paradoxicalpondering

[paradoxicalpondering]

The Platform

“The flesh endures the storms of the present alone; the mind, those of the past and future as well as the present. Gluttony is a lust of the mind.” - Thomas Hobbes. 

This morning, I finished watching The Platform, or El hoyo, directed by Galder Gaztello-Urrutia.

Watching films is a rarity for me as I feel it is a big time commitment, and requires diligent lengthy concentration, so when I do so I need it to be time well spent.

The Platform is the first film since Midsommar that I have felt a compulsion to watch, purely driven by a concept that is unique, but most importantly gorged with the potential of themes, ideas and complexities which offer an experience outside of the usual.

The crux of the appeal with Midsommar came with the suggestion of eternal daylight as a fearful entity, directly contrasted to the common play on the mystery and danger of darkness.

To me, it was the idea of a super charged equilibrium that constant sunlight infers, the lack of any kind of break that could drive one insane through monotony if not due to resultant insomnia.

It was not utilised as I hoped but it did feature as an uncomfortable parallel to the horrific things happening, which were focused through the smiley malaise of the cult committing these atrocities.

The Platform, in contrast, did deliver on the elements that I was most intrigued by - namely greed, compassion, human nature and the potential for reasoning in a compromised individual.

★

The film is based on a simple concept which involves cellmates trapped in a small space which contains a large square central hole, showcasing an abyss of other levels above and below.  

Once a day, the hole is filled by a travelling sizeable slab which is packed with the most exquisite food at the top and in theory, with rationing, could keep all alive down to the lowest of levels.

The other key part of the narrative is that once a month the inmates are drugged by gas in their pairs and wake up in a different place, potentially going from 6 to 246 and as such, risking death.

This situation creates a frenzy that breeds murder, cannibalism, psychological warfare and a hierarchy both literal and metaphorical that leads to a variety of abhorrent behaviour.

This system of levels gives birth to a class-like establishment in which those above feel they can demand of those below, while not daring to question those above.

It is as though the inmates cling to the system as a means to maintain a feeling of self, utilising the superiority when available to charge their wearied psyches so they can just survive when below.

This is also compounded by the characters leaning on labelling; above, below but also black, jew, communist among others to preserve the ego in a situation that exposes the fragility of humanity.

★

I feel the film was also quite successful through it’s start which offers all the questions and no answers, the viewer pieces the experience together alongside the protagonist.

This feels frustrating but serves to rot away the usually privileged position that the consumer enjoys, looking in on others’ lives with the benefit of information not yet known to them.

In The Platform, the watcher is in it for the ride together with the characters and this is further achieved through not being able to fully comprehend what is to come.

There are times, for sure, in which behavioural patterns are emphasised - those above will fight for food they don’t need, abuse it when they have it and show disdain for those below - moving to forget they were one, and will once again be one.

The closer to the bottom you get you see placidity taking the place of revolt, lethargy replacing jitteriness, gratitude trumping disgrace and fundamentally, death consuming life.

I think these parallels are well established in the class-dictated, economically-driven hierarchy we encounter in Western life - the most rich in material wealth are often the least happy, for example.

Also, more simply, it is clear that those deprived in any way - be it of food as in the film, or attention or kindness - are generally depleted, or robbed of their ‘lust for life’.

I thought it was interesting to compare the sociological suggestions from the film with our current reality, like the threat of a small reduction in production leading to many bulk buying items like toilet roll and pasta, with little respect for those whose impairments limit their options.

I also feel it is apparent in the national sharp intake of breathe at our Prime Minister Boris Johnson being admitted to hospital with the coronavirus.

While I am certain that the majority emotion was steeped in sympathy and concern, the fact that something can strike down someone perceived to have ultimate superiority maligns our comfort-blanket structures.

★

Another triumph of the film is its richness in symbolism with the two main ones being a child and a panna cotta.

The former insinuated to me another system of hierarchy (note the ageism prevalent during this pandemic) while also the idea of hope and the importance of a fresh approach.

The panna cotta, I felt, was selected as the key focus due to the white denoting purity and simplicity and the texture offering a suggestion of malleability, playfulness but also quiet strength.

★

In conclusion, and to end this rambling account, this film is packed to the rafters with sociological thematics and imagery which burst from the seams of its simplicity in design.

