The End

The future isn’t a place we’re going. It isn’t even a time we’re going. There is no future. Everything you think about the future is exactly that – a thought, an imagination, a fancy little construct you’ve built for yourself. There is no future.

Sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no future and it’s obvious because it hasn’t happened yet. Nope, it is not a place we are going, nor a time we are going! There is no future. More than that, there has never been a future. Who are we trying to kid with talk of a future, with our little dreams and fancies? Well, ourselves, I suppose. We’re trying to fool ourselves because the reality is that there is no future; there is only oblivion (oblivion in every direction, if there were any directions); oblivion and unknowing (and unknowing of that unknowing).

There is, of course, a past; an unchangeable repository of everything historical, memorable and unmemorable; a bank of our accounts, and (for better or worse) the eternal interest on those that just keeps on giving; a storehouse of all our stories from which we pull our memories to weep or laugh. Sometimes we hear it said that we need to move on from it, leave the past behind, and look instead to the future. But at least there is a past! At least there is something to look at in that direction! Look to the future? Who are we trying to kid?! There is no future!

Don’t shoot the messenger, but let me break it to you – you have no future prospects. ‘Hope’, ‘Prospects’, ‘Anticipation’ – these are words for now, not the future. ‘Future’ is a homeless word with nowhere to rest its empty head; a word without a meaningful meaning, it encapsulates nothing but nothingness. We can’t point at the future and say, “There it is”, because it isn’t there. It never is. It never is. And it never has been.

Oh yeah, we’ve all heard it said that there is a future. Maybe we’ve even been told that the future is known and perceived by some all-knowing, all-perceiving being. God. In the future there is no god. There is no god in the days to come, because those days do not and have never existed. There is no future, and in the future there is no god.

While the storehouse of history holding all the stories of billions of years of cosmos lies behind us, ahead of us there is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing and nothingness. We are perched on the very edge of time, and from here we stare into the abyss.

So, you might wonder, if there is no future, when is the end? Don’t ask with such trepidation when you already know the answer. This, my friends, this moment right now, is the end. 

From an honest life to a hospitable life

Consensual selfishness (agreeing to ‘use’ one another) highlights an unexpected limit of honesty as a social contract. Although it may allow us to fulfil the duty of not being a cheat or a swindler, and although it acknowledges each individual’s right to self-govern, it still objectifies the Other and thus denies them their humanness. A more beautiful measure then is not between deception and honesty, but between hostility and hospitality.

Every Story Is Made Up

My piece from ikon’s “Based on a true story” from GB11. Read a review of the event here. (Photo by @djsofakid)

Every Story Is Made Up

Every story is made up. Have you read ‘The BFG’? Roald Dahl? Yeah, it was made up. It’s a good story though. Every story is made up. Did you ever hear the one about the Moon Landing? 1969, man on the moon and all that. Yeah, it was made up. I’m not saying it didn’t happen. But the story you know is just a story that was made up. Just words… about an event. And I bet Neil Armstrong has a different story to you. It’s a good story though.

We Have Only Words To Tell Our Stories

Every story is made up. Made up of words trying to pin down and describe actual things, actual events and happenings, actual feelings. But the words never quite get there, do they? They can’t. The word ‘happiness’ doesn’t describe the experience of someone who is happy. It’s a just a word we use to point us in the right way.

Or, it’s like the story about the Inuit people having an unusually large number of words for ‘snow’, and we have, y’know, ‘snow’. Paddy Irishman, Paddy Englishman, and Paddy Eskimo make it back to the pub after getting caught in a snowdrift. But two of them are struggling to put words to their very similar experiences: “There was so much…snow…everywhere!” No vocabulary to tell snow from snow.

That story’s made up too as it happens – the one about Eskimos and them having lots of words for snow, it’s not true – but it is a good story, and it highlights the limits of language (all language) and makes the point that words fail us. Try as they might to be precise, they will always (and can only) generalise. Words and their meanings fall like precipitation; scattered and inaccurate.

How many words for ‘snow’ would be needed to describe every snowfall?

We Can Only See The World Through Our Own Eyes

Every story is made up. And so much of how we understand the world is determined by how that world has shaped us. Our template crafted through millennia of evolution, then personal experiences, all through the limits of our senses, and the moulding of the ‘self’.

We can’t understand outside our means; we can only see the world through our own eyes. Every story is made up. We will always see the world, not as it is, but as we are.

New Experiences Demand A Rewrite

So our beliefs, and the stories of how we understand ourselves, other people, the world, and even the divine, are inevitably flawed. It’s nothing clever; it’s obvious. And we’ve all known how new experiences demand a rewrite.

We should expect our beliefs to evolve, and want them to, and allow them to. So why do we ritualise our beliefs? They will change with time, and they already separate you from others. We should ritualise being human – this is what we share.

Yet, how often do we cling to our stories in the face of unfamiliars and unknowns? When we don’t have the vocabulary to describe snow from snow? Suddenly our stories are engraved in stone (by tradition, by deep-set desires and fears, by subconscious self-serving agendas) and they will not be re-written. We demand that this new reality and these new experiences fall into line – fall into our lines, on our page, in our made up story. When the plot thickens, we want to sift out the complexities and make a Mr. Men book out of a mystery.

But we shouldn’t worry or get too precious. We should be gentle and just remember that our story is made up and we’re allowed to change it.

There Is A Story Of God

There’s a story of God. God is a story. I have a story of God that I made up, and so do you. Parts of it were given to me, and I accepted them. Unknown to me there were parts I needed to hold on to, and parts I needed to abandon. Chapters I secretly edited and later found evidence for. Maybe God is a Big Friendly Giant. Maybe God is Dead. There are as many stories of God as there are possible experiences from getting caught in a North American snowdrift, and they’re all made up of words that fail.

The question isn’t whether your story is true (that’s easy – it isn’t). The question is whether your story is true enough. But how do we judge that? Our stories are precious, but they’re not as precious as the people around you. So when your made up story is helping others write their own beautiful chapters, keep it up. When your made up story is harming others, re-write it. If how you understand the divine leads you to love and include others, keep writing. But if how you understand the divine causes harm to others, reject your understanding. Shred it. Write it again. It might feel important, but you made it up.

