Hergest Ridge

On the account of failing to inspire: Guilty.

Sometimes it’s easier to work towards inspiring those we’ll never see, than those right before us. Many reasons come to mind as to why this might be the case:

One only hears about the success stories. If someone sees, reads or hears your work and feels unmoved, they pass without notice – you don’t even know they exist.

Then, there is this expectation that through simple presence, inspiration will rub off on those around, like newspaper ink inevitably does on everything it touches.

And perhaps the link that holds the two former is the idea that to try to inspire someone at hand is some sort of pressure tactic – or worse – trying to change them; Not “listening”, but instead talking at them.

Just a thought.

I’ve decided to sharply cut back on alcohol for a few days, but this reduced alcohol trial is not working out so well.

I think unclouded reality makes my mind drift, and I pay far less attention to what is actually going on. After I’ve had a few, I know damn well to pay attention, even when not exactly sure what it is that I’m paying attention to.

Shit – I forget what I was going to say.

Is it too early to be thinking about what I’ll be doing and how I will be living when I return to Canada? I can’t decide.

I’ve began to assemble what I’ve written so far, and the results are disappointing. It’s not the quantity that is the main issue (although there is nothing to brag about in that area either), but the quality.

Seems that much of what I wrote should see only the white pages of a journal, and be read only by the author. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that having the world read it could constitute a crime against humanity, but the thought did cross my mind as I read through some pages.

To the old saying that everyone has a book inside them, Christopher Hitchens replies ‘Yes, and for most people that is where it should stay.’

I am wondering the fate of my writing. But there are some pieces I’ve written which give me some hope, and if the end result is in any way a reflection of the inspiration behind the work, well, then everything will turn out just fine.

I’ve seen the footage a hundred times – shots fired into an unarmed crowd, the whistling sound and then the smoke. Then, someone is carried away for having their body ripped apart. Only this time, I know the face. The voice.

A couple months ago, she wrote a plea. “O America, my America… stop making weapons to test on demonstrators in Palestine.” Now, she lies in a hospital after a gas grenade left the barrel and found not pavement but instead her face.

This time it was she that was carried away amongst the panic and human wails.

I know so little about that part of the world and its conflict. But in a way, I now know more then I ever wished to. And I will never make sense of it, no matter how many times I watch the video of her bleeding in the street.

for a car that needs a push start, it sure comes alive after the initial coaxing. the window open, my cousin and i ride though the city. and by ride, i mean a bat screaming out of hell’s cave.

the wind rushes in through the open windows, the smell of the rain fills the lungs. i feel alive, but don’t trust the driver. yet, i don’t feel any fear.

maybe it’s the the alcohol, maybe the weed. or maybe, it’s as they say – when you live life right, you don’t fear death. in the end death takes all, and the secret is to really live until it does. you can cower in safety, but it’ll find you regardless.

live. live and let die. and tomorrow is another day.