I feel it is also important to note its undercurrent which emphasises that even the smallest glimmers of compassion can undercut the most domineering of enemies.

I once heard someone explain that humans are inherently compassionate and that compassion is actually the key to the sustainability of humanity on the planet.

Without an adult offering compassion to their completely helpless offspring, unable to source food, shelter or protect themselves from danger, the human race would cease to continue.

This film is an interesting exploration of humanity when reduced to our primitive cores, but it is also a comment on the dangers of conditioning.

If you can stomach the odd scene of someone devouring their pal, I’d recommend this as a watch that will make you think and remind you of the ever-present hierarchies that we exist within.

[paradoxicalpondering]

14 pages to go

The last few weeks, despite the world seemingly falling apart around me, I’ve been consistently banging my head against a wall with my latest book. Jung and the Story of our Time, by Laurens van der Post, is a biography of the great psychoanalyst Carl Jung who worked in the time of Sigmund Freud and for a time, alongside him, but remains significantly less well known.

I’ve had encounters with Jung in the past, wheeling out quotes from him to bolster essays at university, but I’ve never really developed a full understanding of his contribution to the study of psychology and psychoanalysis, specifically. I wish I could say that I am now well versed and able to explain in simple terms the key features of his work, but I genuinely think I understood around 10% of the book with large parts of the description contextualised by Greek and Roman myths, for which my knowledge is poor.

There were, however, small segments which I was able to connect to and these were worth the hundreds of pages of incomprehensible (to me) content that I had to wade through to get there. Among those was the story of two great academics who both had strong conviction in the presence of some kind of afterlife. They decided the best way to certify their hypotheses were for the one to die first to make contact with the other from beyond the grave. When the time came though, the man who lived on encountered radio silence with no word or symbol to reinforce his conviction in a spirit world. That was the way for years following his friend’s death, until he received a letter from Ireland, a place he’d never been, from a couple who had been playing around with a device to contact the dead. Through this, they explained that they’d been harassed by a presence so persistent that they were to ask it for its name, who it wanted to contact, their address and the message they wanted to spread.

As a result, the academic received this note from his departed friend, with the defining message simply saying ‘does he remember the red pyjamas?’ This invoked deep disappointment and confusion, firstly as to the meaning of the red pyjamas and secondly, as to why his friend would send such a banal and cryptic communication. Later, out of the blue, he was confronted with a recollection of when the two men travelled Europe for work and arrived in Paris days before their luggage. An urgent shopping trip for essentials resulted in the purchase of these garish garments, which led to much amusement between the friends at the time, but was soon forgotten.

It’s up to you how you take this story, whether you believe or whether you question how this could have been devised to satisfy the wishes of a, by then, old man, but regardless it is quite the tale.

Alongside this, I also enjoyed descriptions of Jung’s home at Bollingen and how he carved out little shrines in the stone to departed loved ones, covering them with curtains to keep the contents sacred. I also was deeply intrigued by the recurring theme of dreaming, which was obviously a key part of Jung’s work. He had an incredibly rich busy mind, by all accounts, which was in direct opposition to his external appearance of intensive introversion. He had many life-defining dreams and formed a process of decoding these nighttime visions to ensure the message from the unconscious was respected and if necessary, translated into action.

My dreams are rarely profound, sadly, but I do enjoy picking through them and tracing the root of the imagery. The dream I experienced last night was easily traceable and though the detail is hazy, the part I remembered most distinctly was Boris Johnson deliberately coughing over myself and others in a place that resembled the ExCel arena. This may be a result of something from the depths of my consciousness reminding me not to trust even the most seemingly credible of sources, or emphasising the manner in which health usurps any social, political or economic disparity, or it might be the meme I’ve seen about seven times of BoJo licking an envelope…

[paradoxicalpondering]

I love this.

[paradoxicalpondering]

Never go to sleep without a request to your subconscious

Thomas Edison 

[paradoxicalpondering]

Floating

Five breaths in through the nose, ten breaths out through the nose.

I started using floatation tanks in the middle of last year after reading about them as a possible alternative to psychedelics, or entheogens. I don’t have the guts to try psychedelics, I fear my own mind too much, but I have a morbid curiosity in their effects and have read extensively on the subject. It’s well known and documented that we only use a very small portion of our brains on a regular basis, and there are all types of weird experiences people have shared when they are in situations of extremis. People talk about the white light of near death, the hallucinations of sleep deprivation, there’s the tickle of a phantom limb. I truly believe the brain has a wealth of possibility that I’m not sure is accessible through learning alone, I feel we need to push ourselves into places far beyond conventional physical barriers, to tap into this potential.