My tweeted stories of God

My tweeted stories of God for ikon at Greenbelt 2011:

* I used to hold on tight to belief, but I dropped it when I realised my hands were too full to help #ikonstory

* Me with God, then me without God, then all of us as divine #ikonstory

* I dedicated my life to god until he told me the best dedication was to leave him and be with others. And there he was. #ikonstory

* God was born in me & grew inside.I loved him til I realised we were feeding off each other.Took meds,killed him.Both finally free #ikonstory

* Somehow I knew we were lost, and we would always be off by several degrees. “Goodbye, Belief, but Love will show me the way now” #ikonstory

* “I’m holding you back” says he.“But I won’t leave you behind!” says me. He insisted and I left God for dead at the side of the road #ikonstory

* I found beautiful architect plans that seemed to fit the world. But I had to make some changes when it drew a line between u & me #ikonstory

Many more beautiful stories from others here

(Photo by @djsofakid)

Lexikon - scattered words on words

My piece for Ikon's 'Lexikon' gathering (Feb '10)

At six months, uses vocalisation with intonation. At 12 months, practices inflection. At 18 months, has a vocabulary of between 5 and 20 words, mostly nouns. At 24 months, about two thirds of what is said is intelligible. At 36 months, uses the past tense. At 48 months, has most vowels and diphthongs and the consonants p, b, m, w, n well established. At 60 months, can count to ten. At 7 years, can handle opposite analogies easily, like girl-boy, blunt-sharp, sweet-sour. At 8 years, complex and compound sentences can be easily used. At 15, writes his first song. At 29 years, realises that language is a proxy of the mind, falling short of describing subjective experience.

Languages are only proxies of our minds, endeavouring but failing to summarise what we experience. To illustrate – although somewhat urban-mythologised, the notion of there being many Eskimo words for ‘snow’ helps us understand how our own language for snow is inadequate.

While hardcore deconstructionists might want to tackle how all language falters, I am willing to concede that simple messages such as “going to the shops” or “could you pass the ketchup” suffice in many circumstances. But as soon as we attempt to describe that we feel cold, or that something is a particularly nice shade of red, or that we are happy, then we are witnessing an obvious failing of language. What is our experience of temperature, or of colour, or of emotion? What is my experience of these things and how could I ever portray this to another person? Already these words are painfully inadequate. And we haven’t even started talking about religious experience and the divine.

"Whereas the truth is that fullness of soul can sometimes overflow in utter vapidity of language, for none of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his thoughts or his sorrows: and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which to tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars." – Gustave Flaubert (Madame Bovary)

We get so daft thinking we’re clever with words; people saying ‘chill-ax’ or ‘Re.’ or ‘ASAP’ in some obscene vocal shorthand. The same rules of shorthand obscenity apply to words such as ‘god’ or ‘love’. Maybe we’ll get smart and suggest that we realise that GOD surpasses our word ‘god’ but we don’t even know what we mean by ‘surpass’! Words are little cages; their definitions force boundaries on our imaginations. Observant Jews write down, but do not attempt to say the name of God.

4 And they said, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. 5 And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children built. 6 And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do; and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. 7 Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech. (Genesis 11)

A Torah commentator of 15th century, suggested that the Tower of Babel was a functional flying craft, empowered by some powerful magic or technology; the device was originally intended for holy purposes, but was later misused in order to gain control over the whole world. Many Kabbalists believed that these ancient peoples possessed the magic knowledge of the Nephilim, which allowed them to construct incredibly powerful devices. Isaac of Acre wrote that the Tower builders had reached, or at least planned to reach the distance of 9-10 billion kilometres above the Earth surface, which is about the radius of the Solar System.The Book of Invasions, recounting the mythological beginnings of the Irish race, suggests that King Fenius Farsa was one of the 72 chieftain’s who built Nimrod’s Tower of Babel. After it collapsed he chose the best features of all the confused languages and fused them together to create Goidelic, the forerunner of the Irish language.Maybe the Word became flesh knowing that words were never going to do.Now that I’ve tried to talk to you and make you understand, all you have to do is close your eyes and reach out your hands and touch me. Hold me close, don’t ever let me go. More than words is all I ever needed you to show. Then you wouldn’t have to say that you love me ‘cause I’d already know.

They knew the sky like the back of their hands

This was my opening piece for ikon's "Adventure" (Dec 09)

They knew the sky like the back of their hands; the constellations, the familiar patterns, suddenly disrupted by a lonely moving star. As they travelled from the east, it was such little light as their hope that the Magi followed. Perhaps these characters didn’t know what to expect, but something enough happened that they left their homes and took to the long road. They walked towards a reason to celebrate, not knowing if they would find anything. Advent marks the beginning of the liturgical calendar, and encourages a spirit of expectation, of anticipation, of preparation, of longing. Pope Benedict, last week, said to his congregation that “Hope signals the path for humanity”. As hope helps us walk this path towards reason to celebrate, we can be thankful for it regardless of whether or not we can find where Christ is born this year, or whether or not Christ is born at all. One way or another, we long for the incarnation of love and for a disruption to so many familiar patterns. And if that is you – if you need hope or have it – welcome to ikon.

Mind Body Lips

I wrote this for ikon's "No-bodies and our souls" gathering (Nov 09), and thought I would stick it up.

We are animals. In perceived danger our bodies react with fast, shallow breathing, we shake, we become hyper aware of our surroundings as our ears prick up and our pupils dilate. Unfortunately we also lose capacity for higher level mental functioning – with our brains dedicated to interpreting our senses and getting us out of trouble, not much else gets attention. And it’s tiring, stressful, to remain in fear and trembling for any length of time.

Our animal bodies sometimes react like this even when our minds know we need not be afraid; the jitters of that job interview when we know we aren’t actually going to perish, and all you want is to be composed and coherent. Breathing well is one often described strategy for bringing us to calm. But why? Well, our mind takes control of our breathing, and in response our body informs our mind that all is well, that we aren’t in danger, and so finally we are able to think clearly. The mind and body are communicating. Our body can change our mind as well as the other way round.

Some people were asked to watch cartoons in the name of scientific research. “Watch these cartoons while holding a pen between your teeth”. Others watched the cartoons and held a pen between their lips. And the first group found the cartoons funnier. Because, unbeknownst to them, they were already smiling. Amazing. So you don’t just smile because you’re happy; you’re also happy because you smile. The body changes the mind. They call it ‘embodied persuasion’.

But what is the mind that my body can convince? The mind appears to us to be somehow fundamentally different than matter. It’s not stuff; it’s thoughts. How can there be any interaction between the two? What is the connection – and where is the connection – between thoughts and action? Our intuition suggests that the mental has real and distinct causal power – we think something and then do it. But this flies in the face of what’s called the Physical Causal Closure Thesis which insists that all physical events have physical causes. The mind’s interaction with the body has puzzled people for centuries. Is the nature of ‘the mental’ completely reducible to the physical? Is the mental illusory? Or is consciousness merely a byproduct of physiological processes, with no power to affect these processes? And where is the real ‘me’ in all of this?

