Just a small thing. I write about a lot of diffent things. I want to write about everything. But I do worry about switching off my readers. PS: I think I'm Buddhist, Christian, Taoist, Skeptical and basically a very bad example of a Sufi. I think I'm a kind of whirling Dervish within my mind. I have flights of fancy, and I let them carry me away. So this post is about Facebook censorship, free speech, my favorite movie, St Francis of Assisi, love, just what I think. Its for some people in Japan and Australia, and everywhere, really. Well, here goes...
Hey guys, this is Garantseraph11, back with a bit more of my life. I want to tell you a couple of funny stories about what's been going on. First, I might tell you a bit about hanami in Japan. I wrote that down somewhere.
I haven't had as many hanami parties as a lot of foreigners in Japan. For those of you who don't know, a hanami party is a picnic that Japanese people have in late March and early April. For this is the time the sakura bloom. For about two weeks a year, some Japanese trees bloom with pink, red or white flowers. These are called hanami. For me, and within traditional Japanese culture, the very brevity of the life of the cherry blossom (the English name given to sakura), represents life, death, birth, rebirth, prebirth, after life, after death. The life of the Sakura is a universal representation of all existence. I think. These are big themes, I know, but consider the cherry blossom tree. It sits still, for 50 weeks a yearflowers bloom for two weeks and then fall to the ground and pass away into something else. Such is life.
So, as I was saying, I haven't experienced many of the hanami parties. Hanami parties are full, filled with life, everyone comes out to bear witness to this remarkable flower, to pay their respects before it passes away. We gather around the base of the cherry blossom tree, and bend a down a little, touch the earth, maybe bow down and pick up a single flower and put it in our hair. (Just kidding with that last bit. We don't do that but we could. We do a smaller version of that already.) It's like being a flower child for a fortnight. It's one reason why, at essence, Japanese culture is peace loving and free. Of course there are some branches of the tree that need to be reformed or reshaped. Bur that's true of any culture.
St Francis is the new pope. A lot of people don't like Catholicism, but do you want to kiss a leper, because St Francis would. Do you know why he would? Because he was crazy, mad, adventurous and free. Moreover, he was filled with love. What could be worse than to be deprived of human contact, to be deprived of touch. If someone wants to know why Christianity is good in its purest forms, that's one reason. It understands the human need for touch, inclusiona nnd forgiveness. A friend recently posted on my wall. I had shown a photo of Father James Martin, and others who are involved in social welfare programs. The photo looked lit up a little blue. So I thought, great, I can advocate for my Catholic friends and Autism awareness with this post. I might share that photo and write "Do these Catholics look a little blue." My friend wrote back and posted on my wall, all I can see are child moletsters. This is a deeply offensive comment. I believe its a form of hate speech. Free speech is a really big issue right now. Recently a friend shared with me through "We are Humanity" the knowledge that a group had a post which was unpublished. Some people would say, "Well, that's not right. You should be able to publish anything." But, without seeing the post, how can we know. I think there will eventually be a few apologies passed around. But I want to use Facebook, so I respect Mark Zuckerberg's rights to use his website his way. These are big essays here. I can't right all of them myself. But as long as I am using his product, I can put a little pressure on. I don't want to though. I could threaten to leave Facebook, but what would be the point. Mr Zuckerberg probably wouldn't care. He would simply respect my rights as a user and say, "Fine, go and use someone else's product. I don't care." And he would be right to do so. That's just a little bit of what I think. But morevovr, I believe some forms of speech are dangerous. Some forms of speech are deadly. Some forms of speech shouldn't happen. The clearest one for me has two words............................................................are you thinking...............................................................................are you thinking....................................................................................................are you thinking.....................dot dot dot...
Mine is "Crucify him". I don't care what you believe. If you think there have been spoken, perhaps in your own tongue, such sentences, and disagree with them, just know that you don't believe in cmpletely free speech. You can make jokes about S11 and say everyone is a moron if they get offended, with a funny cartoon, but put it on your shirt and go and walk around New York. Thats what I wanted to say to my friend. If you would be brave enough to do so, you are free to say whatever you think... But you are free to say whtaever you think... Just know speech has consequences.
So I like Catholics, I like a lot of them, I like my Church with lots of people from many countries, I like the sense of hope, sharing and community that I feel there. I disagree completely with the cover up of abuse. I believe those people need to be tried under civil law. And I believe that they should be ex-communicated. Then they should receive counselling. I just believe in one law for everyone. Personally, I think some parts of any organisation are wrong. Some of the other things that are happening in the Catholic Church, and some things that remain on it's record, are wrong. I really don't like some bits of the pro life stuff, and stuff to do with AIDS in Africa. To be honest, it may stop me from joining. But I would love to be a monk, a Benedictine or Franciscan monk. There are lots of problems but it does not mean there hasn't been any good. (Metaphor for my writing? Please. Pretty please. Like me:)
My favorite film is about a white priest in Africa, in Rwanda, who stayed and sheltered the children and people of Rwanda, while the other white people left. That man said his heart so open, spread his arms so wide, and said, yes, you can stay here. I will wait with you for them to come, not knowing who was coming. Was it the guys with the machetes or was it the UN. No, the UN had left. All of the white people left except for a very few, most famously that Catholic priest. That's why I believe he is a saint. He became one because of his faith. He became one because Christianity is centred around the story of Christ. Whether ypou believe it or not, I don't care. Please show mr the science that will create that in the human heart. Then you can tell me what to and what not to believe. I believe in self-sacrifice. No t always. Not everywhere. There has historically been some pretty crazy martyrdoms, or it seems that way to me. His wasn't one of them I love that movie. It's called Shooting Dogs. Check it out. Hotel Rwanda is a fantastic moovie, its about a man who provided shelter. That man was a shelter, too. Two people I truky respect. One lived, one died. I don't know why. Why did the guy who had to be there live? Why did the guy who didn't have to be there die? I don't know, but I think it was a symbol of the faith. Peace, love, understanding, Grant.
PS: Remember Rule No8. To use this wouldn't be very Christian, would it? But feel free to leave comments. I will reply when I have time. Thanks for reading a bit of garant and I.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
BELATED BLUE DAYS
I thought I mioght finally get around to making a few no confessions. On Wednesday 3rd of April, I fell back into a couple of bad habits. 1) I borrowed some thing of someone elses. 2) I tried to break into something. I want to get this off my chest. On Wednseday, I borrowed my wife's sky blue biro and I also tried to open someone elses book shelf so I could give away a couple of books.
The night before a lonely man had been sitting in an internet cafe making a web page. That man had dreamed up this website a few weeks ago as spomething that might make the world a better place. Its at the following url: www.uniqreefrelief.wordpress.com. Its my vision for how to organise a positive social media awareness campaign designed at attracting a little bit of attention to one of the world's troubled spots- the Great Barrier Reef in Queensland. Garantseraph is actually a part of that project. This writing is supposed to help me document how I am a very ordinary, very flawed human being. And yet I still choose to TRY to change the world. I mean, why would I do that. Activism is for really, really talented people, influential people, famous people. It's for people with more power or stronger connections- for people awho are more linked in than me. Isnn't it? Change comes from above, doesn't it? Well, actually if I keep waiting around until I am the King of Denmark, who probably isn't a very powerful guy himself, if he exists at all, I'll basically be waiting forever. So I choose to believe that change is not a top down process. Nor does it begin at the bottom and work its way up. I choose to believe that it can start somewhere in the middle, right about where I am. It doesn't always, but it can. I believe that with all of the good and the bad things I have done in my life, my life has a positive meaning and direction. The battle in my little tiny human heart between good and evil, or skilfull and unskillful actions, or however you want to see that, hasn't been won yet. Not definitively. That fight is still raging. It rages every day. I mean, I have some pretty afflictive emotions but we all have to start from where we are. So I started my website. I like it. Its not very professional. I made my campaign myself. It's called Get Yourself a Paper Cup. I'm not even an NPO. I don't have any supporters or any funding, but I can getr myself a paper cup. I like my campaign. Why wouldn't I? I made it... myself... alone... with a pencil and a paper and all of the computer experience I have gathered from working as an AET in Japan. I have a friend in Germany, in Berlin. He challenged me to find my choices, to do something constructive. Well I tried to friend him on Facebook because I like him, and I trust him, I trust his judgement that there are dreams worth pursuing. I don't have to be Ghandi, just Grant. That's okay for me. I can use my social isolation, my anonymity as a springboard for my campaign, through my writing. A lot of people probably think I'm crazy, even to try to do what I'm trying to do. Because my ultimate goal is to find a way of making a lot of money for charities everywhere. With your help. See here's the thing. You have all the time in the world to jump on board, and get yourself a paper cup. They are pretty cheap. Starbucks and McDonald's users throw them away. This can be a symbol of taking garbage and manking use of it. Homeless people can be in my charity. Now thats pretty democratic.
So anyway, I don't have a lot of traffic yet. So I have been watching other people's campaigns. One of them I have had. my eye on was Light It Up Blue. That wasn't something I intended to happen. I just noticed it and I thought, really, tomorrow is Blue Day? What the heck is that? In cities all over the world people celebrate difference and try to promote greater autism awareness. Really? I hadn't noticed. So I thought, tomorrow is my blue day. And I did everything I could possibly think of to assist that cause that day. I started writing letters to kids in America, and sharing their photos. Basically just stuff I used to do as an AET. Write a few comments on people's page, suggest a few things to try to make the campaign better and try to represent SOMETHING. Then I realised, oh... In Japan, Blue Day has already gone and been. It's already April 3rd. Didn't I feel like the April fool. Well, I did. And I felt sorry for missing the chance to contribute positively for that worldwide campaign because I was too busy with my own stuff. I guess I'll wait around for the next one. But I realised that Autism deserves more than one day's notice. We can't let all the stories slip through the cracks. We have to try to make this 2013 sometrhing like the unofficial year of the different and uniquely gifted child. That's my vision. So, I borrowed my wife's blue pen and started writing on the inside of a couple of books. Happy Belated Blue Day and writing down a Facebook page that is run by Single Mothers Who Have Children With Autism. I wrote this inside of five or six books and tried to give them to a friend. He didn't want them, for probably good reasons. So I sat down on the drenched couch. And thought, this is not a bad place to be in life. To be trying to do a couple of good things before I die. Maybe, I can give them to someone else.