This is how I came to using floatation pods, or sensory-deprivation tanks, with some researchers claiming they have the same consciousness enhancing, or mind manifesting, qualities as psychedelics. It is a set that mirrors the conditions I set out above, in a world where we are constantly attached to phones with a constant hum of activity, being in complete silence and blackness is intensely unique. It is also the nature of the water, kept at body temperature, which people have suggested as giving a womb-like sensation.

Today was, I think, my fifth float and while it probably was mentally the richest one to date, it was still bounds away from what I’d anticipate a liaison with an entheogen to look like. I started the float thinking about Instagram - helpful - and then started to power through some conscious decluttering and refinement. There were no breakthroughs in that area sadly, but there were some interesting events to follow. Firstly, I was sure I had seen a flash of white light but I’m certain that could not have been possible, I looked around the edges of the pod, thinking someone might have come into the (locked) room but it was pitch black. Secondly, I began visualising the slit-like eye of a cat, or a serpent, and this was punctuated by visions of the veins of the back of the eye (I had an eye test the day before).

These were the two most noticeable visual anomalies that I experienced, unlike anything quite before while floating, and the rest of the time was spent uncomfortably dropping in and out of sleep. When the music began and the light came on, signalling the end was close, I felt completely separated from reality and wondered how I’d be able to find the energy to make it home. After summoning the strength to pull myself out and into the shower, I ended my visit with a stop in the quiet room with a cup of tea and a flick through their impressive library. 

If you want to try something different, floating is definitely worth exploring but I'm yet to be convinced of its hallucinogenic powers!

[paradoxicalpondering]

Mishegas

Nb. This piece was written as part of my final University submission.

As he proceeded to enter the back door of the centre, his mind swam with unpleasant details and his stomach surged with the full force of fear. He hadn’t been home long and every night had been worse than the last. He used to believe there was nothing better than home. This might have been true but what happens when your mind can’t leave the last place behind?

When he arrived home, he laid eyes upon his wife and was entirely incapacitated by racking sobs as he once again registered every inch of her beauty. He took the time to stare into her eyes and noticed the sweet hazelnut flecks and the glimmer of her dancing pupils. As he embraced her, he felt every undulation of her body, every curve as fluent as a running stream. She was ecstatic to see him, yet she felt him begin to fall against her, lose his stature, as she gripped harder and harder. The other folk weren’t so inviting: the neighbours cowered away, gave a quick flick of their flat caps at best. George couldn’t understand what that meant at that moment though. All he could consider was how incredible, but strange a fluffy pillow would feel under his weary head.

As soon as he rested his head on the pillow, his body collapsed into a comatose state. His eyelids blanketed the gritty dry eyes and his limbs relaxed, the muscles twitching from the foreign respite. The platelets in his blood worked overtime, covering the gaping cuts that had formed on his wrinkled hands, the heart pumping twice as fast to relieve the starved areas. His memories wouldn’t allow him this recuperation, however; they cordially escorted him to a slideshow of all the ghastly images he had tried desperately not to see over the past few months. One after the other, prancing over a screen as he tossed and turned, small tears making tracks along his dusty cheeks. He sat upright as his heart skipped a beat and he struggled and strained for breath, his lungs contracting and expanding at an overwhelming pace. This happened to George night after night; he anticipated it and made sure to bring a flask of tea to his bedside and a magazine packed with crosswords so he could pass the time until the sun broke through.

As the sun rose on Sunday morning, his wife fussed over him. She thrust best clothes at him which he had become much too small for and tossed him a length of string to tie the gaping waistband of the trousers. She prepared him a hearty breakfast which he nibbled at while she attended to the vegetables for their roast dinner that afternoon. All the vegetables, that came from a small kitchen garden, had been prepared, all of them ripe and plump, shades of the deepest green and carrots of a livid orange hue. The house wasn’t how George had left it, but he understood that his wife had to do whatever she could to silence her mind. The obsessive neatness only illustrated how pronounced her worries must have been.