The old idea of a person having an essential, immutable nucleus has been rejected by many modern philosophers who understand the ‘self’ to be an illusion. (Perhaps it’s too much like a soul for their liking). Several branches of empirical research instead point towards an inconstant, material nucleus – the ‘me’ is (and I’m quoting here) “an integrated representational system distributed over changing patterns of synaptic connections”. Seems reasonable, don’t you think? But the illusion of an unchanging self is incredibly powerful. We seem to ourselves to be much more than a synergy of physical forces.

Who am I? Where are my thoughts? How does my mind make my body move? How do I decide to walk, to smile, to dance, to kiss?

To kiss... The elevations of our upper lip form what is called the Cupid Bow. Our lips are very sensitive as anyone who has paper-cut their lip when licking an envelope will testify. Our upper and lower lips are served by distinct cranial nerve branches, and they are controlled by an elaborate system of muscles and supporting structures. They affect the uttered sounds of spoken language, and help facial gestures communicate plenty more in what is unsaid – it is clear to the world that you are happy when you smile (assuming you aren’t holding a pen between your teeth). When two people kiss, there is a “rich and complicated exchange of information involving chemical, tactile, and postural cues”. Men, apparently, like a bit more tongue, and for kissing to be that bit wetter – perhaps an effort to raise their partner’s libido in the passing of testosterone, or perhaps because men are known to have reduced chemosensory detection and so just need a bit more juice to get the flavour. Some think kissing evolved from a practice found in primate mothers who pre-chew food for their infants and pass it from mouth to mouth – subsequent pressing of lips may have provided a signal of comfort and love. Kissing to make up is deemed much more viable to men, though plenty of women agree that it can end an argument. When we kiss, cortisol levels drop and we relax. Most people tilt to the right. Sophisticated circumstances and countless forces and personal efforts may lead two people together, but vast swathes of people agree that the kiss, particularly the first kiss, can bring a rapid end to a budding relationship. Perhaps Cupid’s Bow just missed the target, but we place a lot of importance on how someone kisses. We are animals, but who are we when we look into each other’s eyes? Who is doing the kissing?

Special Guest at ikon

Ikon hosts an event called The Last Supper. We invite a guest to share dinner with us; someone with perhaps a controversial or interesting set of beliefs or a view of the world that is different to our own. Over the starter our guest makes a presentation of their ‘thesis’ (as it were) – what they believe and why – and, as we move into the main course, the evening opens up to questions and discussion.

A couple of years ago we were blessed with a guest of great importance; someone who has had a huge impact on the Jewish and Christian faiths. We had to allow more diners than our normal limited dozen such was the demand for seats. Several biblical scholars, a number of local ministers from different denominations, and indeed some local Rabbis joined us for this very special night. For our guest was Moses.

Now, don't be too surprised, because Moses is known to transfigure himself onto earth every once in a while and, for whatever reason, he decided to accept our invitation to this humble provision of food and discussion.

We were a little nervous to have such a prestigious guest, but we didn’t fluff our conversation (like Peter did long ago on that mountain). In fact, the chat was great. Personally, I was enthralled to hear the old prophet’s presentation, and his tales of long ago were truly spell-binding, despite being told through a shy stammer.

But some of our fellow diners had studied the Torah at great length. There were many insights, and many rich perspectives which shed new light on the old words. These ancient texts of Moses (who wouldn’t confirm or deny if he was the sole author) have been wrestled with and scrutinised over many generations by people who love and fear God. And on this night, with well-read experts gathered over a spicy vegetarian dinner, the topics were hot. Let’s just say the knives and forks were brandished as one particular passage was considered. It seemed for a while that the diners had forgotten who was with them! But someone eventually put the contention to Moses: Could you please settle this debate? Which perspective is the correct interpretation? Which one of us is right?

To our bemusement, Moses merrily laughed out loud at the question. ‘I have never considered that!’ he said of the debate we made of his written works.

As the night went on, Moses sat quietly – looking puzzled, if you ask me – but he was happy. By the time we took our coffee and after-dinner mints, he contributed nothing but a wide smile. The night drew to a close and Moses had to go back to heaven to cast his vote in the next round of Worship Idol (kind of like Pop Idol, I think, but perhaps a poor choice of title). As he left he signed our Guest Book and wrote, alongside his thanks, a simple message: “My children have surpassed me.”

To the Powerful

What is it I want to say?

My concern over your place of power is not limited to the risk of abuse from above. Don’t kid yourself that you are a ‘good’ authority; that the alternative to your rule would be worse. Do not tell us that you treat your slaves, your workers, your tenants, with dignity and fairness. Don’t sully your thinking with this revisionism of ‘benevolence’. Are you so easily fooled?! The very place of power you occupy offends the idea of equality; how could dignity and fairness be possible in such a hierarchy?

Even if you exhibit great responsibility and selflessness, and choose to serve those you have authority over, even then you are operating in a system of injustice in which no one is free. Decisions made every day – every day decisions – endorse and propagate inequality, and force the hand of those with less wealth, less influence, and less voice. Do not steal from them using your riches.

And, Powerful, do you not see that you have found yourself in a place of deprivation? You debase your own mind as you take it upon yourself to make decisions that impact others. You have grown convinced of your right to rule, comfortable on your throne. You are convinced that your actions are just, or, at their very worst, harmless. Whether you live in luxury or feign poverty, live simply, and give generously to charity, you remain convinced your riches will multiply themselves with no harm to anyone. But both the powerful and the powerless begin to accept their lot; all understand inequality as a way of life.

Remove yourself – no – free yourself from your places of power. Dismantle the hold you have over others. We are, all of us, of an immense and too great a value.

Read at ikon's "The Place of Power"

Miracle

Having had a heavenly conversation with Cary and Pete in preparation for the next ikon gathering, the idea popped into our heads of a miracle in which nothing and everything changes.

----

On the Sabbath Day, Jesus stood among the people by the Pool of Bethesda. Amidst the crowd’s chatter, one voice stirred a commotion, piercing the air with a desperate plea, “Teacher! Teacher! Have mercy on me as you did Bartimaeus!”. This man who spoke was blind from birth and had begged under one of the alcoves by this pool for many years.

Jesus approached the beggar and asked, “What is it that you want me to do for you?” The man paused, then replied, “Son of David, you know what it is I lack”. With this Jesus embraced the man and said, “Faith is a gift, and it is your faith that has you restored.”