In my city of Nagoya, there is an old man who lives near Arahata who sells me books for 100 yen. He has some really good English books, like Reefer Madness, some Stephen King, Classics, Science Fiction like Neuromancer, James Ellroy and even Cormac McCarthy. So, I tried to put the books back on his shelf because thats where I had bought one of them. It was locked so I put them on top with a message for him to sell them on eBay and give the money to charity. Potentially, those books could make a difference. If not, I will at least have done this: linked the orddinary reader to a website that aims to meet the needs of single mothers who have children with autism. If this idea tpicks up, with permission, those mothers can donate books to libraries and good will shops, serving otherr causes too. Or perhaps they might want to include a photo of their child, and put it within the book. Or maybe they can make some bookmarks, with their kids. A lot of people don't realise this, but we are witnessing a phenomenon, I believe. At least a small one. The day after I saw other people had done smimlar things, maybe. Big people too. Major League Baseball is also involved in trying to increase awareness. Why don't you hop on board yourself, and start sharing some photos. Please.
Grant Higham, a supporter of single mothers who have children with autism. Joined April 3, belatedly, and in support of his first cousin, N.
Right
my campaign
The night before a lonely man had been sitting in an internet cafe making a web page. That man had dreamed up this website a few weeks ago as spomething that might make the world a better place. Its at the following url: www.uniqreefrelief.wordpress.com. Its my vision for how to organise a positive social media awareness campaign designed at attracting a little bit of attention to one of the world's troubled spots- the Great Barrier Reef in Queensland. Garantseraph is actually a part of that project. This writing is supposed to help me document how I am a very ordinary, very flawed human being. And yet I still choose to TRY to change the world. I mean, why would I do that. Activism is for really, really talented people, influential people, famous people. It's for people with more power or stronger connections- for people awho are more linked in than me. Isnn't it? Change comes from above, doesn't it? Well, actually if I keep waiting around until I am the King of Denmark, who probably isn't a very powerful guy himself, if he exists at all, I'll basically be waiting forever. So I choose to believe that change is not a top down process. Nor does it begin at the bottom and work its way up. I choose to believe that it can start somewhere in the middle, right about where I am. It doesn't always, but it can. I believe that with all of the good and the bad things I have done in my life, my life has a positive meaning and direction. The battle in my little tiny human heart between good and evil, or skilfull and unskillful actions, or however you want to see that, hasn't been won yet. Not definitively. That fight is still raging. It rages every day. I mean, I have some pretty afflictive emotions but we all have to start from where we are. So I started my website. I like it. Its not very professional. I made my campaign myself. It's called Get Yourself a Paper Cup. I'm not even an NPO. I don't have any supporters or any funding, but I can getr myself a paper cup. I like my campaign. Why wouldn't I? I made it... myself... alone... with a pencil and a paper and all of the computer experience I have gathered from working as an AET in Japan. I have a friend in Germany, in Berlin. He challenged me to find my choices, to do something constructive. Well I tried to friend him on Facebook because I like him, and I trust him, I trust his judgement that there are dreams worth pursuing. I don't have to be Ghandi, just Grant. That's okay for me. I can use my social isolation, my anonymity as a springboard for my campaign, through my writing. A lot of people probably think I'm crazy, even to try to do what I'm trying to do. Because my ultimate goal is to find a way of making a lot of money for charities everywhere. With your help. See here's the thing. You have all the time in the world to jump on board, and get yourself a paper cup. They are pretty cheap. Starbucks and McDonald's users throw them away. This can be a symbol of taking garbage and manking use of it. Homeless people can be in my charity. Now thats pretty democratic.
So anyway, I don't have a lot of traffic yet. So I have been watching other people's campaigns. One of them I have had. my eye on was Light It Up Blue. That wasn't something I intended to happen. I just noticed it and I thought, really, tomorrow is Blue Day? What the heck is that? In cities all over the world people celebrate difference and try to promote greater autism awareness. Really? I hadn't noticed. So I thought, tomorrow is my blue day. And I did everything I could possibly think of to assist that cause that day. I started writing letters to kids in America, and sharing their photos. Basically just stuff I used to do as an AET. Write a few comments on people's page, suggest a few things to try to make the campaign better and try to represent SOMETHING. Then I realised, oh... In Japan, Blue Day has already gone and been. It's already April 3rd. Didn't I feel like the April fool. Well, I did. And I felt sorry for missing the chance to contribute positively for that worldwide campaign because I was too busy with my own stuff. I guess I'll wait around for the next one. But I realised that Autism deserves more than one day's notice. We can't let all the stories slip through the cracks. We have to try to make this 2013 sometrhing like the unofficial year of the different and uniquely gifted child. That's my vision. So, I borrowed my wife's blue pen and started writing on the inside of a couple of books. Happy Belated Blue Day and writing down a Facebook page that is run by Single Mothers Who Have Children With Autism. I wrote this inside of five or six books and tried to give them to a friend. He didn't want them, for probably good reasons. So I sat down on the drenched couch. And thought, this is not a bad place to be in life. To be trying to do a couple of good things before I die. Maybe, I can give them to someone else.
In my city of Nagoya, there is an old man who lives near Arahata who sells me books for 100 yen. He has some really good English books, like Reefer Madness, some Stephen King, Classics, Science Fiction like Neuromancer, James Ellroy and even Cormac McCarthy. So, I tried to put the books back on his shelf because thats where I had bought one of them. It was locked so I put them on top with a message for him to sell them on eBay and give the money to charity. Potentially, those books could make a difference. If not, I will at least have done this: linked the orddinary reader to a website that aims to meet the needs of single mothers who have children with autism. If this idea tpicks up, with permission, those mothers can donate books to libraries and good will shops, serving otherr causes too. Or perhaps they might want to include a photo of their child, and put it within the book. Or maybe they can make some bookmarks, with their kids. A lot of people don't realise this, but we are witnessing a phenomenon, I believe. At least a small one. The day after I saw other people had done smimlar things, maybe. Big people too. Major League Baseball is also involved in trying to increase awareness. Why don't you hop on board yourself, and start sharing some photos. Please.
Grant Higham, a supporter of single mothers who have children with autism. Joined April 3, belatedly, and in support of his first cousin, N.
Right
my campaign
Saturday, April 6, 2013
RULE NO 8: Don't steal
PREFACE: Please don't steal my stuff!
I want to preface this piece of writing with a piece of my mind and my heart. I am writing some pretty open things here. I am doing this a lot more openly than a lot of other people. I do this in the hope that people might get from them something they can use, like acceptance, understanding or courage to speak. I also understand that a lot of people are struggling to make a living and are just pilfering other people's ideas from the net. This is called theft of intellectual property. Please read my writings but don't pretend to have written them or any parts of them.. The net is an opensource, but I think of it like I think of it as a book: highly. The information contained in the pieces herein is for the most part true, and reliable, but you're going to have to quote the source If you do, you can call me, "The book guy in Japan" and refer people to my blog. You can cut and paste the first 9 sentences, and write the Book Guy in Japan now if you want. I just don't want people stealing my writing, not leaving comments, and publishing my shit. You will be sued if you go all "Million Pieces, James F" on this. So, don't. I am trying to trust human nature.
Having said that: I want to write about my childhood, and then blue days.
MAIN
G'day guys, my name is Grant, I have created a kind of alterego called Garant to explain some of the weird stuff that I've been up to lately. Some of what I'm doing with my life doesn't seem like the sorts of things I would have done before, I don't feel like the same old me. I feel like some kind of weird amorphous creation, like I have two voices inside of me. The first is the one that belongs to the old me, the quiet shy, introverted, calm and logical plain old me. I like this guy, he's served me well. He's taken from familiarity and safety to some pretty distant shores. His is the voice of levelheaded logic. Then there's this new guy, this dreamer, this creative, wonderfully free, force of unstoppable wild abandonment, who will do anything for a good enough cause. Let's call him Garant. He possesses a voice of wild and crazy love.
So that's me now. Who was I as a child? What was I like? I was always a dreamer, I was always a little bit out to lunch. I was always thinking, and imagining. I was also alone and the source of much derision. One day, I was sitting eating my lunch by myself- it was often by myself- and I didn't even hear the bell ring! I came back to class. Hey, what's everyone doing here so early, I thought. "Why are you late," the teacher asked. I think his name was Mr Mullett or something weird like that. This was right before I started being bullied by two pairs of brothers, who were also kind of friends. Ask Mark and Daniel if they remember that. I wonder where they are, sometimes, some of those children I grew up with. I don't blame them for a lot of it. I was lucky to live in a safe society, in a safe country and go to a safe school. Because I was always a kind of a Painted Bird. If you don't know what that is, go and look it up, find out what that book's about because I think its a kind of seminal novel in many ways. By a guy called Jerzy Kosinski, who also wrote Being There which becamme a Peter Sellars film. Back again, now, from the dreaming "I don't know, sir. I didn't hear the bell ring." "Where were you sitting?" "Oh, just over there by the steps." "Who was with you?" "No-one sir, I was just sitting by myself." At the time, we were in a kind of composite class. The grade fives, my class, shared a small building with the grade below. As some kind of new solution to this friendless child's problems, some of the younger class were asked to look after me. To let me sit with them for awhile. It didn't take for long. Either they didn't want to hang out, or I didn't want to hang out, or perhaps it was just mutual. Anyway, we fell away after about a week.
So anyway, I had that kind of childhood, and maybe as a result, I started borrowing things the very next year. The first really big thing I took was another boy's electronic chess set. I didn't even know how to play. The game just interested me, I guess. I always liked things like that, things with little tiny pieces of puzzles inside of them. Combinations to solve, strategies to experiment with, until the solution finally emerged. I became a gifted player, later. Maybe, people always knew that was me. I'm not sure. Anyway, there were school notices about it. The thief never came forward. Later my father found the set in my room. I had buried it at the bottom of my drawers. "Whose is this," my father asked. "I don't know, I found it in the paddock. Someone must have put it there." Our house was surrounded by spare allotments, so in many important ways, I always lived in a kind of sepaation from others even physically. Needless to say, none of this was very believable. "Tell me again. Where did you get this," my father asked Finally, I confessed that it wasn't mine. For some reason, I was never really punished by the school. But my father, to his eternal credit, taught both himself and me to play. That was probably the closest we have ever been in our lives together. My dad took care of me in all of that. He involved me and our family in the local chess club, that was run at a Catholic school. Hi, John. By the way are you still playing. John Harris was my coach, and we had some other pretty good players like Mark, a boy two years above me, and Daniel and Josie. We all entered the state competition at one stage or another, and many of us won prizes.
I don't like writing about things like stealing. I wonder what other people will think of me. Of course, I do. And there are parts of me, many in fact, that I will never share, with anyone. I think everyone is the same. Or most of us anyway. But, yeah, I took something when I was a child, and I also broke into a car the next year to see if they had any small change, and I am ashamed of that. What I would like people, to be aware of though, is that something good can come out of the seemingly bad. I became closer to my father, learnt to play chess, which led me to friendships with an old man who loves shogi in Japan. It gave my brother a hobby, too. Maybe none of that would have been possible if another boy hadn't brought an electronic chess to school and I had never stolen it. So, I'm sorry, but I did learn how to play, is what I would like to say to that boy. Also, my childhood indescretions have helped me befriend some pretty unusual people. I have a friend in Japan who had a rougher childhood than me who thinks he is klepto. I am one of the few people he can talk about his problems with. I solved that part of my life over twenty years ago, so now I can help him with his. So I don't mind being a little more open about things with others. If I see you lift something, and want me to see you do it, I know you're probably looking for a little bit of help. You probably need it, just so you don't feel worthless and like a piece of garbage from the street. By the way, I always tell my friend, mate there are bigger thieves than you, so I wouldn't worry yourself over it too much. I see a lot of good in you, and you can get better with that.