The church was full as the couple hovered at the back; they sure looked a sight. George in his much too big clothes, his face having aged years for the months he’d been away. His wife displayed herself meticulously, aiming to show everything was OK. She tried to strive for normality, but the creases at the corners of her eyes, their puffy appearance, suggested otherwise. During the sermon, George kept his head down, his eyes examining the laces of his overly shiny shoes, fiddling with the frayed hem of the tie around his waist. His wife attempted to capture the attention of their friends as they congregated in the churchyard. But no one could look George in the eye and he didn’t want to see their expressions either.

Back at the house, the disjointed couple settled before dinner. George sat in the bedroom, back at his crosswords, gorging his mind with numbers and letters, distraction. His wife was downstairs busying herself with dinner. The smile she’d had stretched across her face for the past few days was becoming painful. It felt as though no matter how hard she tried to keep it down, the blackness rose higher inside, threatening to shove her over the edge. Her mind had only wandered for a matter of seconds when her nose cottoned onto the scent of burning and she ran to the oven. As she pulled down the door, a great plume of smoke escaped, filling the air throughout the house with its choking presence. Tutting, she placed the now not-so-juicy slab of meat on the countertop and called for George to come down. Dinner was almost ready now. She called numerous times but to no avail. Not a sound came in reply.

George’s wife ascended the stairs, hands on hips, angry that her husband was not appreciating the effort she’d gone to. Wondering if he loved her anymore, had he met someone else? Why won’t he talk? She forced open the bedroom door and remained rooted to the spot by the sight which confronted her. George was curled in the corner, his arms grasping his knees for dear life, tiny quiet sobs penetrating the silent air which surrounded them both. He had left her a man, and he’d returned a boy, a boy petrified by the whole world, and she didn’t know why.

“George.” She spoke softly.

“Why did they have to burn? The smell, the smell. I don’t want to be back there again, I don’t want to see that again. Why did they have to burn?”

George’s wife put her hand gently on his shoulder and was shocked as he gripped tightly at her legs, almost causing her to fall over. He cried and cried to the point she didn’t know what to do. She was frightened.

“Dinner will be ready in five,” she said as she turned on her heels and went downstairs.

George waited in the wings of the community centre stage. He listened as the audience whooped and cheered as the paratrooper illustrated his explanations with great gestures. He danced across the stage, leaping around, his arms aloft, his voice loud and the audience louder. The paratrooper waltzed off the stage to rapturous applause and gave George a firm pat on the back.

In the next few minutes, George took to the stage, prodded the microphone to check it was on and blinked, blinded by the bright lights. On that stage, he gave his account of being a Prisoner of War at Auschwitz and pushed himself to tell as much as he could. Even though emotions swelled within him, he kept a steely appearance. His sense of duty had returned. The crowd were silent from the moment the emaciated thirty-something hobbled onto the stage, silent through the disgusting tales he had to offer and silent as he let his head drop and slowly made his way across the stage and back out of the door.

[paradoxicalpondering]

There will be bluebirds

Nb. This piece was written as part of my final University submission.

The sickness is swirling in my stomach; it seems to roll over and over again as if I am falling thousands of feet from a plane but if that were the case, eventually I’d hit the ground. This feels like it will never end. All I hear is lethargic but still forceful retching; it highlights the cacophony of unsettling noises that monotonously reverberate around me. We all wear the same dark uniforms, united for the same cause but I don’t know these men. They may be friendly and some may still stretch a smile across their weary cheeks, but I don’t know them.

It surprises me how only now, only at this moment, have I begun to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. It had sounded like the most exciting thing in the world when I was told about the opportunity. Pictures had been painted to me of how fantastic England was: the rolling hills, the vast green lands and, of course, the white cliffs of Dover. Life at home was just getting that little bit boring; I suppose I’d reached that age when the ache for freedom and independence becomes almost unbearable. My mother’s voice had become a massive irritation: ‘Don’t leave that there, Jade,’ ‘Make sure you are in safe by 8, Jade.’ Mighty irritating. I didn’t tell them that I was going to leave; it just hadn’t seemed like a grand idea. I knew that they would try to stop me, that they just wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand. At this moment in time, as the waters get ever more violent and the blanket of cold darkness seems to expand to become inescapable, I wish they would, could, try to stop me.