Although his eyes were as cloudy as before, the old man lifted songs of joy and thanks to heaven, holding his cane tightly all the while. Many people laughed at the spectacle and someone in the crowd addressed the old man, “Beggar, why do you sing praises? Nothing has changed! You are still blind!”

The man replied with a wide smile, “Brother, you are right to say ‘nothing has changed’, and yet also I tell you everything has changed. One thing I know: I remain blind, yet now I see.”

The crowd slowly dispersed in puzzlement wondering what miracle they had witnessed.

(Slightly edited version here)

Epoché: an ikon liturgy

Epoché; the heart of liturgy;

an hour of peace, lived together as if the world had dissolved;

our beliefs, judgements, payoffs, economies, competition, all suspended.

We know that this epoché moment will not, this time, last forever

The suspension of our beliefs draws to an end as we face life’s decisions

but we decide to be mindful of how we live them out

We remember that although our beliefs are precious,

our neighbours are priceless.

We hold our ideas lightly, and our views of the world humbly;

it took time & experience to mould them;

time & experience may yet remould them.

We are more than our beliefs; we are people.

We are less than our beliefs; we share our humanity.

Before this hour ends, we save a moment of epoché

[ritual of 'bottling' epoché]

The world which was lost for one sacred hour is now regained.

Our faith is both more and less than our beliefs

and as we leave, we keep a memorial to epoché close to remind us of this moment.

Click

Ravelling

Such a great Ikon gathering on Sunday night, titled ‘The God Delusion’. Here is the piece I read.

UN/RAVELLING

To Fear Unravelling

Here I am unravelling!

It began with a doubt. A tickling thread, an element itching. Not much, but at the time I wanted it gone; I prayed for it to disappear.

Unravelling. Some early questions coming out of the fray: How can I claim to know God? How can I comfortably address Infinite-God in prayer? What is my faith made of?

This doubt was mocking me: ‘You live your family inheritance! You’ve invested so much you can’t let it go! Your identity is tied up in Christendom - pull this thread and you will be nothing!’ Mocking little, dangling thread of doubt.

The thread. I couldn’t ignore the itch. Should I snip it off and pretend it never existed? Or should I pull it and examine my reasons for belief? I would pull it until it stopped. My faith would find its form and still keep me warm. It would stand up to the test. I would tug this thread and come out stronger.

I came out weaker.

Every question led to another. Each answer was teased apart showing its own presuppositions. Every new experience I was open to, and every stranger I met, pulled at the thread. I was unravelling, and I was unravelling fast. What would be left?! Filled with doubt. Filled with uncertainty. Filled with failure.

That’s how it started, this unravelling.

To Revel in Ravelling

But unravelling and ravelling, I was both. They mean the same thing. I started to see that unravelling didn’t need the negative appendage, the un- prefix. As if unravelling were to be avoided, to be considered the ruin of my belief, my faith’s fall.

My Christ-encounter had become meshed in interpretation, and tangled in my inheritance (church, theology, psychology, politics). My ‘becoming-Christ’ had become ‘Christian’ (in all its woollen glory). But rather than unravelling these threads to expose an embarrassed belief, this ravelling disentangles the web of confusing adornments and décor to make room for the next encounter.

Ravelling. Disentangling, not collapsing. My faith didn’t unravel, it ravelled. They mean the same thing. It wasn’t the end, it was the beginning of something… I learned to revel in ravelling. The questions proclaim more than the answers. The searching confirms that there has been revelation. The hunt for an unattainable treasure confirms that we have found it. Tearing apart what I love is evidence that I love it.

Filled with doubt, for what is faith without it?! Filled with uncertainty, and my remaining beliefs are held lightly; an ensured humility. Filled with failure; failure to grasp God, forever failing.

I am ravelling.

And the story continued on...
Where does your faith lie? ;-)

Forced Hypocrites

There is no ideological purity. There is no righteousness in our actions. All concerns are ditched in the face of necessity and, too frequently, convenience. The compromises pile up as we shop in supermarkets that destroy third world economies and the lives of those struggling to survive; Christ knows, even ‘FairTrade’ falls embarrassingly short of fairness. The compromises soar as we drive our cars and fly in planes to our holiday and work destinations, every minute adding to the destruction of our planet. The blood is on our hands as our taxes fund the arms industry. The pile of compromise rises and finds form as we cast our vote and thus legitimise the current 'photocopy' representative democracy where decisions that affect us are made without us, and that affect others are done in our name. At best we are forced hypocrites, cursing our wallets as we feed and clothe ourselves while standing on the backs of others, cursing our ballot papers as we decry the politicians. Curse our failure, us forced hypocrites, there is no righteousness in our actions.

Angry At God For (Not) Existing

with Modest Mouse and The Arcade Fire

Two bands I can’t get enough of, The Arcade Fire and Modest Mouse, both recently released fantastic albums. Musically, neither band can be quite pinned down into our nice categorical genres, but both reach soulful pinnacles that drag my innards upwards - the melody paths, the tempo drops, the hums and screams... And lyrically, often through sketchily painted themes, both bands insist on baring sleeved hearts, consistently refusing to shelter their rage, fears, and doubts.

I am quite probably wrong, but when I listen to these bands I feel like The Arcade Fire (at least Win Butler) has journeyed within religion and with God to the point of frustration and doubt, while Modest Mouse (at least Isaak Brock) has searched hard but never found anything up there (though he remains “certainly uncertain”). It’s a brilliant similarity, for what is the difference between a believer’s doubt and an atheist’s disbelief? (There are differences I know, but I’m learning there’s more in common than I would have previously credited.)

“It honestly was beautifully bold, like trying to save an ice cube from the cold”

The spectrum of sounds on Modest Mouse’s We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank is a delight. The opener, March Into The Sea swells into the listener’s ears setting the scene, the pop driven Dashboard follows, stackfulls of syncopated guitars, and of course there’s plenty of manic screams and vocal weirdness from the front man throughout. They’re also a band who know how to pull at our heart strings with the likes of the contemplative People As Places As People and Missed The Boat (featuring the honeysweet vocals of Shins’ singer, James Mercer).Lyrically, with endless gems that raise a smile, Brock hovers around thoughts of mortality and mundane existence: “Someday you will die and somehow some thing or someone steals your carbon”, “Let’s shake hands if you want but soon both hands are gone, ah-ha-ha!”. Science gets sarcastically mocked as it is incapable of answering all the singer’s questions (“We’ve got everything down to a science, so I guess we know everything!”), while a certain sympathy is offered towards religion - though he confesses, and asserts the challenge on to us, that “we listen more to life’s end gong than the sound of life’s sweet bells”.But life isn’t hollow despite its brevity. Brock lets us know where he sees the value in his short cycle of life before he “dehydrates back into minerals”- it is in the people around him who he has “loved but didn’t quite know”; he talks of people as “places he wants to go”, and describes a beautiful moment he shared with someone when “the remainders of a shooting star landed directly on our broke-down little car. Before then we had made a wish that we would be missed if one or another just did not exist”