Because there was a little bit of that kind of thing in my life., too. I had some pretty weird obsessions. With, the smurfs, for example. The Smurfs, for those who don't know were these tiny little blue creatures that lived somewhere in France under mushrooms or something. They had their little society and used to collect berries. A bad wizard called Gargomoyle and his cat Azriel hated their smurfs, or just wanted to cook them for his potions or something. It was a cartoon and it wasn't REAL, at least I think not. They also had figurines. How I loved those little blue figures. At the time, it was a bit of a craze. Collecting smurfs. I don't know how many other people were into it. But some people I knew were hooked in a pretty big way. One friend of mine had just about all of them. He was a very nice kid a couple of years older than us, whose family was friends with ours. We were all friends, my brother, my sister and me and their three children. But their oldest boy was a little different from others. Not a lot, just a little. But he came from a truly wonderful and loving family. Maybe they spoiled him a little bit with this one thing. And I think it was the right thing to do. I am sure that kid has lived the best of all possible futures. I can't know that. I really hope that nothing terribly jaw droppingly sad happened to him. But that could happen to anyone. I just know that that family took excellent care of their slightly different child and made sure he had a lot of interests so that he could engage with life and find meaningful occupation later on in life.
Anyway, about the smurfs. I had a few board games like monopoly, but I didn't have a lot of people to play with. So I played with the smurfs. "Whose turn is it now. Grumpy, your turn. Well done, Grumpy, you got second prize in a beauty competition, collect $10." "C'mon, Smurfette, roll the dice." Of course, I had to roll the dice for them, "Chance. Oh, no, bad luck Smurfette. You just went straight to jail. " Go directly to jail, do not pass go, Do not collect $200."" One of my smurfs always got the rates card, and I couldn't really understand how figure out that bit of the game, so I just didn't worry about it. I liked an even game, so there was a natural flow and flux in fortunes. I wanted the game to go on as long as possible. The game was always a little rigged, I guess. I always had my favorites, so I probably cheated a little bit so they would usually win. And we'd pack up the game, until another day, and I'd hide my stolen smurfs away. Friendless or insecure children sometimes have imaginary friends. I lacked the imagination for that, so I guess mine were just stolen. Of course, these games only lasted a couple of months before my parents worked out what was happening. We met the other family. I said sorry, and gave back my self-funded smurf collection, and our families remained pretty good friends until they had to move to another city. I also probably should have asked my parents for some smurfs, but I just wasn't that kind of kid. Besides, our family didn't have a lot of money. Only my father was working, as a teacher and he had four kids and a wife. Those were good days, though. It would be hard to live as well as my family did doing my father's job now.
I want to preface this piece of writing with a piece of my mind and my heart. I am writing some pretty open things here. I am doing this a lot more openly than a lot of other people. I do this in the hope that people might get from them something they can use, like acceptance, understanding or courage to speak. I also understand that a lot of people are struggling to make a living and are just pilfering other people's ideas from the net. This is called theft of intellectual property. Please read my writings but don't pretend to have written them or any parts of them.. The net is an opensource, but I think of it like I think of it as a book: highly. The information contained in the pieces herein is for the most part true, and reliable, but you're going to have to quote the source If you do, you can call me, "The book guy in Japan" and refer people to my blog. You can cut and paste the first 9 sentences, and write the Book Guy in Japan now if you want. I just don't want people stealing my writing, not leaving comments, and publishing my shit. You will be sued if you go all "Million Pieces, James F" on this. So, don't. I am trying to trust human nature.
Having said that: I want to write about my childhood, and then blue days.
MAIN
G'day guys, my name is Grant, I have created a kind of alterego called Garant to explain some of the weird stuff that I've been up to lately. Some of what I'm doing with my life doesn't seem like the sorts of things I would have done before, I don't feel like the same old me. I feel like some kind of weird amorphous creation, like I have two voices inside of me. The first is the one that belongs to the old me, the quiet shy, introverted, calm and logical plain old me. I like this guy, he's served me well. He's taken from familiarity and safety to some pretty distant shores. His is the voice of levelheaded logic. Then there's this new guy, this dreamer, this creative, wonderfully free, force of unstoppable wild abandonment, who will do anything for a good enough cause. Let's call him Garant. He possesses a voice of wild and crazy love.
So that's me now. Who was I as a child? What was I like? I was always a dreamer, I was always a little bit out to lunch. I was always thinking, and imagining. I was also alone and the source of much derision. One day, I was sitting eating my lunch by myself- it was often by myself- and I didn't even hear the bell ring! I came back to class. Hey, what's everyone doing here so early, I thought. "Why are you late," the teacher asked. I think his name was Mr Mullett or something weird like that. This was right before I started being bullied by two pairs of brothers, who were also kind of friends. Ask Mark and Daniel if they remember that. I wonder where they are, sometimes, some of those children I grew up with. I don't blame them for a lot of it. I was lucky to live in a safe society, in a safe country and go to a safe school. Because I was always a kind of a Painted Bird. If you don't know what that is, go and look it up, find out what that book's about because I think its a kind of seminal novel in many ways. By a guy called Jerzy Kosinski, who also wrote Being There which becamme a Peter Sellars film. Back again, now, from the dreaming "I don't know, sir. I didn't hear the bell ring." "Where were you sitting?" "Oh, just over there by the steps." "Who was with you?" "No-one sir, I was just sitting by myself." At the time, we were in a kind of composite class. The grade fives, my class, shared a small building with the grade below. As some kind of new solution to this friendless child's problems, some of the younger class were asked to look after me. To let me sit with them for awhile. It didn't take for long. Either they didn't want to hang out, or I didn't want to hang out, or perhaps it was just mutual. Anyway, we fell away after about a week.
So anyway, I had that kind of childhood, and maybe as a result, I started borrowing things the very next year. The first really big thing I took was another boy's electronic chess set. I didn't even know how to play. The game just interested me, I guess. I always liked things like that, things with little tiny pieces of puzzles inside of them. Combinations to solve, strategies to experiment with, until the solution finally emerged. I became a gifted player, later. Maybe, people always knew that was me. I'm not sure. Anyway, there were school notices about it. The thief never came forward. Later my father found the set in my room. I had buried it at the bottom of my drawers. "Whose is this," my father asked. "I don't know, I found it in the paddock. Someone must have put it there." Our house was surrounded by spare allotments, so in many important ways, I always lived in a kind of sepaation from others even physically. Needless to say, none of this was very believable. "Tell me again. Where did you get this," my father asked Finally, I confessed that it wasn't mine. For some reason, I was never really punished by the school. But my father, to his eternal credit, taught both himself and me to play. That was probably the closest we have ever been in our lives together. My dad took care of me in all of that. He involved me and our family in the local chess club, that was run at a Catholic school. Hi, John. By the way are you still playing. John Harris was my coach, and we had some other pretty good players like Mark, a boy two years above me, and Daniel and Josie. We all entered the state competition at one stage or another, and many of us won prizes.
I don't like writing about things like stealing. I wonder what other people will think of me. Of course, I do. And there are parts of me, many in fact, that I will never share, with anyone. I think everyone is the same. Or most of us anyway. But, yeah, I took something when I was a child, and I also broke into a car the next year to see if they had any small change, and I am ashamed of that. What I would like people, to be aware of though, is that something good can come out of the seemingly bad. I became closer to my father, learnt to play chess, which led me to friendships with an old man who loves shogi in Japan. It gave my brother a hobby, too. Maybe none of that would have been possible if another boy hadn't brought an electronic chess to school and I had never stolen it. So, I'm sorry, but I did learn how to play, is what I would like to say to that boy. Also, my childhood indescretions have helped me befriend some pretty unusual people. I have a friend in Japan who had a rougher childhood than me who thinks he is klepto. I am one of the few people he can talk about his problems with. I solved that part of my life over twenty years ago, so now I can help him with his. So I don't mind being a little more open about things with others. If I see you lift something, and want me to see you do it, I know you're probably looking for a little bit of help. You probably need it, just so you don't feel worthless and like a piece of garbage from the street. By the way, I always tell my friend, mate there are bigger thieves than you, so I wouldn't worry yourself over it too much. I see a lot of good in you, and you can get better with that.
Because there was a little bit of that kind of thing in my life., too. I had some pretty weird obsessions. With, the smurfs, for example. The Smurfs, for those who don't know were these tiny little blue creatures that lived somewhere in France under mushrooms or something. They had their little society and used to collect berries. A bad wizard called Gargomoyle and his cat Azriel hated their smurfs, or just wanted to cook them for his potions or something. It was a cartoon and it wasn't REAL, at least I think not. They also had figurines. How I loved those little blue figures. At the time, it was a bit of a craze. Collecting smurfs. I don't know how many other people were into it. But some people I knew were hooked in a pretty big way. One friend of mine had just about all of them. He was a very nice kid a couple of years older than us, whose family was friends with ours. We were all friends, my brother, my sister and me and their three children. But their oldest boy was a little different from others. Not a lot, just a little. But he came from a truly wonderful and loving family. Maybe they spoiled him a little bit with this one thing. And I think it was the right thing to do. I am sure that kid has lived the best of all possible futures. I can't know that. I really hope that nothing terribly jaw droppingly sad happened to him. But that could happen to anyone. I just know that that family took excellent care of their slightly different child and made sure he had a lot of interests so that he could engage with life and find meaningful occupation later on in life.
Anyway, about the smurfs. I had a few board games like monopoly, but I didn't have a lot of people to play with. So I played with the smurfs. "Whose turn is it now. Grumpy, your turn. Well done, Grumpy, you got second prize in a beauty competition, collect $10." "C'mon, Smurfette, roll the dice." Of course, I had to roll the dice for them, "Chance. Oh, no, bad luck Smurfette. You just went straight to jail. " Go directly to jail, do not pass go, Do not collect $200."" One of my smurfs always got the rates card, and I couldn't really understand how figure out that bit of the game, so I just didn't worry about it. I liked an even game, so there was a natural flow and flux in fortunes. I wanted the game to go on as long as possible. The game was always a little rigged, I guess. I always had my favorites, so I probably cheated a little bit so they would usually win. And we'd pack up the game, until another day, and I'd hide my stolen smurfs away. Friendless or insecure children sometimes have imaginary friends. I lacked the imagination for that, so I guess mine were just stolen. Of course, these games only lasted a couple of months before my parents worked out what was happening. We met the other family. I said sorry, and gave back my self-funded smurf collection, and our families remained pretty good friends until they had to move to another city. I also probably should have asked my parents for some smurfs, but I just wasn't that kind of kid. Besides, our family didn't have a lot of money. Only my father was working, as a teacher and he had four kids and a wife. Those were good days, though. It would be hard to live as well as my family did doing my father's job now.