*

Training had been minimal; in fact practically non existent for what slowly I was appreciating was going to be an immense task. We were only informed of the basics and that this would be a pivotal moment in the grand scheme of things but not of what to expect, what we would see. They droned on a lot about the work and skill that had gone into the equipment, how effective it was going to be and how apparently, a decoy had been sent so we shouldn’t encounter too much resistance. It had all sounded very straightforward and we were all very excited, we were thrilled to travel, to see a new country. I didn’t have any cause for concern.

We spent the few days prior to today in a tiny little hamlet on the southern coast. It was a dream and left me completely satisfied by the beauty of England that I had hoped to see. All of us camped out on a big cricket field for those few nights; they were warm evenings which made me feel less far from home, although I couldn’t get much further. There was a disco on the Saturday night, in a little village hall and there were many beautiful English girls in bright dresses with big skirts. They seemed so happy to see us; I suppose the time had been hard for them too. I made friends with the girl I considered the most beautiful, her skin the colour of the sweetest cream and just as smooth, plump lips of a subtle crimson. Then, it felt like the hardest thing in the world to string a sentence together, getting the words in the right order, getting the right words at all.

I know if I stood in front of her now, I would have the fluency of a poet, the courage of a lion. Nothing seemed harder than what I was facing right at this moment and I consider that he who reads this may not understand just yet. It was simply the oppression; I had never felt a fear of such an overwhelming power. I felt as though I had a hugely overfed boa constrictor slowly caressing my entire body and then gradually gripping until there is no breath left in my lungs, no moisture on my lips. It was the noise too, the sound of sickness was now not overpowering but the sound of something heavy falling into water in the distance. Almost like someone was throwing stones at us, but not pebbles; boulders. I watched a few of the senior chaps huddle together, leaning on each other to keep upright and then chatting in hushed but urgent voices. Others lay lifeless on the floor, overcome by vomiting, fear and fatigue. I sensed that whatever we were to face was coming soon; it was still a little too dark to see to confirm that though. I crouched down and sat on my feet, curled as tightly as possible and cradled my head in my hands. This helped to steady my stomach and calm my buzzing nerves. The sounds surged but I was growing numb, numb until the first words were shouted of the long journey.

“Listen up, all of you. The time is near and you must prepare yourself. Do not lose any of your things. Under no circumstances should you part with them. We had come to understand that we were to encounter little trouble but I’m afraid it ain’t looking good, lads. Just do what you can and remember how important this is.”

At the conclusion of the speech, he turned away from us and although many ran to his back and begged for information, for reassurance, he refused to face them and with that his ears ignored their pleas. I felt something wasn’t right but it was only when the noise of things hitting the water came closer and the noises were accompanied by fire. I felt a rush in my stomach and emptied the minimal contents of it onto my sodden boots. Uncontrollable shivers racked my whole body and my eyes, slowly reacting to the light, saw the end for the first time. I scanned the cliff top and saw it swelling with the bodies of thousands of men, ready for us, waiting. Time vacated me as the torso of a man in front of me, fell back. I thought he must have fainted in fear until I felt the unnatural warmth on my hands and observed the gaping gun-shot wound in his back. I instinctively fell to the floor, arms over my head and my ears reverberated with screams, shots and thuds, no one sound pronounced in the deafening melee. The craft lodged in the sand and as I tried to run forward, I stood on something soft and looked down to see a man under foot. Men everywhere. Soulless corpses strewn across the sand. Bodies bobbing on the water. With another sound of a bullet soaring through the air, the red flooded my eyes and the noises finally stopped. If only they would, if only they could, help me now.

[paradoxicalpondering]