“All the reasons I gave were just lies to buy myself some time”

And then The Arcade Fire. The rough cuts, the pulsing four-on-the-floor kicks, the handclaps, the “Heys!”… Their music is just bursting with joy from inside its brokenness. Neon Bible has had its doubters - some unimpressed uber-cool indie kids - but whatever, this is an epic and glorious record. Sure, perhaps nothing will impact us quite like their first album, Funeral, having come out of nowhere and telling the story of our lives so accurately, but Neon Bible is still incredibly striking.Butler paints a bleak picture through Neon Bible with talk of houses on fire, falling bombs, World War III, planes crashing “two by two”, and how “the tide is high and it’s rising still”. He describes how we’re “living in an age that calls darkness light”, where nothing is straightforward (“a vial of hope and a vial of pain, in the light they both looked the same”) and where “the lions and the lambs ain’t sleeping yet”. Religious imagery like this is dotted throughout, as is his frustration with his Divine. In a number of songs he aims anger up and mocks heaven (“Oh God! Well look at you now! Oh you lost it, but you don’t know how! In the light of a golden calf, oh God! I had to laugh!”); though we shouldn’t be surprised after the tragic irony of “working for the church while your family dies”.Yet, for Butler, there is always something more, some meaning to life, some hope beneath this desolate perspective. The lyrics suggest his sensitivity to divine touches (“In an ocean of noise I first heard your voice, ringing like a bell”), and he speaks of being “resurrected” to “live in a lighthouse” having spent time in a gloomy well, which acted as his prison where “only the moon was shining back”. Most often, though, this feeling of hope is carried through the music, sweeping past the listener in landscapes of strings and rusty guitars and through the pipes of church organs. The Arcade Fire have a sound quite unlike anyone else I have come across. The structures are unique and fun, the voices balance boldness and fragility, the sound is dramatic… I can’t quite put my finger on it, but somehow, out through the rough edges comes a captivating magic.These bands have brought out the fan in me, that part of my insides that has remained hidden for many a year. Both records are excellent- I can’t stop listening to them and fear I will wear them out. All homes should have a copy!

Neon Bible and We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank.

To the Earth! And all who sail in her, and fly in her, and drive in her...

If you saw C4's 'The Great Global Warming Swindle' you might have been left, like me, feeling rather flummoxed and wondering what to believe.

It is worth catching a repeat showing - but not without a pinch of salt - even just to see what some might call 'propaganda' at work! The programme sparked a lot of discussion. Here are some good rebuttals.

MediaLens

George Monbiot

The Independent

Quantum Graffiti

I’ve started cycling to work. It’s great, though I recently discovered my brakes don’t work in the rain. I’m lucky to have a rather pleasant route; briefly through Botanic Park, along the towpath by the river and then I have my own lane as I pedal the Ormeau Embankment. After that it gets a bit scrappy, but I’m not complaining.

Thanks to a certain questioning mural artist, every morning on my way to work I’m left considering how quantum gravity might help explain the origin of the universe. Hmmm... how could it possibly? Oh, wait a minute - what the hell is quantum gravity? This, I suspect, is part of the artist’s vision. I don’t know who the artist is, but perhaps, as a ram-pressured space rock flew through the earth’s atmosphere, she hoped that passers-by would investigate this area of physics. Or maybe she is unconvinced that quantum physics has anything to bring to the discussion of where the universe came from, and she wished upon that shooting star that we would just look up and be amazed.

Well, I went with the former. A quick search in wikipedia pointed out that quantum gravity is basically the missing link, as it were, in the well known “Theory Of Everything”; that holy grail in which physicists try to piece together the three fundamental forces of quantum mechanics (electromagnetism, and the weak and strong interactions) with general relativity’s fundamental gravitational force. You’ve heard of it before. They’re still working on it.

And, would you believe it, quantum gravity does indeed throw its tuppence into the discussion pot. As opposed to conventional Ex nihilo theories (that appeal to the traditional religious mind), M-theory, according to some of its proponents, suggests that the universe was birthed when two multidimensional membranes (often called 'p-branes', I kid thee not) collided into one another. And, if the theory is correct, the number crunching tells us that the observable universe in which we live is an 11-dimensional spacetime.

I’m lost. But it is fun, isn’t it? I like living in an 11-dimensional universe, having always felt a little constricted in the four I can name.

String theory (M-theory being big in this field as it ties five superstring theories together) is very popular, but I’ve heard some rebels are beginning to doubt its afore-assumed messianic potential of unifying quantum theory and relativity. Academia, having spent 30 years delightedly muttering “surely” to string theory, have among them doubters who propose a new tack - one of creative thinking (in the style of Einstein sitting atop a light beam, I suppose) - in an effort to crack this quantum nut because, after all this time, the sums still don‘t quite add up. Less mathematics around the assumed answer, and more guessing outside the box, suggests Smolin, for one. He likes to encourage lay folks, like myself, by confessing that physicists are as befuddled as the rest of us.

Looking back to the mural, I pause a little longer, and consider the artist’s other question. For it can be no accident that if we drop the last line the question becomes, “How can quantum gravity explain theo?” Nice touch. It already felt like we were delving into the realms of philosophy and religion as we tagged along with the outer stretches of the physicists’ minds as they searched for the impossible equation. Though not interchangeable, there are surely similarities in the two questions. For if God spoke and, (in a theoretically rather old-fashioned manner for Almighty to choose) Ex nihilo, there was, we are still left with the mystery of God‘s beginning. There is delight when answers slip perfectly into the puzzles we‘ve been working on, but the questions, too, bring a joy. Unanswerables - for now at least. I will look up and be amazed.

Thanks to the wikipedia authors :-)

click for tv shows on string theory

"You hated Vietnam, but you dig Afghanistan"

There's a lot on the news about Afghanistan at the moment. The Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan (RAWA), an inspiring social activist and politial agitator group, offer an inside view. (I first heard of them through GY!BE [ha!])

"No doubt the war on terror toppled the misogynist and barbaric regime of Taliban. But it did not remove Islamic fundamentalism, which is the root cause of misery for all Afghan people; it just replaced one fundamentalist regime with another.

Five years have passed since the so-called "democratic" government of Hamid Karzai has been installed but the depth of tragedy and miseries of Afghan people still remain intact. Unlike what is being shown in the media, RAWA and other human rights organizations like Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch paint a very different picture of Afghanistan.