Friday, April 5, 2013
My Belated Blue Days
Its hard sometimes in life to know what's going on. It's hard to be aware. Especially, when you're not quite sure what day it is. Let me tell you about some of the crazy stuff I do sometimes. Let's have a bit of a tour through the life of Grant this week. Last Friday was Good Friday. This is a day where we remember sadness and suffering and hope for more hopeful new paths to open up. So I spent the day with Aimee Mann, because for me she is emblematic of that. After that I met a guy who shares a little bit of my way of being and a few of my thoughts. He would probably say, the best mind altering belief is truth." With Pilate I would say, yes but what is truth? On Saturday, it was my friend Ash's birthday. So I wrote a blog entry in the morning, a kind of gratitutde list with a bit of comedy and philosophy thrown into the mix. On Sunday, it was Easter Sunday, so I kind of kept going on with my literacy project, as well as going to church, because that's just what I do. On Monday, I read the Cat in the Hat and did my pages up a bit. Smewhere in there Monday and Tuesday got a bit blurred. I mean I was pretty aware while I was living my day, sometimes happily, sometimes painfully. It was almost like I woke up on Tuesdsay evening and went back to Media Cafe to make my Reef Relief website. I think I did a pretty good job, considering its all my own vision, and I forgot my notebook. I also read about Blue Day, or autism awareness day. I was just about finished with the reef stuff and explaining how everyone should think about making a commitment to care, just to be aware of things, when I noticed an ad pop up for a group on Facebook promoting autism awareness.
With all of that background let me tell you what happened next... To be continued: Belated blue days.
(Oh, by the way, you guys should have a look at my Facebook page, see if you can find a theme for the last couple of days. Also, go and check out uniqreefrelief.wordpress.com Its designed to be a porthole to all useful, non-dividive material about the Great Barrier Reef. Have you ever seen a sea-dragon? That's a beautiful, beautiful creature. I wish it all the best.
Thanks for reading.)
With all of that background let me tell you what happened next... To be continued: Belated blue days.
(Oh, by the way, you guys should have a look at my Facebook page, see if you can find a theme for the last couple of days. Also, go and check out uniqreefrelief.wordpress.com Its designed to be a porthole to all useful, non-dividive material about the Great Barrier Reef. Have you ever seen a sea-dragon? That's a beautiful, beautiful creature. I wish it all the best.
Thanks for reading.)
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Ren and Gimpy's Coming Out: An advocacy for schizophrenia learns to speak.
For Mervyn, Gail, Stacey, Luke and Helen
In memory of my grandfather, Reyn Higham
ACCEPTING SKZFRNC SPEAKS ON HIS CONDITION
In an earlier essay, I wrote about what it was like for me when I was younger to suffer from anxiety and depression. What I did not mention was that my grandfather died in a place called Wolston Park. He was taken there when he was in his mid forties. I am now thirty seven, so of course I worry about that. About whether that will be the final story that God (yes, I still believe in God, sometimes I have to)writes for me. Of course, since my grandfather's time medicine and treatment options have hopefully improved somewhat and I might live a relatively long and happy life. We can all hope, can't we? What I also didn't mention was that the younger me shared my grandfather's diagnosis. I am a schizophrenic- according to my profession of psychology. I prefer to just say, "I AM" and leave it at that. I am me, that I do know. But let's talk about words and language for a minute. That's a pretty harsh word. It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue very easily. "Hi, my name's Garant. I'm a schizophrenic." Can you imagine saying that? How difficult it would be? There's something in the word itself which feels ugly. The word tastes in my mouth the way broken glass would feel on bare . SKZFRNC. Ugh, that tastes great. I honestly think they need to change the word, even if they can't change the diagnosis or the condition. "A little mad beautiful lover of truth": that's how I see myself. And I tell you, it's not that much fun being a little kooky in a world gone as mad as this one. You don't have to see things the way I do, but there's certainly room for a few improvements.
I have something else written down too, but before I go on, just let me mention a couple of heroes. John Nash, David Helfgott, Mark Vonnegut. These are names that mean something to me. Aspergers, which has not been diagnosed properly in my case, but who knows, maybe I do, maybe I don't. has a lot of heroes already. My favorite is a woman called Temper Grendlin or something. I could get up and check, but the books across the room. I haven't read hers but I have read "For the Love of a Dog" about human and canine emotion, by Patricia McConnell. See, that's a gift. I bet ylou can't do that. Rattle off names and titles just off the top of your head when you need something to help you out. You have to sort through that really slowly, carefully, its always on the tip of your tongue. Me, John, David, Mark, rainbows that was Mark Vonneguts book, he joined a commune, those communes didn't work, he was doing carpentry, went a bit crazy, met Kerouac, had a difficult reltionship with his dad, Vonnegut, two people ain't enough, jokey letter of divorce in Palm Sunday, writing is like building a house. I can remember stuff like that.
Here are a couple of more names: Beagle, Darwin, Jeremy Button, Robert Fitzroy, captain, manic depressive, hero, this thing of darkness, cancer, harry, thompson, bbc, booker, long, The best book never to win the Mann Booker Prize is a book by a man called Harry Thompson, who died of cancer at a young age. Although, Harry only wrote one novel, he also wrote a biography of Herge that I would love to read, and a cool book about penguins and cricket. He worked for the BBC Channel 4, I believe.
Where's my shame in any of that? I don't have any, I have fear, I have stress, I have pain, I have not a lot of anger, and I don't have a lot of shame, about SKZFRNC stuff.
WRITING AND BELIEFS
I was born to write. My family has a lot of gifts. My brother studied Green Chemistry. I think he could have made important contributions to the world, to everyone. I know that's true.. He can still help out a bit, even though he's not that young anymore. He is a kind, funny, generous, loving man. He is better at cricket than I am. A bit overweight, but a pretty good dad.
I have a letter to write later, a couple. That's what you do when it's hard to be still. It really is. Allright I went a bit all tangential there for awhile. That's okay. I'm back again, Ren and Gimpy. Ren (actually Reynold) was my grandfather's name and Gimpy is me I guess. He drives me crazy, sometimes. Just a little bit. And when I need someone to lean on, he's there inside of me, but sometimes he's not a lot of help. Before anyone does anything stupid like re-diagnosing me, again, let me say I think its pointless. NO, I don't have MPD, not unless you were to induce it through poor hypnotherapy. That's what I think. Sorry I don't believe in some things. I studied Loftus and memory and things like this a long time ago, one researcher was trying to explain the Salem witch trials and its pertinence to all of the crazy kooky stuff about hidden satanic cults and ritual satanic abuse and this nonsense. That's my opinion. I'm sorry. You don't have to read everything I write. Yoiu don't have to agre,e, you don't have to tell other people what I said. I would like to protect people from harm, by being very careful the way you approach things. If I say someone is doing somethinmg which has the POTENTIAL to do harm, and can show you books and research and sarticles, show you people, that would say the same, you should stop and listen.
Anyway, when I was first diagnosed, I neither understood nor agreed. I still don't, maybe. Almost every affliction is part of us, all of us, all of these strange things are part of the human condition, or life's conditions I guess.
For example, there must be schizophrenic mice out there. Mice that have been afflicted with schizophrenia, mice that have been placed in the exact circumstances and conditions where schizophrenia, or what we call it naturally arises.
I don't believe in diagnoses and labels. I just don't. Oh, you poor terrible thing. You must be in such terrible pain. I will do this and I think it is good, I want a little more of it, but please don’t patronise me unless you want to give me a dollar, bro. That's about it. I don't need a pity party. I'm coming out like Harvey Milk (sorry, guys, doesn't mean I'm gay. It just means I have respect for that man. Sure he was a little effeminate. But he was STRONG, he didn't need anyone's pity either. Other people can believe what they want, but I believe in Harvey's right to believe and to see himself the way he wanted to. He was proud to be gay. I believe in the bible, but I believe in the good parts.
I used to know some schizophrenics. I did. This is well after my hospitalisation at the age of 20. I was only there for about six weeks. Haven't been taking a lot of medication since, but maybe I need to. I'm taking it now. And I believe in the gospels. I used to know some schizophrenics, way back in the day. I used to befreind them. Some of those guys were crazier than me. (Now, I want tobe careful what I say right about now but I need to say it anyway. I am not against Jewish people, so I don't want them to get me wrong. I have a few heroes who were from Europe. I think of Primo Levi, and I have books on Jewish meditation by a guy called Arthur Green and Jewish Meditation by a man named A. Kaplan.) Just, one guy I knew had torn out all of the gospels because he was bent on destroying things, he justt wanted to be some kind of angel of death and destruction. I don't believe that's the way to read the text. If I asked I Asimov or A Einstein they'd say the same. So I don't believe in that interpretation of things. I also have some heroes who are not like them. They believe in the Gospels too, but they don't like gay people, I guess they love them, but they think they have to stop doing whatever they are doing, or be converted to a different set of rules and beliefs. I agree with Yancey, just sometimes let people alone. I know he tries to convert people, I believe God is in everything, in every religion. I agree with T Hopko. He's the closest thing I have to theology that I agree with and also Metroploitan K Ware. Except on some issues. My beliefs are weird and unique and mine. Other people can do whatever they want. I don't really care, just if you KNOW you will hurt someone through your actions, you should stop and have a deeper look. So my gay brothers and sisters can just keep on doing whatever they want. I have no opinion. I would rather people were just kind and loving and brave and to refrain from causing harm. If not, that's not my business. I am only one person with one life. That's the one I have to live.
You guys have seen the excerpt up until now. Here is the flood of words of which I am capable, a flood, dams can't stop. But I can. I will not say anything that looks like it will harm another human being. I will offend prejudice, but I don't want to offend other people. You know how they say we have one mouth and two ears, we should learn to listen. Well, I completely agree that we should do those things MUCH more often in person. What they don't say is I have ten fingers. So I need to write. But I only know how to use two of them. Perhaps its for the best.
SKZFRNK SPECTRUMS
I believe more in spectrums. Like the colour spectrum we all experience a range of different emotions. Each colour can be used to signify a different emotion. We already know this from New Agey stuff like chakras and crystals, neither of which I believe in that much. I do believe in colors though, and its healing properties. There are reds and yellows and blues. These are our primary colours. Mix them up a bit and you get beautiful things like greens and oranges. You don't get a lot of chicken but you get some pretty cool stuff.