Change

A lady passed out at the gym this morning. It was an incredibly strange moment. It was around 15 minutes into an intense class (Les Mills Body Attack - if you know, you know) and we were part way through walk outs into press ups. I noticed as she bent her knees and put her cheek to the mat, but it was a few seconds before anyone computed that she was in trouble and not resting. The next few minutes were a disconcerting mixture of calm and crisis, peace and panic, as the music thundered aggressively on and people continued to bounce around, unaware of what was unfolding. The quiet came from the few that acted swiftly, commandeering the circumstance as if it were just a regular thing. Two ladies bent down and eased her into the recovery position, a smile of reassurance pasted on their faces and a gentle touch of her hair to let her know she was not alone. The teacher told everyone to continue, ‘up down, up down, 30 press ups’ before jogging from the room to call for assistance. The residual movement of the group started to wane, though the tune powered on, people gathered in small groups and tried not to look, allowing their morbid curiosity a glance here and there. The woman regained herself fairly swiftly, despite the fact that this altered universe with an air heavy in change and confusion hung low, and she was talking and pushing herself up by the time a member of staff came in. She looked as perplexed as everyone else and even seemed to want to press on, but was helped from the room by a friend. Between her emergence and her exit, another lady found her bottle and bought it over, also offering a sachet of some power powder she must have brought for her own post-gym practice. This whole incident, from us all bouncing up and down, up and down, to booming beats, to bouncing again up and down, up and down, lasted just five minutes but it felt like everything had changed. The buzz that this class elicits, that we all had just started to access in the transition from the just-out-of-bed lethargy, was noticeably subdued. Ten minutes later, though, and it was as if it had never happened. I don’t know what happened to that woman, I probably see her most Saturdays but I don’t know her. What I do know is that while we carried on, her life will have taken a curve that she won’t be able to ignore. She will want to know, why, how, was it the burpees? Was it because I had no food? Was it because it was hot in there? She walked from the room so no doubt she’ll have the chance to answer those questions and find answers that will help her continue but it’s important to remember that we may all be just one second away from a chicane of such change. Up down, up down, one minute, to down and out the next. This moment is just a tiny anecdote from a day that will no doubt progress in a similar manner to every other Saturday, if I let it, but we all have the opportunity to not shy away from these realities and use them to alter ours. As Tony Robbins says, ‘Life happens for us, not to us.’

[paradoxicalpondering]

What I was really thinking

Nb. This was written as part of a challenge from Cheryl Strayed in Tim Ferriss’ Tools of Titans - I picked a prompt and wrote non stop for 20 minutes without editing (I went back and corrected spelling mistakes and grammar after but didn’t alter general content)

This morning, I had an inner crisis. I’m telling you, my brain would’ve looked like a christmas tree under an MRI scanner if surveyed at that point. I was tussling with existential questions, themes, phenomena and the incident that led me there revolved around dragging someone’s backpack along the tube platform without their consent. Another standard Thursday morning - or perhaps not. My morning commute into London can range from anywhere between absolutely horrific to mildly tolerable and I had high hopes over half way through that I was veering towards the endurable side. The deep fog that cut across the grey sky was not the optimal backdrop from which to start the day, nor was the damp hair from the residual imperceptible mist, but my overground train journey pulled the levels up. I was still cracking through Tools of Titans, the Tim Ferriss encyclopaedia of greatness from which I pulled this prompt, and it’s impossible not to feel hopeful while perusing it. It even turned the reaction of the man leaning on my head from full-scale fury to a mild tutting level of frustration, it has powers, that book. Unfortunately, the hopeful haze started to dissipate as I got down to the Jubilee line entrance and saw a queue, it hung on as I waited like a sardine in a can on the platform and then fully departed when each train (every 10 minutes) could only take an average of three people. I eventually gave up, my patience wandering off hand-in-hand with the hope, and pushed my way out of the throng with a few others. I prepared to get into my stride up and out of this underground cauldron of caustic irritation, before I realised I was being weighed down at the ankle. Yes, this is the part in which I realised there was a large, heavy backpack curled around it and this is the part where the most sensible thing to do was stare perplexedly at the people ahead while trying to shake it off my leg. It took a fraction longer for a smile of recognition to creep upon their faces than the dread took to take hold of me and before I could register further, there was man knelt on the floor manipulating my leg. This all seemed to happen in different space and time, partly exacerbated by the music filling my ears, and I gave a quick sorry and thank you to this faceless stranger before making a swift getaway. All the way up the escalators and through the busy streets of London, the distinct chill and lack of awareness of location did little to quiet my mind over this incident. I wondered what that man’s face looked like, I wondered if he’d said something. I felt rude and disrespectful, but in the same passage of thought cursed him for leaving his bag on the floor. I thought of him losing his place in that queue that already had no end, or would some kind people have laughed and gestured him back into his spot? I won’t know and the fact that I’m still thinking about this nearly 12 hours later may seem pretty odd. I believe it was a lesson in trying to not let the grip of London anxiety grasp me, what am I really rushing towards aside from some arbitrary deadline? It was a chance to acknowledge that respect and courtesy shouldn’t go out the window just because something isn’t going your way. Or maybe it was just some stupid guy who should’ve kept him goddamn backpack on his goddamn back like every other sheep-like commuter. Guess we’ll never know.