Just the increasing amount of women who commit suicides by burning themselves can be the best example of a human rights violation in Afghanistan. According to UNICEF, 65% of 50,000 widows in Kabul think that committing suicide is the only option they have.

US bombs, B52s and the presence of thousands US troops is not to meant to bring about liberation or establish democracy in our country. The people of the US should know that their troops only serve the strategic interests of the US government and make things worse in Afghanistan. Liberation should be achieved by the people of a country and they must fight for their own liberation."

From Afghanistan the Bloodiest Field for Slaughtering Human Rights

"You hated Vietnam, but you dig Afghanistan" (Cester, Cester, Wilson, Muncey)

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club @ The Village, Dublin 26/2/7

We drove three hours there and back, both of us almost falling asleep to our road deaths on the way home. (Chatting about alcohol and rock ‘n’ roll saved our lives).

The gig was bloody brilliant. After a support band who looked like a bunch of school kids delighted to share the stage with obvious heroes (and who were very good) BRMC took to getting the crowd going. It was a delight to hear so many new songs - I can’t wait for their new album, Baby 81, which comes out at the end of April - and they started with a number called ‘Berlin’, followed immediately by the foot-stomping ‘Spread Your Love’.

Several of the old favourites came out. The crowd had itchy feet through ‘Ain’t No Easy Way’, and went plain crazy for ‘Whatever Happened…’ As usual Hayes and Been regularly switched guitars and bass, and last night, for a few numbers, the trio shared the stage with a rock kid (drummer Jago’s brother?) who offered up keys, BVs, and occasional guitar skills. Hayes added the harmonica now and again. They make a lot of noise for a three piece; a wall of sound with devastating chord drops, and endless blues’ riffs. The new single, ‘Weapon of Choice’ was already well-loved by the crowd despite only being available as a streaming file at the band’s website. A reworked ‘Sympathetic Noose’ was a treat. The acoustic guitars made a few appearances as well; a quiet highlight had Been on stage alone strumming out ‘Mercy’ (from the Howl Sessions EP) as the first encore.

Not accustomed to letting the son of God have an easy ride, last night Been declared in ‘Gospel Song’ that he would “stand with Jesus ‘til I can’t take another stone” - then he busied himself ripping the place apart with his searing guitar solo. Such a great rock ‘n’ roll band, and they will take on these taboo issues of religion and politics (that the new wave of indie bands dare not approach).

They are the real deal, throwing everything at you, and they gave it all last night to make it a great gig. Finishing off with ‘Heart & Soul’, the whole thing was over in less than an hour and a half.

Mentalcase

Depression is sweeping the nations, if the U.N. is to be believed. A newly recognised type of bi-polar disorder has been added to the DSM-IV (Bi-Polar 2, where the manic episodes aren't so manic...). Crime is frequently pathogenic, leaving victims suffering dibilitating side-affects of PTSD. Schizophrenia, psychosis, anxiety disorders, OCD... Everyone is crazy. Apparently mental illness is the biggest cause of disability in the USA. I wouldn't be surprised if it's similar here.

By the way, I'm as crazy as the rest of you with my bouts of rage, depression and sleepless nights.

Or are we all just victims of a society so individualised, so pathologised, that we can't handle simple pressures of life without giving it a medical explanation? Do the mental health services (let alone the pharmaceutical industry!) fool their way into business by convincing us and themselves of their importance? The 'therapeutic state' as it is known...

Culture differences are there to be seen - some commentators simply could not believe that the local population were mentally stable after the tsunami struck...

"One mental health specialist, reporting live on radio from a Sri Lankan village, expressed his surprise that the children he encountered seemed keener to return to school than talk about their experiences. They were, he told the listeners, 'clearly in denial', and 'only later will they experience the full emotional horror of what has happened to them.' How he knew this was not stated." (from a BMJ book review)

Cultures are different. Our broken legs look the same, but our mental status cannot. Psychiatry is perhaps 90% in the mind, 10% the brain, and so our mental status is massively influenced by our upbringing, our affluence etc. Our ways of coping with trauma and stress are very different - evidence, some argue, that we in the West are dangerously medicalizing our society. We have lost the role of community, common goals, maybe even religion, in getting through the tough times that life always throws our way and in our recovery from traumatic events.

Of course, it should go without saying, that some people are in need of mental health care, and they should get it.

Anti-psychiatry

The Cinema Experience

Don’t download poor quality movies - pay for the bad experience at your local cinema.

Apparently one of the cinema screens at The Odyssey has been revamped. Now each member of the audience can sit back and relax into their own lazy-boy leather seat and order drinks through the waiter service. Hopefully the sound and picture are well presented as well. I mean, when you pay big bucks for that kind of treatment, it better be good.

Surely it should always be at least half decent. Last year I vowed never to return to Enniskillen’s Omniplex until they sorted their shit out. In four consecutive visits I was disappointed one way or another - picture out of focus, sound desperately quiet, hissing/crackling speakers… Call me grumpy, but when I pay five quid to see a film, I want it to be enjoyable. Ideally I would like to be overcome by the film, without a thought for the outside world. But that’s just never the case. And no, I don’t want to miss some of the film to tell the morons to get it together - that’s their job.

At Yorkgate last night I saw ‘Flags of our Fathers’. I won’t comment on the film ‘cause this is rant about the cinema experience. The bloody thing was out of focus. This time, someone even mentioned the problem to a member of staff who was milling about in the theatre. But they still failed to fix it. What does it take? And even if they nailed the picture perfectly, I’m sure the place didn’t have surround sound, the screen was tiny, and, yeah while I’m at it, the seats were a bit cramped. :)

I think I know why it’s all so duff. The cinema going public here don’t care. At the first sign the film was over, the masses of Belfast scrapped and yelped their way to the doors, missing what I thought was a revealing series of photos from some old WW2 archives. And the bloody brooms and rubbish bags came in while we remained, creeping around behind us, basically urging us to leave the theatre. So much for getting lost in the film. This crap wouldn’t go down in America!

HMS Vanguard

I can’t watch the news now without filling with such a variety of angers. Tonight’s topics of discussion – the debate over the renewal of the UK’s nuclear “deterrent”, ‘Trident’; an investigation into dodgy governmental business deals with the Saudis regarding Typhoon fighter jets; a former Russian spy’s death and the resulting “tensions” between our governments…

Not only are all these stories covered with the bloody fingerprints of those in power, but also, tragically, the journalism on telly saddles up beside that power. If any critiques are offered they are tangential (e.g. cost, rather than illegality or immorality – see Trident “debate”), or whispered, or presented by ‘unrespectable’ or ‘controversial’ sources.