We use these to describe temperament too. I think I am kind of bipolar, but not in terms of moods but in trerms of emotions. I think I am fundamentally blue, like autistic people, and also red, a bundle of fiery energy like schizophrenics, but I have my yellow days of normalcy, or at least I used to, altogether I'm pretty green, a little quiet, and introverted but capable of learning lots of pretty neat tricks. My dog Sera is as yellow as the sun in his truest form, with a little bit of green thrown in if that makes sense. Right about now some people will be thinking wow, he's some kind of savant with synthasia or whatever its called. I think logically I might be, not visually. That's why I wrote earlier I was into concrete logic. To be honest, I don't believe in labels at all. And I don't have the aorementioned whatsover, I am using a METAPHOR based upon reading a book called What Color Is your Dog which is about Canine temperament and its importance in training. I don't even know what colour Seraph is. I think he's apricot because that's what they call it.
In my earlier post, I wrote about what it was like to learn to read again as a young man who had emerged from a chrysallis like a butterfly from a coccoon. I escaped from the blackest tunnels of darkness and despair to find not just light at the end of the tunnel but a whole world full of colors of all shapes and sizes. Now, I know that last sentence doesn't make sense liogically, but here's something metaphorical for you. How high is brown, how high is green, how high is yellow, how high is white, what color are clouds, what shape are they, how many are there, where do they go when they go away. How high is yellow, what shape is it, how far away is it, how big is it. It's all a matter of perspective. Why does black become blue, why is it vaster than white. These are children's philosophical questions, but if evolutioon is true, which of course it is as far as I can tell, I mean the theory is still being worked out and it cn't explain everything but it does have a lot of explanatory power. One of the things it helps us understand is why natural colors have, I think anyway, healing properties. Its why so few people say their favorite color is grey. Have you evrr heard anyone say that?
So after emerging from depression/ anxietyI discovered meditation. It was pretty interesting. Music: I used to love the be at els; that's what I used to call them. BeatlesRed and Blue were my first tapes. I also discovered a world of books. The first book I ever read after hospitalisation was about John Lennonby Ray Coleman. 714 pages, I think. A bit of a door stopper. and it felt like it contained all of life in it. Well not all of it, but all of that man's life. And then it just came from there. So that' who I am, it's not what I am, and that's a taste of my life story I wrote it this morning at 5*30, in a notebook, with a pen and I wrote an 8 page letter, double spaced, by hand about my brother. And a bit more stuff. And I started typing, didn't know when to stop. But that's part of the secret. Knowing when to stop. stop. stop. dot. dot. dot. Leave a bit of space and... I don't know, you tell me. I'm the crazy one.
In memory of my grandfather, Reyn Higham
ACCEPTING SKZFRNC SPEAKS ON HIS CONDITION
In an earlier essay, I wrote about what it was like for me when I was younger to suffer from anxiety and depression. What I did not mention was that my grandfather died in a place called Wolston Park. He was taken there when he was in his mid forties. I am now thirty seven, so of course I worry about that. About whether that will be the final story that God (yes, I still believe in God, sometimes I have to)writes for me. Of course, since my grandfather's time medicine and treatment options have hopefully improved somewhat and I might live a relatively long and happy life. We can all hope, can't we? What I also didn't mention was that the younger me shared my grandfather's diagnosis. I am a schizophrenic- according to my profession of psychology. I prefer to just say, "I AM" and leave it at that. I am me, that I do know. But let's talk about words and language for a minute. That's a pretty harsh word. It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue very easily. "Hi, my name's Garant. I'm a schizophrenic." Can you imagine saying that? How difficult it would be? There's something in the word itself which feels ugly. The word tastes in my mouth the way broken glass would feel on bare . SKZFRNC. Ugh, that tastes great. I honestly think they need to change the word, even if they can't change the diagnosis or the condition. "A little mad beautiful lover of truth": that's how I see myself. And I tell you, it's not that much fun being a little kooky in a world gone as mad as this one. You don't have to see things the way I do, but there's certainly room for a few improvements.
I have something else written down too, but before I go on, just let me mention a couple of heroes. John Nash, David Helfgott, Mark Vonnegut. These are names that mean something to me. Aspergers, which has not been diagnosed properly in my case, but who knows, maybe I do, maybe I don't. has a lot of heroes already. My favorite is a woman called Temper Grendlin or something. I could get up and check, but the books across the room. I haven't read hers but I have read "For the Love of a Dog" about human and canine emotion, by Patricia McConnell. See, that's a gift. I bet ylou can't do that. Rattle off names and titles just off the top of your head when you need something to help you out. You have to sort through that really slowly, carefully, its always on the tip of your tongue. Me, John, David, Mark, rainbows that was Mark Vonneguts book, he joined a commune, those communes didn't work, he was doing carpentry, went a bit crazy, met Kerouac, had a difficult reltionship with his dad, Vonnegut, two people ain't enough, jokey letter of divorce in Palm Sunday, writing is like building a house. I can remember stuff like that.
Here are a couple of more names: Beagle, Darwin, Jeremy Button, Robert Fitzroy, captain, manic depressive, hero, this thing of darkness, cancer, harry, thompson, bbc, booker, long, The best book never to win the Mann Booker Prize is a book by a man called Harry Thompson, who died of cancer at a young age. Although, Harry only wrote one novel, he also wrote a biography of Herge that I would love to read, and a cool book about penguins and cricket. He worked for the BBC Channel 4, I believe.
Where's my shame in any of that? I don't have any, I have fear, I have stress, I have pain, I have not a lot of anger, and I don't have a lot of shame, about SKZFRNC stuff.
WRITING AND BELIEFS
I was born to write. My family has a lot of gifts. My brother studied Green Chemistry. I think he could have made important contributions to the world, to everyone. I know that's true.. He can still help out a bit, even though he's not that young anymore. He is a kind, funny, generous, loving man. He is better at cricket than I am. A bit overweight, but a pretty good dad.
I have a letter to write later, a couple. That's what you do when it's hard to be still. It really is. Allright I went a bit all tangential there for awhile. That's okay. I'm back again, Ren and Gimpy. Ren (actually Reynold) was my grandfather's name and Gimpy is me I guess. He drives me crazy, sometimes. Just a little bit. And when I need someone to lean on, he's there inside of me, but sometimes he's not a lot of help. Before anyone does anything stupid like re-diagnosing me, again, let me say I think its pointless. NO, I don't have MPD, not unless you were to induce it through poor hypnotherapy. That's what I think. Sorry I don't believe in some things. I studied Loftus and memory and things like this a long time ago, one researcher was trying to explain the Salem witch trials and its pertinence to all of the crazy kooky stuff about hidden satanic cults and ritual satanic abuse and this nonsense. That's my opinion. I'm sorry. You don't have to read everything I write. Yoiu don't have to agre,e, you don't have to tell other people what I said. I would like to protect people from harm, by being very careful the way you approach things. If I say someone is doing somethinmg which has the POTENTIAL to do harm, and can show you books and research and sarticles, show you people, that would say the same, you should stop and listen.
Anyway, when I was first diagnosed, I neither understood nor agreed. I still don't, maybe. Almost every affliction is part of us, all of us, all of these strange things are part of the human condition, or life's conditions I guess.
For example, there must be schizophrenic mice out there. Mice that have been afflicted with schizophrenia, mice that have been placed in the exact circumstances and conditions where schizophrenia, or what we call it naturally arises.
I don't believe in diagnoses and labels. I just don't. Oh, you poor terrible thing. You must be in such terrible pain. I will do this and I think it is good, I want a little more of it, but please don’t patronise me unless you want to give me a dollar, bro. That's about it. I don't need a pity party. I'm coming out like Harvey Milk (sorry, guys, doesn't mean I'm gay. It just means I have respect for that man. Sure he was a little effeminate. But he was STRONG, he didn't need anyone's pity either. Other people can believe what they want, but I believe in Harvey's right to believe and to see himself the way he wanted to. He was proud to be gay. I believe in the bible, but I believe in the good parts.
I used to know some schizophrenics. I did. This is well after my hospitalisation at the age of 20. I was only there for about six weeks. Haven't been taking a lot of medication since, but maybe I need to. I'm taking it now. And I believe in the gospels. I used to know some schizophrenics, way back in the day. I used to befreind them. Some of those guys were crazier than me. (Now, I want tobe careful what I say right about now but I need to say it anyway. I am not against Jewish people, so I don't want them to get me wrong. I have a few heroes who were from Europe. I think of Primo Levi, and I have books on Jewish meditation by a guy called Arthur Green and Jewish Meditation by a man named A. Kaplan.) Just, one guy I knew had torn out all of the gospels because he was bent on destroying things, he justt wanted to be some kind of angel of death and destruction. I don't believe that's the way to read the text. If I asked I Asimov or A Einstein they'd say the same. So I don't believe in that interpretation of things. I also have some heroes who are not like them. They believe in the Gospels too, but they don't like gay people, I guess they love them, but they think they have to stop doing whatever they are doing, or be converted to a different set of rules and beliefs. I agree with Yancey, just sometimes let people alone. I know he tries to convert people, I believe God is in everything, in every religion. I agree with T Hopko. He's the closest thing I have to theology that I agree with and also Metroploitan K Ware. Except on some issues. My beliefs are weird and unique and mine. Other people can do whatever they want. I don't really care, just if you KNOW you will hurt someone through your actions, you should stop and have a deeper look. So my gay brothers and sisters can just keep on doing whatever they want. I have no opinion. I would rather people were just kind and loving and brave and to refrain from causing harm. If not, that's not my business. I am only one person with one life. That's the one I have to live.
You guys have seen the excerpt up until now. Here is the flood of words of which I am capable, a flood, dams can't stop. But I can. I will not say anything that looks like it will harm another human being. I will offend prejudice, but I don't want to offend other people. You know how they say we have one mouth and two ears, we should learn to listen. Well, I completely agree that we should do those things MUCH more often in person. What they don't say is I have ten fingers. So I need to write. But I only know how to use two of them. Perhaps its for the best.
SKZFRNK SPECTRUMS
I believe more in spectrums. Like the colour spectrum we all experience a range of different emotions. Each colour can be used to signify a different emotion. We already know this from New Agey stuff like chakras and crystals, neither of which I believe in that much. I do believe in colors though, and its healing properties. There are reds and yellows and blues. These are our primary colours. Mix them up a bit and you get beautiful things like greens and oranges. You don't get a lot of chicken but you get some pretty cool stuff.