[paradoxicalpondering]

A lesson I learned the hard way

Nb. This was written as part of a challenge from Cheryl Strayed in Tim Ferriss’ Tools of Titans - I picked a prompt and wrote non stop for 20 minutes without editing (I went back and corrected spelling mistakes and grammar after but didn’t alter general content)

A perfectly sunny day, luscious green grass underfoot and the collective contentment of thousands of people devouring ice cream. Not really the set you’d expect for a ‘lesson you learned the hard way story’ to take place, is it? And in honesty, my own brain was as baffled as I expect yours will be when this was the first example that sprung to mind. It was at Taunton Cricket Ground, I’m working as a floor manager and my main responsibility is to make sure the pundits are in the right place at the right time, with the right people to speak to. Sounds simple. However, it’s actually the lack of complexity that I believe makes it such a challenging job, you’re not asked for much in the role but you can still be exponentially more efficient than others. On this day, I’ve long since overcome my shyness around asking captains for their squads, or engaging in small talk with the differing crews, and it all seems to be going quite well. It’s certainly going better than the time I ran from the middle to the boundary to convey news about an injured player, taking just the one step enough to not fall flat on my face while tripping over the rope, but one step too far in terms of looking like a total idiot in front of a crowd of thousands. It was a smoother day than the time I thought I’d be proactive and ask a ‘coach’ if one of the players was going to be in the squad that day, only for that ‘coach’ to tell me he was indeed that person and no, he was missing out. I hadn’t been hit by any balls, or ran through warm-ups, or drawn all over myself (don’t put pens in coat pockets that have holes in!) so I was feeling pretty smug with the sun’s rays beating down on me. I didn’t feel any tightening in my tummy as the producer asked me over talkback to arrange three of the pundits close to the boundary rope towards the end of the innings, ready for a live piece to camera. I could see them all, for one. I can’t explain the amount of times I felt the familiar rush of blood to the head as you look around for a commentator with seconds before their appearance, only to find they have disappeared to buy some chips. Everything looked to be perfectly in order this time though, the picture was painted and all I had to do was avoid any rogue streakers or broken legs or sudden deluges of rain (unlikely). This serenity was then swiftly interrupted, both literally and metaphorically, by the booming of music through speakers dotted around the ground, including one directly next to us. I quickly dashed over, hearing the inbreathe of the producer crackle over the radio, and thrust the rain cover over the top, reducing the thump to a trickle of sound. I stood back, allowed myself a little smile, and waited for the end of the piece, quietly congratulating myself for my quick thinking. I should have probably parked the self celebrations, because minutes later the man in change of the PA system came over and, politely but firmly, reminded me that I had no right to touch their equipment and I should never think of doing that again. A familiar flush overtook my head, every vein and capillary gorging with the shame of being told off, something I’ve successfully avoided throughout most of my life. I’d say that the lesson learned from this awkward encounter was of much greater significance than the incident itself. I learnt not to be so self consumed and see the wider picture, coincidentally one of the key qualities of a good floor manager, and also never to come between a man and his gadgets!

[paradoxicalpondering]

A memory of a physical injury

Nb. This was written as part of a challenge from Cheryl Strayed in Tim Ferriss’ Tools of Titans - I picked a prompt and wrote non stop for 20 minutes without editing (I went back and corrected spelling mistakes and grammar after but didn't alter general content)