You maybe think I’ve lost it.

Please read independent media.

Medialens

(I recommend signing up to their mailing list)

Zmag

who get sourced articles from many publications around the world)

Think about telling your MP to vote against Trident's renewal.

writetothem.com

More info at CND

Chicago May 3rd, 1886

Chips and Dips

Welcome to ZOO TV, y'all

In a review of U2's latest album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, a fan wrote that it took Bono less than ten seconds to give his critics ammunition and his fans something to defend as he managed to count to '3' in Spanish before getting lost to catorce. It seems to be the way these days- with Bono giving photo-ops to political Neros in his zealous extracurricular political work (often written off as naive - a criticism I don't buy in to, but won't go in to), his cheese-tinged pictorial speeches (watering cans anyone?), and ultimately the latest album being less than riveting - the boys can do nothing right.

It wasn't always like this! Back in the 90s, they were bloody brilliant :-)

"YOU HAVEN'T COME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE TO WATCH TV NOW, HAVE YA?!"

The ZOO TV tour was a spectacle not to be missed. I missed it 'cause, as a twelve year old, my parents didn't trust my ability to find my way around the Dublin metropolis. They were probably right - it turns out I can't find my way out of supermarkets- but it still niggles me. Oh that sensory overload, right from the start. It would have fried my young and developing brain. TV screens to the heavens flashing with madness and wisdom and chaotic moving pictures, my heroes dressed up in silly costumes, then in matching uniforms. Bono flirting with a hot belly dnacer, then playing the televangelist, then the devil-like past-it pop-hero Mister Macphisto. Fabulous.

U2's ZOO TV show from Sydney was re-released recently, this time on DVD for the digital age. About time - my video version has literally worn out through overplaying. It is, in my opinion, the best of their live releases, and it always ranks well in those Top Whatever lists for live shows. It was so extravagant, so outrageous, yet so developed as a work of art. U2 were doing something noone else dared. Apparently it nearly broke the U2 bank, so don't think it's cause they're so enormously rich. It was a risk, costing desperate amounts just to shift the luggage around and get it assembled every night.

REBELLION IS PACKAGED / EVOLUTION IS OVER / ENJOY THE SURFACE / KIDS BLOODY KIDS / EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG

The film is bizarrely shot in 4:3 ratio, presumably because video was so hip back then, but it leaves the film looking dated. Nevertheless, you still get a sense of the madness blaring out of your telly. The stage looks like a cross between some wasted industrial site and the skeletal mainframe of a fallen space station. There's the East German Trabant cars hanging from the rafters as spotlights. Having been reminded that television is the drug of the nation (Disposable Heroes Of Hiphoprisy), the crowd are asked, "What do you want?" in several languages, before the show kicks off with the thundering fire bomb of Zoo Station. It starts as it means to go on. As character The Fly, Bono plays up the rockstar sticking his face in the cameras of the paparazzi who are as much of the show at this point as they are reporting it. (All his characters through the show deserve an expanded discussion, and have received as much from fans and art critics, so I'll resist taking that particular lesson :-) )

"HAVE YOU COME HERE TO PLAY JESUS? I DID"

Having punched their audience in the collective gob with an overload of rock sound and randomly fired images (that can't even be teased apart by freeze-framing your home copy - I've tried), the band have no problem in then lifting the stadium to ecstasy with Edge's sliding Mysterious Ways solo, followed by the beautiful, tragic One. This U2 at their best, I have no doubt.

Until The End Of The World, New Year's Day, Angel Of Harlem, Stay (Faraway, So Close), Numb, Lou Reed even makes an appearance, sharing the vocals in his Satellite Of Love from the large screen above the stage - it's class stuff throughout the first set, and the close in particular is incredibly moving. The band have never held back when playing Bullet The Blue Sky, their rage against America's aggressive foreign policy, and they give it some wellie in Sydney - on screen is a burning cross, and with the pounding undercurrent and screaming guitar, it cuts to the bone. Having spent their rage, the band turn to confession as Bono sings of weakness, addiction, and failing in the re-worked Running To Stand Still. "Hallelujah, hallelujah" he sings, then he is smothered in clouds as his harmonica wails. And the lights turn red. You can sense the crowd's anticipation - with Mullen's high-hat count in, Edge's delay pedal working over time, and the band exchanging time signatures, the first set nears it close with Where the Streets Have No Name. Suddenly the stadium is flooded with light allowing the fans and the band to see all the faces right to the back. It's understandably a live favourite, never failing to lift the soul, and it's followed by Pride (In the Name Of Love) and, "Thank you, good night."

"YOU CRY FOR MAMA... AND DADDY'S RIGHT ALONG"

Of course, it's not over yet. And I, for one, can't help but watch the whole gig in one sitting. After an interlude of Lenin's favourite fanfare, with vocals seemingly sung by a lemon-headed cartoon spaceman, Mister Macphisto appears on-screen from backstage and the band launch into Daddy's Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car. Lots of America didn't 'get' the album Zooropa (recorded mid-tour after Achtung Baby), but I love it. And Daddy... is the perfect stage song for this devil as he signals the cannons to shoot money (well, ZOO ECUs) into the front rows. The show pauses as Macphisto goes through a list of thank-yous to everyone from Clinton ("too tall to be a despot, but watch him closely") to the people of Sarajevo who should be thankful for getting to be on TV. Then a phonecall for a taxi home, a drunken murmur of Show Me The Way To Go Home before the boys take off again with a magical Lemon, (not in a magical Lemon - that's the next tour). It's the delightful falsetto ode to the singer's reason for living, whether it be a heavenly lady or a fashion conscious God-above.

"Off with the horns, on with the show" he declares as the Zoo TV journey quiets.

"TAKE MY HEART. IT'S BLINDNESS"

And what a flipping journey it has been, but it is the lack of destination in the closing moments that leaves me breathless. Imagine a stadium full of Aussies stunned into silence as the band weave heartache and desperation through With Or Without You and Love Is Blindness. Nothing matches this finale, and nothing could prepare you for it. Did every show on the tour finish with this? Amidst star constellations, it is beautiful, and dark. Honestly, it is aching. I don't know of many bands who could pull off this feat in such a setting, and after two hours the crowd are still left wanting more. The boys play like they have lost everything, and are scratching in the darkness for a candle to light. And when you think no more is possible, the last song on the list is Elvis' classic Can't Help Falling In Love. Yes, it works perfectly - karaoke pop, and foolishness, and rock heroes, and under it all, love and longing.

