draw our lines is not disconnected from the society in which we live.  For the words we use to make sense of these patterns are also socially determined.  In  many ways our understanding of our own selves is conditioned by our relationship to power.  For ideology is something which speaks through us.  We also build our idea of ourselves by attributing meaning to some of the random things which strike us while ignoring others which do not.  Therefore although there is an element of autonomy and choice, this is conditioned by the limits of our language.  Yet what we consider  meaningful and  what we ignore also has to do with beliefs and social expectations. In this way we lose a lot from what comes in our way. For when we draw a line between the dots we tend to skip a number of things which we deem irrelevant or which we more often than not fail to comprehend.

In many ways constructing a narrative of the 'self' is very much akin to decorating a house in in a random manner which accumulates over time in to something we can recognise as our own. You may be stuffing it with stuff from artisan markets from all around the world.  Most of these things you buy were clearly not meant to be in the same room as the others.  Yet you make them come together for the sheer purpose of making your place an extension of you.  That is our way of feeling rooted in a place by making it look more like ourselves.  Some people may even be lucky enough to share the same experience with others who share the same sensibilities.  In this way they can even establish a home together and give it a plural imprint rather than a singular one.  In the same way our own narrative of life can intersect with other narratives of others, and sometimes these intersections result in footnotes,  sentences, paragraphs, chapters and rarely whole books.  We may also find ourselves in footnotes, sentences, paragraphs, chapters and rarely whole books of other people.

Ftit u hafna bahar

Sabih il-bahar kalm jew ftit immewweg ghax go fih qisek dejjem thoss li minnu ghandek bizzejjed.  Kemm jekk ghal  ftit f xi qabza ta’ malajr kemm jekk hafna, f' xi nofs ta nhar tiela u niezel miflug bix-xemx imma bic-certezza li se ssibu hemm biex jiffriskak.  U l-bahar fil-bajjiet kommunist u ararkist.  Jghati lil kulhadd u ma jiehu xejn lil hadd. Jistiedenk imma tmur meta trid int.  Il-bahar ghandu riha, hoss u jmissek kullumkien, ruh u gisem.  Materjalist u spiritwali fl-istess hin.  Il-bahar ta’ kulhadd ghalinqas sakemm ma jbieghawhx ukoll.  U minkejja li ghandu r-ritmu tieghu f' dik  iz-zifna eternal tieghu mar-rih, fih issib is-silenzju.  Ghax fih facli ma tixtieqx iktar.  Go fih ftit jew hafna dejjem bizzejjed.    Ghalinqas sakemm qieghed hdejh jew go fih.  U anki jekk il-boghod taf li qieghed hemm dejjem u  kwazi kullumkien.