We use these to describe temperament too. I think I am kind of bipolar, but not in terms of moods but in trerms of emotions. I think I am fundamentally blue, like autistic people, and also red, a bundle of fiery energy like schizophrenics, but I have my yellow days of normalcy, or at least I used to, altogether I'm pretty green, a little quiet, and introverted but capable of learning lots of pretty neat tricks. My dog Sera is as yellow as the sun in his truest form, with a little bit of green thrown in if that makes sense. Right about now some people will be thinking wow, he's some kind of savant with synthasia or whatever its called. I think logically I might be, not visually. That's why I wrote earlier I was into concrete logic. To be honest, I don't believe in labels at all. And I don't have the aorementioned whatsover, I am using a METAPHOR based upon reading a book called What Color Is your Dog which is about Canine temperament and its importance in training. I don't even know what colour Seraph is. I think he's apricot because that's what they call it.
In my earlier post, I wrote about what it was like to learn to read again as a young man who had emerged from a chrysallis like a butterfly from a coccoon. I escaped from the blackest tunnels of darkness and despair to find not just light at the end of the tunnel but a whole world full of colors of all shapes and sizes. Now, I know that last sentence doesn't make sense liogically, but here's something metaphorical for you. How high is brown, how high is green, how high is yellow, how high is white, what color are clouds, what shape are they, how many are there, where do they go when they go away. How high is yellow, what shape is it, how far away is it, how big is it. It's all a matter of perspective. Why does black become blue, why is it vaster than white. These are children's philosophical questions, but if evolutioon is true, which of course it is as far as I can tell, I mean the theory is still being worked out and it cn't explain everything but it does have a lot of explanatory power. One of the things it helps us understand is why natural colors have, I think anyway, healing properties. Its why so few people say their favorite color is grey. Have you evrr heard anyone say that?
So after emerging from depression/ anxietyI discovered meditation. It was pretty interesting. Music: I used to love the be at els; that's what I used to call them. BeatlesRed and Blue were my first tapes. I also discovered a world of books. The first book I ever read after hospitalisation was about John Lennonby Ray Coleman. 714 pages, I think. A bit of a door stopper. and it felt like it contained all of life in it. Well not all of it, but all of that man's life. And then it just came from there. So that' who I am, it's not what I am, and that's a taste of my life story I wrote it this morning at 5*30, in a notebook, with a pen and I wrote an 8 page letter, double spaced, by hand about my brother. And a bit more stuff. And I started typing, didn't know when to stop. But that's part of the secret. Knowing when to stop. stop. stop. dot. dot. dot. Leave a bit of space and... I don't know, you tell me. I'm the crazy one.
My meanjin entrant
"I Dream of Uluru "
by Grant Higham
G'day, you guys at Meanjin,
The reason I'm writing you this letter is because it has my story in it. My name is Ernie Cookson, but you can call me Cook. I'm not much of a writer but I like reading. I've read a few books now, and I like what they have to say to me, as a person, as just an ordinary human being like you guys, wherever you are. This is the first story what I've written. I know that my granma isn't perfect yet, and nors my spelling (that was a joke), but this is my story. Please be kind enough to read it. I'd do the same for you. It's called "I dream of Uluru".
I dream of Uluru
Yo reader, whatever you're doing right now just stop, and take a pause in your busy lives to read my story. Why? Because I would do the same for you. See, here's the thing, I love reading. I'll read anything, anywhere , anytime and anyplace. But it wasn't always like that. My name is Ernie Abrahams. but people call me Cook. Because I like cooking. Other people call me Bra, which I don't mind because it reminds me of Bro, as in how ya going Bro. Just don't call me Bert, because I don't like that one.
I recently lost me wife and daughter, and I want tot tell you how and why that happened. Sometimes though, I think I'll never know. My wife's family buried her but I want to take my little girl up to Uluru and lay her down at the feet of that great mountain, that piece of solid rock.
Most of the rest of what I tell you will be true. Not perfectly, in all the details, but for the most part.
The reason people called me Ernie was because when I was younger, my favorite TV show was Sesame Street. You know how they talk about being stuck to the screen. Well, my mother just about had to scrape me off. Just so as I could help out around the house a bit with the youngest. My real name is Errol by the way. My family started calling me Ernie and I guess the name kind of stuck.
At school, I didn't go much. Why? I guess I just didn't like it. They didn't talk about anything I was interested in. See, I like fishing and camping. Always have and always will. Oh, and I love kicking a football and hitting a ball. I was actually pretty good at both of them, especially football. I wanted to go pro before I did my knee. Never got into the AFL. I like the other one- the real man's game- Rugby League. I still like Karmichael, though.
But I never liked books, not at school anyway. I hated maths, and I hated reading. Why? Because I'm black. And it just seemed like part of the white man's world to me and the teachers never liked me anyway. Besides, I wasn't any good at it. I kind of fell through the cracks, but they were some pretty deep cracks. I asked for a better word the other day. My reading coach, Mark, told me a "crevice" was a pretty good word to describe what I fell through. I wrote this mostly by myself, but Mark helped me a bit with the spelling, a coupla jokes, and the flow. By the way, I'm only 24.
We used to do crazy stuff (not me and coach, guys- me and my friends) when we should have been at school. When did you learn to drive, for instance? I learnt to drive when I was ten! I could barely see the windscreen. We took it slow at first just not to get caught by the cops. One day, I went fishing with my uncle and his friend. He parked the ute and we offloaded this canoe. God, that thing was heavy. Then, my mad bastard uncle said, "Here's what I want you to do, Ernie." I want you to paddle down the river for a bit, just past the old flour mill. We'll park the ute and get the fishing gear out."
"That's ages," I said. He said it was "a coupla hundred meters." This was at Cooper's Crossing, by the way. Mad bastards sent me on a wild goose chase that day. I was paddling for hours. I started to cry at one point, but sometimes you've just got to pull yourself together and keep going. So that's what I did. After awhile, I thought I'd never find the bloody flour mill. So I tried to park the canoe by the river bank. And I literally, fell out the boat! Suddenly, you're not going to believe this, a fish jumped in! I didn't have a rod so I beat it, beat it, beat it, until it stopped. Breathing, that is.
I'm going to tell you quickly about Abraham my best friend, because if I don't put my best friend in my story, what kind of a man am I? Abraham was crazy, but the thing about Abraham is he is the kind of guy who would give you his own shirt off his own back if you didn't have one. I've seen him do it once. He just did it and said, "No sweat, I've got too many, anyway. Plus its hot." The thing with Abraham is he loves women. We both used to. I settled down but Abe's got five, already. He used to call me Flynn and I used to call him Father sometimes. As in "Father Abraham's got many sons. I am one of them and so are you, so let's all praise the lord. Nod your head, clap your hands, shake your feet, Father Abraham... " and we'd go on and on, until he was red with anger or blue with laughter. Its an old church song we learnt at Cub Scouts. But, he's still my friend.
Let me explain what happened to me later. Do you remember the floods a few years ago? Well, my family used to live near Riverbank. Not the best place to be when the rivers overflow. Those were some crazy times, man. We even had bull sharks roaming the streets! It was like your whole life was being washed away. Everyone was going kind of survivalist, rowing boats to get supplies, and waiting on rooves for helicopters to come or some shit. I was lucky to survive. My house was destroyed and so I had to move into a temporary shelter. I'm still living there now. Everyone kind of forgets after the really bad stuff happens. It makes me angry, sometimes, but Mark told me it was just part of life. The same sort of stuff happens all over the world. He also told me right near that time 20 000 people died in Japan where he used to live. Talk about being homeless. Those guys were house less, they were apartment less, they were car less, they were- well there was a lot less of everything after that. I thought we had it bad. But its not the scale of the tragedy I guess. Its not how many its that or what. My friend is always saying stuff that I can only half understand.
So, I was going to tell you how I learned to read. After the floods, I was living in a temporary shelter. It wasn't much really. There were a lot of scared and lonely and angry people around, I remember that much. But there wasn't much to do. Suddenly, these guys started coming by. They called themselves the Footpath Library, and they had all of these books. They had comics, so I used to look at them, because at least I could understand the pictures. They had kids books too. I looked at them and thought, this is baby shit and I can't even read it.
Then this guy, Mark, came around and started asking us if anyone liked hip hop. Man, it was about the only music I listened to. He said, "do you know the words?" And I said, "sure." He said, "how good's your rap. Show me a bit of breaking if you know how to do that first." "Piss off, man", I said, "What do you really want." And he said, "I want to teach you how to read becuase it looks like youre not quite sure how." So he told me this plan, I didn't have to do it if I didn't want to, but if you slow down your rap a bit you can learn to read.
"I don't want to read man, I hate reading." "Cool," he said, and grabbed this short book and said "look at these pictures listen to these rhymes, what's the story really about." He said, "no, its not about breakfast. Its about triumph and overcoming" and a couple of words like that.. "Its about learning to like stuff you didnt know how to do before." I said "so whys it called Green Eggs and Ham." He said, because Green Eggs and Ham only exist inside the imagination, but imagination is the realest thing of all.
So I was pretty unsure about this at first. I liked the hip hop part but that other stuff seemed kind of whack, shit for babies. And then he told me a story about a guy called Joseph who started off with an overcoat that was over used and old and worn out like he felt sometimes. But you can only make do with what you've got. So the overcoat gets smaller and smaller and changes into all of these different things and he so does all of this different stuff until finally it becomes a button and gets lost. "The only thing you can do with nothing is this, use your imagination to make a story which shows you can always make something out of nothing." And then he showed me the book.
After that, I started paying more attention to that part of the program. And that was how I met my wife. She was from Kenya and used to live near Inala. She had stories like you wouldn't believe. Her family were part of a tribe of Bushmen- Bush people she used to say, because she was studying too. She used to tell me about her culture and I told her about mine. We had a lot in common. What I write now I write as my way of remembering her because she took care of me. She opened up her heart and let me in.
Dear Xixu,
I will always love you. I'm entering a short story competition baby, it's about homelessness. We've been there. Now you and my little girl have both up and died, and I lost my temporary shelter. But I wouldn't change a thing. I am so sad our child was still-born because you had dengi fever.
