How many days lost?

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On the importance of words.

When is a terrorist not a terrorist? When they are white? Or just when we share a certain amount of cultural ancestry?

A lot remains unanswered about the murder of the British parliamentarian Jo Cox last Wednesday. And it's far too easy - and dangerous - to jump to any conclusions before the full facts have been aired. Mental illness has been proposed as a cause. Ditto that, for the young British man who tried to murder Donald Trump on Saturday. Nonetheless, in both cases it strikes me as bizarre, that - despite repeated evidence pointing in this direction - in almost no reportage yet has the word terrorism even be mooted. For either case. But terrorism is the pushing of a political / ideological agenda through violence.

Why is this? Why do we avoid the T-word here, but we're so happy to dole it out in other circumstances? Because the attackers, in some ridiculous sense, "look like us"? Or because we're scared to admit that there are dangerous people in all communities? Of every faith, creed and upbringing? And that fascist rhetoric is growing.

If this act had been committed by someone who was in any way connected to the Muslim faith, I'm quite sure that they would have been decried "terrorist until proven innocent". Any psychological health issues would have been mere side-notes. And, yet again, the entire Muslim community would have been blamed for what occurred.

The way we use words - the way we tell stories - has a large bearing on how we interpret events. Subjecting an entire community to blame and prejudice for the acts of one person, but absolving another for the same act, is flower-dressed prejudice. The constant persecution of the Islamic community (not to mention of other communities, including the black community) feeds simply to create a society of "us's" and "them's".

To put this further, why won't the BBC - a media service I generally admire - acknowledge the refugee crisis for what it is?

There is a large difference between a migrant and a refugee.

I am a migrant. I left Scotland in search of a better life and a better job (and, admittedly, more adventure). This makes me, by all accounts, a migrant. An economic migrant, no less. Most of my friends are economic migrants. Not one of us has had to ensure the hardship of crossing a night-time sea in an ill-equipped boat. Or putting our lives into the hands of human smugglers. And we all still have recognisable and safe "homes" to return to.

Words define realities. Words are flammable. The fascists burned books. Words can carry the fire of hatred and fear, or spread the warmth of compassion.

The decisions we make regarding how we portray our innermost thoughts can have bigger impacts than we might realise.

And it is the responsibility of all of us, to choose how we use them.

 

-R.

P.S. also, this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7XhrXUoD6U

One year.

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Eur-on your own.

The European Championships (football) kicked-off on Friday. I, like always, have so far seen about 37 minutes of the 990 minutes on offer. The familiar rush of excitement in the weeks preluding the first game; the sudden apathy as soon as the tournament actually begins. Maybe apathy is a strong word. I still check the results on the BBC. So... distractibility. Or rather, always finding something "more important" to do.

It's like this every World Cup. Every Champions League season. Every Olympic Games, Wimbledon and Quantum Leap marathon on TV.....

And then, exactly 1.5 games before the tournament is over, my passion will re-spark. Followed by a hard twist of nostalgia for all the games I've missed. And the wish that I'd watched many more.

This beautiful article (http://waitbutwhy.com/2015/12/the-tail-end.html) captures the theory behind the feeling so well. As a result of reading it, I also now ponder how many more European Championships I will have the opportunity to be distracted from. Which is a morbid thought and.... well, yeah. Makes for great chat in the Biergarten.

The article also sets out a way of thinking about the remaining time we have with all the people we care most about. In particular, the family and friends we grew up alongside. But who, for many of us, are now distant. Either geographically or - in equal sense - emotionally. And how, for most of these people - the ones who matter much but who are so very far away - we're in the tail end of these relationships.

It's a sad realisation. And no less sad from the fact of knowing it. Sadder even than the thought that I may never again see Scotland "compete" (?) at a major football Championship.

And one which, if more people heeded in their personal relationships, would lead to much less bickering over the spoilt turkey at Christmas.

Analogous to this, is the characterization of the people who we didn't even have the chance to grow up with. The ones who only arrived only later in life. This doesn't mean that they're any less significant. And just because we're not yet in the "tail end", doesn't mean that this isn't cause for reflection. Indeed, the entire relationship might just have fewer shared moments. Maybe it's the soul mate you rocked out with for three days in Phnom Penh, but whom you now only see in triennial catchups and the occasional Skype. Or your sibling’s kids growing up on a foreign continent.

For me, this person would be my brother. There is a fourteen-year gap between us, and so moving to a different country when I was twenty-two meant that I missed the greatest part of him growing up. Some people who leave their birth countries miss the food. Others, their local tongue. I've never suffered from even the slightest scent of homesickness. But it is difficult to write anything that touches on this subject without a tight feeling forming at the base of my throat. And of thinking of those lost years, those missed birthdays... all those important moments which I only know of from stories and photographs. So maybe no tail end. But definitely a lost middle.

....maybe I'll try and catch a couple of more games this week.

-R.

P.S. @Brother, this does not mean you're getting a bigger Christmas present.

I wander...

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The immaculate conception.

No creative work is delivered in a ready-to-eat, fresh-out-the-drawer manner. Revision and the slow chipping away of the creative marble is the less-sexy truth behind all great inspirations. Ok, maybe not if you're Kerouac. But I'm not American. Or a dead beat poet.

On Saturday I hid out from the German monsoon season at my kitchen table. To the tune of thunder rolling across the neighbouring buildings, I was able to clear all the paper notes I'd let lie over the past eleven months. Half-finished songs. Untuned stories. And now, for at least one weekend, is everything back in order and ready for the fresh impulse of new summertime projects.

The clearing efforts involved a lot of throwing away. The throwing away efforts included circa 448 failed Basho haikus. Haikus that will never again be seen by any living person. Or any dead person either, I guess. Unless Kerouac is haunting me.

One of the failed haikus struck a chord. It reminded me of a discussion I'd had the night before. I was trying to translate the word "epicurean" into German, and Google translate proffered "Genusssuchtig". Which, literally translated, would be "pleasure-addiction". This riled me. Epicureanism, together with Stoicism, have both offered my life so much. And so much of In Search Of Basho is based on these old philosophies.

It upsets me, that both of these schools of thought have such negative modern connotations. Stoicism does not mean rendering yourself cold-hearted to the beauty of the world. Nor does Epicureanism mean intricating yourself in a massive ice-cream-and-bacon-fuelled sex orgy.

So, in my small attempt to redress the balance, here's that failed haiku. And here's to you, Epicurus:

 

I am dead; and the

Only poverty I now

Fear is loneliness.

 

(If you're still there, Mr Kerouac, here's to you also. On the Road was beautiful.)

 

-R.

The news.

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The beginning of the beginning.

So, here it is. Our little baby. Dirtied and bloodied. And so much smaller than we’d expected.

What was supposed to be a “back of the envelope” musing to be launched all the way back in 2010 has since twisted and turned, and waltzed into what you see before you. It demanded far more time and reconsolidations than either of us expected (thanks, perfectionist nature!).

This strip and the 51 to follow have been written across Germany, Japan and the US-A. They were scribbled down in noisy café corners, and revised from scratchy hospital beds. The drawings were made across Germany, Australia and Thailand. And they’re still not finished.

The strip is going to run as a once-per-week affair to be published on Wednesdays. It will last for exactly one year. And then our dear character’s job will be done. His life will be over.

And that… will be it.

 

-R.