Blood, lights, fear, cortisol, adrenaline, buzz. The memories of my most-prevalent injuries to date are non-memories, I remember fractions, pieces, but most of the picture is painted through the reminiscence of others. I suppose I should be grateful that, to date, my hospital-required injuries are lost in the blur of childhood. I suppose, debatably, I should also be grateful that they involve the same body part - minimising scarring, maximising previous experience pathways. Weirdly, though, it wasn’t a conventional childhood injury, or a part of the body that you’d think of as being at greatest risk of habitual damage. My hospital trips were for my lips, yes, those fleshy little things that sit atop of a face that most people only notice when they’re covered in an irresistible donut residue. They remain a feature in the memories of most young people as the epicentre of one of those major rites of passage, the first kiss. Not so regularly as the things that end up with you in hospital with varieties of faded, chequered tea towels grasped closely by little fists to keep the blood where it belongs. So, the first time my lips saw me led through the doors of A&E, I was about five years old. Allegedly, I’d been playing at the top of the stairs, lying sideways rocking back and forth with the little rush of the potential of falling. A risk level that I had not yet learnt to mitigate. The next thing I personally remember is sitting on our faded corduroy sofa with fabric on my face as my dad buzzed around, getting me ready to go to the hospital. A subsequent fragment I can access is the bright lights of the hospital room as they sank a needle in and out, with a strange pressure and heat that I can still tap into, though perhaps more due to the piercings I’d get years later, also to the despair of my dad! That doesn’t tell too much of the tale though, and the more acute recollections of the adults present at the time, suggest I rolled down the stairs and put my top lip right through the bolt at the bottom of the front door - dramatic. I have just a little scar to show for the performance now, and nothing that I’m aware of related to the follow up act a few years later. This one is also hazy, though running inside and having another bloody towel in my hands, is fairly clear. Looking for common themes, perhaps this was another incidence of me dicing with danger, coveting that little rush of being close to the edge, or in this case, close to the backswing of my brother’s golf club. We went to hospital again, no stitches required, but there was a slightly amusing anecdote that I could take away instead. My poor dad, unlucky enough to be the one having to process these mini crises, had his anxieties compounded by the suggestion of the medical staff that two lip injuries seemed a little coincidental. Not something to joke about, and really important preventative measures against child abuse, but I feel for him having to explain the perpetrators were actually a lock and a little boy with a golf club!

[paradoxicalpondering]

A time I was mistaken

Nb. This was written as part of a challenge from Cheryl Strayed in Tim Ferriss’ Tools of Titans - I picked a prompt and wrote non stop for 20 minutes without editing (I went back and corrected spelling mistakes and grammar after but didn't alter general content)

Write about a time when you realised you were mistaken, the assignment says. My brain hops around a plethora of poor decisions over previous days, previous months but there is one that resonates with particular clarity. I’ve been reading, nay consuming, Tim Ferriss’ Tools of Titans for a few weeks now and it is absolutely blowing my mind - wisdom upon wisdom, epiphany after epiphany - it’s almost overwhelming in its magnificence. But there was one particular paragraph that had me standing stock still on the tube, a wave of uncomfortable correlation coursing through my body. “To blame someone for not understanding you fully is deeply unfair because, first of all, we don’t understand ourselves and even if we do understand ourselves, we have such a hard time communicating ourselves to other people,” Alain de Botton says. “Therefore, to be furious and enraged and bitter that people don’t get all of who we are is really a cruel piece of immaturity.” I often read things that make me nod, or give a little eyebrow raise of acquiescence, but this was like being whacked around the head with a wooden club. The stars and little tweety birdies did their merry dance as I stood transfixed, aware of a time, many a time, when I have been so deeply mistaken. I - as I’m sure is the same for many - fear communicating myself because so often, as Alain muses, I don’t truly understand the myriad of emotions and considerations that overlap around me. It seems safer to say nothing and hope that silence will communicate my frustration, disappointment, even fury, but of course, this simply drives a large wedge that facilitates frustration, disappointment, even fury, in my opponent. It poses a question of the best method of negotiating this paradox between true openness, honesty and fluidity and the perceived responsibility of understanding your own thought process before you invite another in. Perhaps it does not have to be one or the other, but in my personal experience, the middle ground requires a period of consultation that can only be completed in at least a few moments of mental isolation. It takes precious minutes of asking, ‘am I hungry, am I hormonal, am I really angry at them or angry at me for not being able to look past this?’ To be mistaken may feel like a failure, it may be associated with sensations of shame, but to be mistaken is actually to be mentored. It is an opportunity to learn, to grow and to break free of the neural grooves that make us retrace steps that lead to a destination we have long since grown bored of. To be mistaken has contributed to many of the successes of the world’s greatest individuals - those who have taken one path, been told or shown they are wrong, and manipulated that to a new form of mastery. To be mistaken is a gift but one that can only be utilised if you are prepared to admit you are mistaken in your feeling that it means failure.

[paradoxicalpondering]

Putting thoughts on paper is the best way to a) develop ideas and b) review and improve your thinking

Cheryl Strayed