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In his book “Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness”, William Styron said “In rereading, for the first time in years, sequences from my novels – passages where my heroines have lurched down the pathways towards doom – I was stunned to perceive how accurately I had created the landscape of depression in the minds of these young women….Thus depression, when it finally came to me, was in fact no stranger, not even a visitor unannounced; it had been tapping at my door for decades.” These words remind me of something Dean Koontz wrote in his novel “Brother Odd”. “By writing in an unrelievedly dark mode, he warns, the writer risks culturing darkness in his heart, becoming the very thing that he decries”.
If who one is and what becomes of one is manifested unconsciously in what we do this day, can we then use conscious effort to alter our path? And I wonder if this refers also to ones preferred genre of music or books or paintings. Do these preferences reflect the light or darkness within us?
But perhaps more than anything, I wonder if a person like the above mentioned could, or perhaps it is even “would” alter his path? In ancient Greece, Aristotle (or his pupil Theophrastus) asked “‘Why is it that all men who are outstanding in philosophy, poetry, or the arts are melancholic?”. In this century, the connection between exceptional creativity and mental illness is murkier. One can imagine that if the relationship is indeed true, then natural selection must have favoured its persistence given that this advantageous trait must benefit its owner. And if it does benefit its owner, then could, or would the person then be reluctant to move beyond this state?
By Mestengo
Facebook has made life both easy and difficult. I have spent quite some time today responding to each of the birthday greetings (70 and counting). My brother said to me, people just put up a single thank you response to all, but I said I went to a school that emphasised alot on proper manners and once in a while, I cannot help but feel that I need to be proper. And today is one such day, after all, gratitude cannot be outdated, can it?
Some time back, I decided birthdays are a good time to reflect on our lives and our personal growth. Are you what your 8 year-old self would want to be? Have you achieved what you want to? Have you treated this life well? Have you been a good spouse, friend, parent, child? Where are you going – do you seek an easy life or one of service and adventure? How have you made use of your gift (of knowledge, of intelligence, of an opportunity to be educated)? Those questions I ask myself, and as I pen my thoughts, sometimes I find it interesting that even to myself, one cannot find the strength to be truthful. Surely we can be honest with ourselves?
The past year has been a period of tremendous growth. I am closer to being able to hear my inner-most thoughts, some I have long dismissed as useless gut-feeling. This learning curve is hard, sometimes I try so hard my head hurts, this so-called gut-feeling is so under-utilised and suppressed that it cannot speak to me anymore, or perhaps I have forgotten it’s language nor understand it anymore. Occasionally I am troubled, I get anxious, I become lost in the thunderstorm in my mind, but like a log floating down the river, I know the next peaceful stretch will come, if I persevere through it.
When this day ends, one chapter closes and another begins. In the next chapter, noone knows what the story will be, but I believe that this is what makes the human species special, this is our specialty. We author our own stories. And I hope you will choose to make your story a good read.
by Mestengo
“Although a time to be merry, I imagine that the new year is also a time for reflection of one’s life – the good, the bad and the inconsequential. Where does one go from here? And how can one do better? To observe and to contemplate allows us to understand ourselves better, and in knowing ourselves, we may then begin on the journey to peace of mind”
[by Mestengo]
In the recent episode of Bones, a doctor Adit Gadh said that it is not death that we fear, we fear no one will notice our absence.
I am a writer. Only I write research papers, reports, grant application, the occasional letters to editor in the magazine or newspaper and sometimes, when it all becomes too much, I flush my brain here on mentalflush. I have always imagined that one day, I would create a fine piece of work, one worthy of a nobel prize, one that will make the world a better place. In someway, I have pondered hard on my legacy, what will the world remember of me when I am gone, if it will at all?
What is your legacy? And I do mean legacy beyond that of an offspring. There is a romanticized saying that “to the world you maybe just one person, but to one person you maybe the world”. But what if you are one of those people truly alone in this world, without family or friends? Does it bother you that perhaps, you are inconsequential?
Scurry, scurry, dump. Return nonchalantly. Repeat scurry, scurry, dump. I have been observing my neighbour lately. I must insist, I am merely observing and not spying. I am certainly adverse to the idea of spying on someone. That said, I cannot be responsible over my curiosity from taking a walk away from me every once in a while to see what is happening elsewhere. Curiosity is nomadic, I assure you. I have seen mine leave and return many times, even within this lifetime. Of course, you would not imagine I would remember if curiosity was mobile in my other lives, would you?