Our peoples have always been homeless. The concept of having a home never seemed real to us. Not really like it does to others. Within our culture we have always thought we shared the land. We have always thought that this land is our land. With the empasis on our, on sharing, do you white fellas remember that? So long as we were under a sky, of whatever color or whatever hue, we have felt at home. When other people were under that canopy with us, that tent shaped by countless stars, we saw that they were family, that they were brothers, sisters and cousins. Your families turned your houses inward, and it makes you lonelier than us. Xixu's people had their circles facing out. Xixu's family saw land differently. They thought it was no-ones and everyones. Xixu's people knew that home was as far as the eye could wander. But several generations ago our dreams were teken from us, bit by bit our vision was stolen and our dreams were not kept. Now we dream dreams of isolation and despair. How I love to escape from this chaotic modern world just for a moment, even inside my minds inner eye I can see myself in Africa in that boundless terrain Xixu talked about, running, forever free. How do I get there now. How can I go walkabout and feel good about it, in this world of broken bottles, plastic shit, sharp metal. What's your favorite color people ask. I love black why wouldn't I. I am black. But I also like white, I want to be a writer, I see all of the little tiny figures, in all their different shapes and sizes. There's big ones and little ones, the white fellas call them letters, I see them set against a white background. I learnt to read them signs, and it taught me something. They call that stuff reading, and then once you understand their language, we can learn to write, to tell our stories, our hopes and dreams of little happinesses, like Kuki, but we are going to need a lot of help. We want you to listen to us and to hear our language, too. I love you Xixu. I hope you are in a good place. And you too, Kuki. My poem for Kuki, reads like this. "Kuki's poem: Dear kuki. I'm sorry. The heart beat. Stopped. Love Erroll." Now, I want to bury my little girl in Arnham Land, right at the foot of Uluru right where that other white ladies baby girl was taken by the dingo. Because someone took mine too. got a dollar, bro.
by Grant Higham
G'day, you guys at Meanjin,
The reason I'm writing you this letter is because it has my story in it. My name is Ernie Cookson, but you can call me Cook. I'm not much of a writer but I like reading. I've read a few books now, and I like what they have to say to me, as a person, as just an ordinary human being like you guys, wherever you are. This is the first story what I've written. I know that my granma isn't perfect yet, and nors my spelling (that was a joke), but this is my story. Please be kind enough to read it. I'd do the same for you. It's called "I dream of Uluru".
I dream of Uluru
Yo reader, whatever you're doing right now just stop, and take a pause in your busy lives to read my story. Why? Because I would do the same for you. See, here's the thing, I love reading. I'll read anything, anywhere , anytime and anyplace. But it wasn't always like that. My name is Ernie Abrahams. but people call me Cook. Because I like cooking. Other people call me Bra, which I don't mind because it reminds me of Bro, as in how ya going Bro. Just don't call me Bert, because I don't like that one.
I recently lost me wife and daughter, and I want tot tell you how and why that happened. Sometimes though, I think I'll never know. My wife's family buried her but I want to take my little girl up to Uluru and lay her down at the feet of that great mountain, that piece of solid rock.
Most of the rest of what I tell you will be true. Not perfectly, in all the details, but for the most part.
The reason people called me Ernie was because when I was younger, my favorite TV show was Sesame Street. You know how they talk about being stuck to the screen. Well, my mother just about had to scrape me off. Just so as I could help out around the house a bit with the youngest. My real name is Errol by the way. My family started calling me Ernie and I guess the name kind of stuck.
At school, I didn't go much. Why? I guess I just didn't like it. They didn't talk about anything I was interested in. See, I like fishing and camping. Always have and always will. Oh, and I love kicking a football and hitting a ball. I was actually pretty good at both of them, especially football. I wanted to go pro before I did my knee. Never got into the AFL. I like the other one- the real man's game- Rugby League. I still like Karmichael, though.
But I never liked books, not at school anyway. I hated maths, and I hated reading. Why? Because I'm black. And it just seemed like part of the white man's world to me and the teachers never liked me anyway. Besides, I wasn't any good at it. I kind of fell through the cracks, but they were some pretty deep cracks. I asked for a better word the other day. My reading coach, Mark, told me a "crevice" was a pretty good word to describe what I fell through. I wrote this mostly by myself, but Mark helped me a bit with the spelling, a coupla jokes, and the flow. By the way, I'm only 24.
We used to do crazy stuff (not me and coach, guys- me and my friends) when we should have been at school. When did you learn to drive, for instance? I learnt to drive when I was ten! I could barely see the windscreen. We took it slow at first just not to get caught by the cops. One day, I went fishing with my uncle and his friend. He parked the ute and we offloaded this canoe. God, that thing was heavy. Then, my mad bastard uncle said, "Here's what I want you to do, Ernie." I want you to paddle down the river for a bit, just past the old flour mill. We'll park the ute and get the fishing gear out."
"That's ages," I said. He said it was "a coupla hundred meters." This was at Cooper's Crossing, by the way. Mad bastards sent me on a wild goose chase that day. I was paddling for hours. I started to cry at one point, but sometimes you've just got to pull yourself together and keep going. So that's what I did. After awhile, I thought I'd never find the bloody flour mill. So I tried to park the canoe by the river bank. And I literally, fell out the boat! Suddenly, you're not going to believe this, a fish jumped in! I didn't have a rod so I beat it, beat it, beat it, until it stopped. Breathing, that is.
I'm going to tell you quickly about Abraham my best friend, because if I don't put my best friend in my story, what kind of a man am I? Abraham was crazy, but the thing about Abraham is he is the kind of guy who would give you his own shirt off his own back if you didn't have one. I've seen him do it once. He just did it and said, "No sweat, I've got too many, anyway. Plus its hot." The thing with Abraham is he loves women. We both used to. I settled down but Abe's got five, already. He used to call me Flynn and I used to call him Father sometimes. As in "Father Abraham's got many sons. I am one of them and so are you, so let's all praise the lord. Nod your head, clap your hands, shake your feet, Father Abraham... " and we'd go on and on, until he was red with anger or blue with laughter. Its an old church song we learnt at Cub Scouts. But, he's still my friend.
Let me explain what happened to me later. Do you remember the floods a few years ago? Well, my family used to live near Riverbank. Not the best place to be when the rivers overflow. Those were some crazy times, man. We even had bull sharks roaming the streets! It was like your whole life was being washed away. Everyone was going kind of survivalist, rowing boats to get supplies, and waiting on rooves for helicopters to come or some shit. I was lucky to survive. My house was destroyed and so I had to move into a temporary shelter. I'm still living there now. Everyone kind of forgets after the really bad stuff happens. It makes me angry, sometimes, but Mark told me it was just part of life. The same sort of stuff happens all over the world. He also told me right near that time 20 000 people died in Japan where he used to live. Talk about being homeless. Those guys were house less, they were apartment less, they were car less, they were- well there was a lot less of everything after that. I thought we had it bad. But its not the scale of the tragedy I guess. Its not how many its that or what. My friend is always saying stuff that I can only half understand.
So, I was going to tell you how I learned to read. After the floods, I was living in a temporary shelter. It wasn't much really. There were a lot of scared and lonely and angry people around, I remember that much. But there wasn't much to do. Suddenly, these guys started coming by. They called themselves the Footpath Library, and they had all of these books. They had comics, so I used to look at them, because at least I could understand the pictures. They had kids books too. I looked at them and thought, this is baby shit and I can't even read it.
Then this guy, Mark, came around and started asking us if anyone liked hip hop. Man, it was about the only music I listened to. He said, "do you know the words?" And I said, "sure." He said, "how good's your rap. Show me a bit of breaking if you know how to do that first." "Piss off, man", I said, "What do you really want." And he said, "I want to teach you how to read becuase it looks like youre not quite sure how." So he told me this plan, I didn't have to do it if I didn't want to, but if you slow down your rap a bit you can learn to read.
"I don't want to read man, I hate reading." "Cool," he said, and grabbed this short book and said "look at these pictures listen to these rhymes, what's the story really about." He said, "no, its not about breakfast. Its about triumph and overcoming" and a couple of words like that.. "Its about learning to like stuff you didnt know how to do before." I said "so whys it called Green Eggs and Ham." He said, because Green Eggs and Ham only exist inside the imagination, but imagination is the realest thing of all.
So I was pretty unsure about this at first. I liked the hip hop part but that other stuff seemed kind of whack, shit for babies. And then he told me a story about a guy called Joseph who started off with an overcoat that was over used and old and worn out like he felt sometimes. But you can only make do with what you've got. So the overcoat gets smaller and smaller and changes into all of these different things and he so does all of this different stuff until finally it becomes a button and gets lost. "The only thing you can do with nothing is this, use your imagination to make a story which shows you can always make something out of nothing." And then he showed me the book.
After that, I started paying more attention to that part of the program. And that was how I met my wife. She was from Kenya and used to live near Inala. She had stories like you wouldn't believe. Her family were part of a tribe of Bushmen- Bush people she used to say, because she was studying too. She used to tell me about her culture and I told her about mine. We had a lot in common. What I write now I write as my way of remembering her because she took care of me. She opened up her heart and let me in.
Dear Xixu,
I will always love you. I'm entering a short story competition baby, it's about homelessness. We've been there. Now you and my little girl have both up and died, and I lost my temporary shelter. But I wouldn't change a thing. I am so sad our child was still-born because you had dengi fever.
Our peoples have always been homeless. The concept of having a home never seemed real to us. Not really like it does to others. Within our culture we have always thought we shared the land. We have always thought that this land is our land. With the empasis on our, on sharing, do you white fellas remember that? So long as we were under a sky, of whatever color or whatever hue, we have felt at home. When other people were under that canopy with us, that tent shaped by countless stars, we saw that they were family, that they were brothers, sisters and cousins. Your families turned your houses inward, and it makes you lonelier than us. Xixu's people had their circles facing out. Xixu's family saw land differently. They thought it was no-ones and everyones. Xixu's people knew that home was as far as the eye could wander. But several generations ago our dreams were teken from us, bit by bit our vision was stolen and our dreams were not kept. Now we dream dreams of isolation and despair. How I love to escape from this chaotic modern world just for a moment, even inside my minds inner eye I can see myself in Africa in that boundless terrain Xixu talked about, running, forever free. How do I get there now. How can I go walkabout and feel good about it, in this world of broken bottles, plastic shit, sharp metal. What's your favorite color people ask. I love black why wouldn't I. I am black. But I also like white, I want to be a writer, I see all of the little tiny figures, in all their different shapes and sizes. There's big ones and little ones, the white fellas call them letters, I see them set against a white background. I learnt to read them signs, and it taught me something. They call that stuff reading, and then once you understand their language, we can learn to write, to tell our stories, our hopes and dreams of little happinesses, like Kuki, but we are going to need a lot of help. We want you to listen to us and to hear our language, too. I love you Xixu. I hope you are in a good place. And you too, Kuki. My poem for Kuki, reads like this. "Kuki's poem: Dear kuki. I'm sorry. The heart beat. Stopped. Love Erroll." Now, I want to bury my little girl in Arnham Land, right at the foot of Uluru right where that other white ladies baby girl was taken by the dingo. Because someone took mine too. got a dollar, bro.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
REVISIONING
ITHIS IS MY WRITING PROCESS
The original part of my dream went like this.
Hello God. My name is Grant. I really shouldn't be here and I really shouldn't be doing this. but I want to pray on behalf of the human race. Please take care of us. I am from the Uniting Church in Brisbane. I hav been to Tibetan monasteries, I have been to Aen temples, I've only been here a few times before. but please have mercy upon all of us. Please have mercy upon my race. My wife is from Japan I am from Australia. My brother's wife is from China. He is a scientist. So whatever it is that you believe in, I believe in life. I know people from many places
* I knocked on the door, and at first there was no answer
* Finally the door slid openand I left my wife outside as I prayed alone on behalf of the human race.