It's the music, the poetry, the video drama, the ideas, the moments of glory and moments of hurt. It's all there. My old soul is hard pressed to find a better night in than with 90s U2 on the telly.

if fashion had a conscience, would it really look like this?

I don't buy many clothes, tending rather to wear out the items that were handed down to me by big cousins and big brother, or that I have collected for nowt over the last ten years. Now that my crotch and armpits are showing through, it's getting to that time in my life when I have to spend.

Coming soon to a Caswell near you...

paraskevidekatriaphobia

Do you suffer? Stay inside and lock the doors!
No, wait, don't lock the doors...
Oh, I don't know! God you bless you child!

thoughts of a poorly educated hollywood actor

I was accused of being a stumbling block to discourse (because I didn't begin with the assumption that capitalism is 'good'), was advised to give up my 'moderate socialism', and was subtly compared to a 'poorly educated Hollywood actor' all in one person's comment and blog. It bothered me. I had just finished an unlikely book which helped me vent, and I wrote this.

Thoughts of a poorly educated Hollywood actor
or
The surest way to corrupt a youth...
or
Every theory is autobiographical
or
We are all wrong

"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently."
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Dawn, Sec. 297

When has someone read enough information to become an authority on a particular subject? Daily newspapers? Paperback books? Academic literature? Maybe they have to have written a few articles of their own before we can put our trust in them.

Hmmm, I'm not so sure. Of course, I'd be slow to accept the wisdom of any old passionate soap-box preacher who was told something by someone, someday he can't remember, but I would also hesitate to place my full confidence in any confident soul.

I suspect that we are all wrong. Yes, all of us. Just for a start, I suspect that every theory is autobiographical. All of us in our discussions- lay folks like me, plus academics and intellectuals- inadvertently bring our wishes (perhaps hidden, says Sigmund) and power struggles (says Friedrich) and self-serving ideologies (says Karl) to the table. The best possible scenario is that we are aware of this, and so critique our own thoughts, and analyse everyone elses ideas, in this light.

And then we've all had our teachers, looked up to certain authors or activists, had clever friends who think one way, known asshole acquaintances who thought another. Unbeknownst to us, it all adds up. Tragically, we get stuck in the mindset we've invested in, and then find evidence to support our ideas (Sigmund again- subconsciously, we are saving ourselves from the shame of being wrong). It is impossible to be autonomous. We must be careful of getting cocky, because we are wrong.

We are all wrong because we can't step out of our own lives to give a truly objective decision. This matters because we might end up embarrassing ourselves by yelling from the rooftops something with a bit of forethought and introspection we would not let pass our lips. (The embarrassment will, of course, only come when we later realise we are wrong - you maybe know some fundamentalists who are fully unaware of how embarrassing they are.) Much more importantly, this matters because in our ranting we may propagate some theory that harms others without us being aware that we support it for self-beneficial reasons.

Being wrong. This should be a humbling thought. I'm passionate about some things, even get childishly worked up about them, but it's nice to remember that I'm wrong. The more I read, the more I know I don't know it all. But this goes beyond that cliché to acknowledge we are always failing to have a sturdy foundation for our ideas: I am wrong. You are wrong. We are wrong. At the occasional best, this acknowledgement helps me to take the ideas of others more seriously. People I disagree with, even apparently fundamentally, have something genuine and truthful to bring to discussion. Even the soap-box preachers. But, (yes, spot the irony) I get really pissed off when I come across someone so sure of their position they speak with a tone of condescension, or even arrogance. Don't they know they're wrong? We're all wrong! Can't you see we all have holes in our theories and in our arguments? How much have you read to be so self-assured?!

I'll buy a punch bag.

bus

I get the bus to work most days. I wait at the stop just opposite my street. So anyway, a couple of evenings ago I was sitting there, at the stop. Waiting with me was this shifty looking guy. Just shifty enough, off-normal enough, for me to think I wouldn't like him if I met him. He was dressed in a suit, an Asian guy, and sort of squinted his way along the ground, never stood still or sat down. I don't know- it wasn't much, not a big deal or anything, but I just didn't like the look of him. We waited about ten minutes for the bus, at which point he perked up and made a rush out of nothing, creep-jumping his way in front of me to get on first. I knew it! He is a shifty character. I felt vindicated in my first impression analysis of him. I didn't like him.

Then the strange thing happened. Shifty got off the bus just two stops down the Lisburn Road. Why would you wait ten minutes for a bus to bring you 200 metres down the street? It wasn't dark, it wasn't raining... But as he got off, another man got on. A guy with dark skin, a scraggly beard, and a back pack. I know, I agree, the ensuing thoughts are embarrassing to say the least. They were embarrassing at the time. I hated my reactionary assessment even as I sat there on the bus. Was he in some way connected to Shifty? Had I witnessed some coded exchange? This guy could totally be a suicide bomber. And I told my mind to shut up, to get a grip.

Honestly, my head was frantic. Switching between fear and fairness. Trying to solidify a rational and more typical response. It was bizzarrely uncomfortable. I'll confess to having had similar pop-up thoughts before, these Pavlovian responses - like when people have knelt in prayer facing Mecca on flights I've been on. These thoughts are very easily discarded, but I reckon largely inescapable thanks to media hype. This was different, and it was the strange circumstance with Shifty that sparked it off. This time I actually felt it. Heat, pulse. I was embarrassed to feel it. I was offended at the possibility of judging people like this, that my core being would react like this. But I realised you don't get to convince your irrational fears to leave your head. I concluded to sit, ashamed of my fear, and blow up if necessary, rather than be one of those who gets off public transport every time a Muslim gets on.

But my Bomber got off the bus first, with his backpack I noted, before we reached the City Hall - the place my fear assumed he would detonate. (How embarrassing to write all this).

So, I got safely unexploded to work. I say 'work', but this night we were off to the Waterfront Hall to watch Marcelo Bratke, a Brazilian classical pianist, perform with two percussionists from the favelas of Sau Paulo. Bratke came on first. A large screen above the stage hosted projected images of his left and right hands playing different rhythms in a gorgeous melancholic piece by Heitor Villa-Lobos. It was staggering. He stood for the applause after this, the first recital, and then beckoned for his companions to come on stage. And on came, yeah seriously, my Bomber.

attention please

The Pedestrianist is walking. Goodness knows what I'm going to fill this space with - personal musical discoveries, thoughts of the heavenly, random political grumblings, a touch of creativity if I brave it. And goodness knows when I'll get around to posting these sorts of things. Goodness knows a lot of stuff. She knows I'll at least try and make every post readable. (Here you can say, 'thank goodness for that').