Now, where was I? Yes, it is most important to start from the beginning, where it all begun. How I came to notice my neighbour, whom I should aptly call Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump, can only be described as unintentional. I have taken refuge by the few plants on my balcony as my new work place. As a wandering researcher, one constantly has to find inspiration, even when there are few to come by. Therefore, after I planted myself comfortably into my corner, I plunged into work. Perhaps it is because I have planted myself so comfortably that I have blended into the background, for it is then I hear the scurrying sound. How can one describe the sound from such a movement? If you have rats in your pipes, you would know. My rat have this habit of going for a run up the pipes every night, I suspect I do not hear it coming down because the best way to go down is of course, whooshing down the slime.
Anyway, back to my neighbour, what is she up to, I wondered? As I watched, Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump, oblivious of my scrutinising eyes, scurried down the road, dragging some pieces of her recently annihilated tree. As I blinked, the pieces vanished into thin air. Where did it go? Wait, no! Did she just throw it over the fence into the other house, a lonely, unoccupied house? No, I cannot imagine that. Now, you must realise, this scurrying act is no normal movement. It is extremely swift. It is extremely clean. Only a pair of good eyes would have caught its precise action. But this wretched pair of eyes had no such capability. But bad eyes often come with good nose, and this nose smells something is up to no-good. Although the nose hinted of something, the eyes caught nothing more, and curiosity went back into its cave. Work resumed.
After a few hours, the sound returned. Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump is back in action. This time, she moved in the opposite direction. Again, she was dragging pieces of her annihilated tree. Again, they disappeared with a blink of the eye. But this time, I have a fellow witness. Yes, indeed Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump had been careless. Another pair of eyes was watching her. And this pair of eye, coupled with a sharp tongue, confronted Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump. Caught in act! Mrs Scurry-scurry-dump, I hope you have learnt your lesson. Please keep your rubbish to yourself, or kindly pay the rubbish collector to dispose of it.
[By Mestengo]
It is the time of the year again when freshies join the University. Today was perhaps the worst ever I have experienced, so much so I feel exhausted even though work was not too demanding. The crowd invades any permeable corner of the University, there was no sanctuary anywhere. They were loud, people were put through shameful acts, people were humiliated. I cannot imagine what goes through the minds of the people involved. Do you remember Milgram’s experiment on torture? It was after the Nazi’s Holocaust and there was the trial of whether the perpetrators of those horrific crimes were just following orders or did Hitler’s accomplices shared his intents? Milgram found surprisingly that many people would carry out torture on order. Suddenly I was staring at all around me what appeared to be case studies confirming that. Those people who made the others knell and do various acts that humiliate the victims, I wonder where are their conscience? And those so-called victims who subjected themselves to humiliation, are those classical examples of conformism? It suddenly felt very scary to me. I felt like I was peering into the darkest side of human nature. Would these same people, when put through Milgram’s experiment, behave as predicted? If yes, I am fearful. EO Wilson said human as a species lacked a goal beyond that of a biological one. If he is correct, is our species indeed doomed to fail?
Another surprising revelation was how male and female seemed to be segregated in those “games”. It seemed to go against the concept of equality that modern society, our foremothers worked so hard to achieve. I understand this tradition comes a long way, but I have heard that the “games” were not like what they were before. But this segregation was shocking to me. Are the students aware of what they were condoning? Do they realise what they are doing? This seemed to reinforce that men and women are not equal. Is this another step backwards for this society?
In the end, I find myself totally exhausted by all these experiences and trying to comprehend what I was seeing. A severe sensory overload. By 6pm, I was in bed. This species called Homo sapiens scares me, the idea of what they are capable of scares me. What do you think? I would like to hear that my interpretation is severely flawed.
[by Mestengo]
Michael Bader’s post on Psychology Today with the same title scored a bull’s-eye for me. For a moment, I was inclined to recreate Tom Cruise’s infamous sofa incident, for I was experiencing a moment of dopamine spike. I too have been criticised more than once for overgeneralising, all because I enjoy observing social behaviour and I enjoy discussing the patterns I see. Of course, you would argue for the case of individualism, but the word social itself implies group, and as such, social theories are based on broad phenomena. This makes sense, but in a world paranoid with racism, religious right and the blahs a long those lines, speak like that and one may face accusations for being a racist, committing blasphemy or lo and behold, societal outcast. And there you go again, the word society; defined by Oxford Dictionary as “the community of people living in a particular country or region and having shared customs, laws, and organizations”.
Patterns, patterns everywhere.
Pattern, patterns why I care,
Fools we are but dare,
Social groups are all to bare.