* I looked around at all of the icons and looked across to the single candle in whose light they were all lit.
* The room was quite dark and lit by a single candle and the little natural light that penetrated the church.
I observed the beautiful icons that stooped down to the level of my poor understanding. All of the single icons seemed to tell a single story of God in all his mercy acting eternally in friendship with all of creation. I quietly ackmowledged the presence of the saints with whom I was familiar. Then I kneeled down to say a prayer that went something like this...
Having tired long before I was ... okay what happens next.
now sitting in a cross legged posture and I gingerly got to my feet.
The priest and his wife were understanding of my apparant madness. Perhaps they saw the smallest touch of God in it. That's one of the earlier meanings, when somneone said that someone was "touched". The world sees such people as afflicted with madness. Throughout the ages...
etc the Church...
Tibetan Buddhism...
One also thinks of Sufism....
Zen... hard to understand... Hakuen, the founder of the Rinzai sect claimed to be the father of the child of a single mother. At the time, that would have been the source of great shame. For this reason, Hakuen (Hakuin) said that he had fathered the child. He was a truly blameless one. His autobiography is called Wild Ivy, its published by Shambhala. I have it at my parents house in Australia. I just remember the story from a different source and it always struck me as one of the closest parallels there was to Christianity. Its a truuly beautiful story. His writinf is renowned, according to Norman Waddell, the translator, as being particularly harsh. He just wanted to lessen the hypocrasy of the priesthood of the time.
Then I talk about Boo Radley, and To Kill a Mockingbird. The main message of that book is to try to always put oneself in the other person's shoes. Its about empathy, really... Reimagining other people's lives as one's own. That's what I have always had to do, even as a kid, because I just coukdn't understand why people actethe way they did. It was either that or be swallowed up by anger.
Then I leave the Church, and see a guy who reminds me of someone I knew. He wore the face of shame. Why? Because he had lived overseas, and had understood that culture and wanted to be a part of it, had fluent English, liked me but was too busy to answer my phone calls. He didn't return my messages, or call me back. But he was probably just too busy, so that's okay.
Then I wrote about hanami in the park, how it looked like it was for families. I was happy for them and blessed their picnic and this concept....
I saw a kind of impromptu hanami party For those of you who don't know, hanami is a special event in Japan. It celebrates the sakura which is avery special tree, that only flowers for two weeks every year. For me, and I thi k this is why its celebrated, this is symbolic of the brevity of life. How we are here one day and gone tomorrow, even if we live into our eighties. Within a scientific viewpoint, we all kind of come together as the result of circumstances of so many other things that have existed almost into perpetuity, are here for a day, and then die as human beings and disappear into other less concious things. This is very Buddhist, too. Within Christiabity there is a book called Between the Dreaming and the Coming True by Robert Benson, which talks about the pre-existance of the soul. In life, these things are called mysteries. What happens before and after we die? I don't know. We know what happened in the between though. Those things can be recorded. Thats one reason why I am not so afraid of death- of course, I'm terrified of it- but I am more afraid of living a shell of a life, and thta is all to do with integrity and honour.
Then I talked about all of the fetes, how most people think they are run by unsavoury customers. I would like to think of them though as the Bivble would see them, as some of the people Jesus loved the most, the people who were less hypocritical and basically human in their weaknesses. They are individuals belonging to families born on the other side of the street. Because that's what they are. Moneyed no doubt but more or less mainstream Japanese society sees them as tax collectors and prostitutes of Jesus time were seen. So I blessed these quiet revellers.
Then I saw three Western looking guys who I thought I recognised. I said, "If anyone here today wore the face of shame please make sure that good things happen for him." I am thinking of a man called Ike. Shame is a big thing for Japanese people. "I hope he gets slomething good out of this. Find him for me please. ask him what he wants. No, sorry, don't do that. Ask his wife what he needs."
Do you know what the middle man said to me. I'll give you a hint (2) (3) (4) (8),
That's right. He said, "We all make mistakes."
Then I got to the hospital I gesticulated to turn these lights off, this madness has to stop. Then we got safe passage, entered back through the front entrance, and crossed the road again. I blessed the greenery and prayed for its success. Then I prayed for all of the small businesses and local shops. Tried to make the people of Japan feel proud... But before we did along the way I passed some rough looking yoiung toughs, like yankees who scowled at me. I intimated to them that I meant no harm and I truly understaood. We got home, ate two chocolates. I thought someone could poison us with chocolates. So I waited for Satoko to eat first, then I ate second. Like Romeo and Juliet. Starts Adam and Eve ends in Romeo and Juliet going to sleep, wondering if its for the last time but knowing that kif they did they had gone to a churc, seen a picnic, blessed the streets and all the little people, tried to install pride into Japanese people, tried to strighten the shouldres, to walk tall so others can do the same, ate two chocolates and lived a day of sacrifice and love.
Thats how I want to see the world, as crazy and idealistic as it sounds. I've been showing my writing process. Tomorrow I will share with you "I dream of Uluru," which I think is avery special and complete short story.
The original part of my dream went like this.
Hello God. My name is Grant. I really shouldn't be here and I really shouldn't be doing this. but I want to pray on behalf of the human race. Please take care of us. I am from the Uniting Church in Brisbane. I hav been to Tibetan monasteries, I have been to Aen temples, I've only been here a few times before. but please have mercy upon all of us. Please have mercy upon my race. My wife is from Japan I am from Australia. My brother's wife is from China. He is a scientist. So whatever it is that you believe in, I believe in life. I know people from many places
* I knocked on the door, and at first there was no answer
* Finally the door slid openand I left my wife outside as I prayed alone on behalf of the human race.
* I looked around at all of the icons and looked across to the single candle in whose light they were all lit.
* The room was quite dark and lit by a single candle and the little natural light that penetrated the church.
I observed the beautiful icons that stooped down to the level of my poor understanding. All of the single icons seemed to tell a single story of God in all his mercy acting eternally in friendship with all of creation. I quietly ackmowledged the presence of the saints with whom I was familiar. Then I kneeled down to say a prayer that went something like this...
Having tired long before I was ... okay what happens next.
now sitting in a cross legged posture and I gingerly got to my feet.
The priest and his wife were understanding of my apparant madness. Perhaps they saw the smallest touch of God in it. That's one of the earlier meanings, when somneone said that someone was "touched". The world sees such people as afflicted with madness. Throughout the ages...
etc the Church...
Tibetan Buddhism...
One also thinks of Sufism....
Zen... hard to understand... Hakuen, the founder of the Rinzai sect claimed to be the father of the child of a single mother. At the time, that would have been the source of great shame. For this reason, Hakuen (Hakuin) said that he had fathered the child. He was a truly blameless one. His autobiography is called Wild Ivy, its published by Shambhala. I have it at my parents house in Australia. I just remember the story from a different source and it always struck me as one of the closest parallels there was to Christianity. Its a truuly beautiful story. His writinf is renowned, according to Norman Waddell, the translator, as being particularly harsh. He just wanted to lessen the hypocrasy of the priesthood of the time.
Then I talk about Boo Radley, and To Kill a Mockingbird. The main message of that book is to try to always put oneself in the other person's shoes. Its about empathy, really... Reimagining other people's lives as one's own. That's what I have always had to do, even as a kid, because I just coukdn't understand why people actethe way they did. It was either that or be swallowed up by anger.
Then I leave the Church, and see a guy who reminds me of someone I knew. He wore the face of shame. Why? Because he had lived overseas, and had understood that culture and wanted to be a part of it, had fluent English, liked me but was too busy to answer my phone calls. He didn't return my messages, or call me back. But he was probably just too busy, so that's okay.
Then I wrote about hanami in the park, how it looked like it was for families. I was happy for them and blessed their picnic and this concept....
I saw a kind of impromptu hanami party For those of you who don't know, hanami is a special event in Japan. It celebrates the sakura which is avery special tree, that only flowers for two weeks every year. For me, and I thi k this is why its celebrated, this is symbolic of the brevity of life. How we are here one day and gone tomorrow, even if we live into our eighties. Within a scientific viewpoint, we all kind of come together as the result of circumstances of so many other things that have existed almost into perpetuity, are here for a day, and then die as human beings and disappear into other less concious things. This is very Buddhist, too. Within Christiabity there is a book called Between the Dreaming and the Coming True by Robert Benson, which talks about the pre-existance of the soul. In life, these things are called mysteries. What happens before and after we die? I don't know. We know what happened in the between though. Those things can be recorded. Thats one reason why I am not so afraid of death- of course, I'm terrified of it- but I am more afraid of living a shell of a life, and thta is all to do with integrity and honour.
Then I talked about all of the fetes, how most people think they are run by unsavoury customers. I would like to think of them though as the Bivble would see them, as some of the people Jesus loved the most, the people who were less hypocritical and basically human in their weaknesses. They are individuals belonging to families born on the other side of the street. Because that's what they are. Moneyed no doubt but more or less mainstream Japanese society sees them as tax collectors and prostitutes of Jesus time were seen. So I blessed these quiet revellers.
Then I saw three Western looking guys who I thought I recognised. I said, "If anyone here today wore the face of shame please make sure that good things happen for him." I am thinking of a man called Ike. Shame is a big thing for Japanese people. "I hope he gets slomething good out of this. Find him for me please. ask him what he wants. No, sorry, don't do that. Ask his wife what he needs."
Do you know what the middle man said to me. I'll give you a hint (2) (3) (4) (8),
That's right. He said, "We all make mistakes."
Then I got to the hospital I gesticulated to turn these lights off, this madness has to stop. Then we got safe passage, entered back through the front entrance, and crossed the road again. I blessed the greenery and prayed for its success. Then I prayed for all of the small businesses and local shops. Tried to make the people of Japan feel proud... But before we did along the way I passed some rough looking yoiung toughs, like yankees who scowled at me. I intimated to them that I meant no harm and I truly understaood. We got home, ate two chocolates. I thought someone could poison us with chocolates. So I waited for Satoko to eat first, then I ate second. Like Romeo and Juliet. Starts Adam and Eve ends in Romeo and Juliet going to sleep, wondering if its for the last time but knowing that kif they did they had gone to a churc, seen a picnic, blessed the streets and all the little people, tried to install pride into Japanese people, tried to strighten the shouldres, to walk tall so others can do the same, ate two chocolates and lived a day of sacrifice and love.
Thats how I want to see the world, as crazy and idealistic as it sounds. I've been showing my writing process. Tomorrow I will share with you "I dream of Uluru," which I think is avery special and complete short story.
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