[by Mestengo]
—
As I read the Kite Runner for the second time, I find my nights, daydreams and siestas haunted by Afghanistan. It seems that everywhere I go, Afghanistan trails closely. At the bookstore in Lisbon Airport, the story of Aisha, an 18-year-old Afghan woman who was sentenced by the Taliban to have her nose and ears cut off for fleeing her abusive in-laws is on the cover of Time magazine; and I could not help but lay my hands on it and obsessively pour over it. While taking a stroll at night in Wiesbaden, I came up to an Afghan kebab shop and gave in to a kebab.
In fact, so absorbed I am that I have been wondering why did I not learn Arabic in school given that I have lived almost my entire life in a Muslim country. At the core of my obsession is actually curiosity. Curiosity of Muslim culture elsewhere, first lighted as a student back in school studying Islamic civilization and reignited as an adult in a world of religious conflict.
Perhaps more important is a deep longing, one lasting a lifetime, to really connect with another being. Coming from a multicultural country, religious tolerance has often been emphasized, yet few seemingly give thoughts to the reality that true acceptance can only be achieved with understanding of what differences are and how they arise. Look around you and what do you see? Do you see what I see? What lies in front of us may be the same sight, but how we perceive can be hugely disparate.
Therein lays trouble. Someone said, “strong opinions should be weakly held”. I believe this is equivalent to the middle path called for by Buddhism. If people of the world could do so, our disagreements will not be fewer, but our need to be correct will lessen and so will bloodshed. This view will no doubt be seen by many as overly simplistic. And you will find that the person who argues the most, undoubtedly, is not the simplest person in the room. And just may be, this disagreeable person, happens to also be the person with the most grouses about an unfair life.
As I sat in the plane, crossing borders again for the first time in almost a year, my thoughts drift; sometimes coming to a clearing like the sun that comes after the clouds parted, others like a sweeping thunderstorm. I am grateful for this journey of discovery, of diversity within homogeneity, of homogeneity within heterogeneity.
Where I come from, racial jokes equate to acceptance of differences, and laughter shared; but to the unfamiliar, it seems uncouth and racist. But living in Portugal has shown me that diversity is alive and well even in a generally homogenous society. That said, I cannot help but believe that human, like all animals, flock together with those most similar to them. And this often means we are divided based on racial groups.
My question is, if cultures often survive because of such a separation, would an emphasise of a “global” culture dilute and ultimately, spell the doom of diversity we talk so much about? Imagine going to Mexico to find the Tarahumara running on Nike “Just do it” instead of huaraches, or eating sushi in Japan with Coca-cola instead of sake.
We often talk about tolerance, but to truly embrace diversity, perhaps acceptance is the best gift one can give to another. And when we are ready for it, we can say “Saude” or “Kampei” or “Salud” or “Cheers”, or whatever it is, and truly enjoy the benefit of it.
[by Mestengo]
23rd January 2010, Saturday night. As usual, I went for a 5km run. A friend called for dinner, the hermit in me said “No”, but its nemesis said “Yes”. After dinner, I dragged this friend to something I wanted to do for a while – find the soup kitchen at Baixa. Maybe it was too late, but whatever the reason, we did not find it. We ended up at a cafe, and it was there I met a young gentleman.
Later, he told me, you said something wise that day. “Not every war is worth fighting”. I did not see him again for a while and when we met again during the birthday of this dear friend, I sat there quietly and relished in the Battle of the Minds, two brilliant young minds clashing with such sensual ferocity.
Occasionally, despite the interesting issue discussed, my thoughts drift away to when I was younger and people told me I was often argumentative. Sometimes, I believe age has mellowed that person and wisdom has seeped into the bones. After all, I have journeyed through all the three ways Confucius said there were which we may learn wisdom. First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.
And when my mind came back to the present moment, there I was. I was amused that no matter how many times I drifted off, when I came back, they were still at it. Coming from a relatively calm and quiet culture, the noises of the Western world have often left me exhausted. A day with friends may lead to sensory overload and leaves me hungry for many days of solitude. After 2 years of living in Europe, I imagined myself getting a little acclimatised and less traumatised. But in a few weeks, I will be transported to another world once again. I am already feeling a little nostalgic, a feeling rather unfamiliar. And occasionally I am assailed by a kaleidoscope of feelings I do not even know how to describe. I was told it has to do with the fact that I was brought up a cerebral creature. For me the heart is just a set of cardiac muscles, love is a notion created by chemical stimuli and feelings are just thought processes. But thanks the gift of friendship, I have learnt that I may not be so right after all. And this young gentleman, has gone a long way to teaching an old dog some new tricks. This writing is not just empty ramblings, its author wishes to thank the people who have brought much joy and fun to this journey called life. Thank you for peppering my life with everything sweet, salty and sour.
[by Mestengo]
