I have had a bewildering past year or so; maybe decade too. And maybe the long arm of bewildering reaches much further back than that.
The summer has really topped it all. I have recovered from eleven years of depression; I think I may be one of the very fortunate people in the world ever to have recovered from a rather wayward diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia; I have recovered my love of life; and I am even prepared to admit I have a dusty old password book that might remind one of a balding pot-bellied Hogwarts teacher’s book of potions.
But most of all I have fallen in love with people: first and foremost, I have fallen in love with a woman – or maybe sex android – who only likes working in PriceWaterhouseCooper (I assume as an accountant; but maybe other fab stuff on what’s gonna be a wonderful side!), and leaves you at the end of a great meal without allowing you to go to the toilet first, but who still manages to be the greatest, sexiest company I ever did meet; and who pretended to be my second cousin when I met her one glorious evening in Dublin, even as she knew I had made love during four of the happiest days of my life with the person she led me to assume was her mother; and yer know, this sex android or doppelgänger or stuntwoman or just another famous person I didn’t recognise (amongst many more I’m sure) I did end up buying a beautiful rose gold Radley watch for – on the instances I think it was of Google, though it might’ve been Apple (I can’t now remember which maps app I was using at the time …).
And if that last sentence doesn’t get me put away, then I don’t know what else I need to do.
And I fell in love with places too: with the city of Liverpool, the soul of my being now; and with the city of Dublin, my literary heart.
And I realised my foibles are something some people have come to treasure; and so it’s become much easier for me to treasure – and finally love – myself.
And I’m even prepared to admit I have real sexual fantasies, but as there are children probably watching at the mo’, maybe I should rein back on this particular sentence and idea – just at the minute, anyways!
And I realise I am confused, and I realise I may be mad too – but bad mad I am not; gentle, kindly, compassionate mad, if anything.
I have only ever wanted the world – this rock we all share – to work together for a greater good: a greater good which bases its essence on the sense of individual liberties we must promote, love and hold close to our everyday lives, and yet is balanced with collective action, support and affection; where difference is valued above all, by everyone who wishes to form part of this deliciously thriving and striving society; where respect for another’s choice is prime, and always maintained; and where no one – no one, I proclaim from the very bottom of my being, soul and heart! – is told they are simply to be extensions of others’ wellbeings: blunt tools to be blunted further by life’s terrible injustices.
That is not the way.
That is not our way.
And it is time, I think, for us all to proactively realise that we cannot wait for others who reign over us to voluntarily give us our due; to voluntarily give us our worth. It is a terrible time overdue for us to realise the dispossessed only become understood and good – become good in the sense of fulfilling their grand potential (a potential the universe gives each and every one of us at birth; a potential our world so frequently rips savagely away from our very flesh and bones, leaving behind as it does bleeding remnants of once magnificently youthful and ambitious aspiration) – when they have the means to stand on their own two feet and declaim righteously, yet not with a pride that might come before any fall, the truth of life, its often rank inequalities, and the foolishness of those who believe that privilege can possibly benefit the privileged.
This morning I wept before my iPhone as I listened to three songs on YouTube.
The first two were different versions of “Man In The Mirror”: by Michael Jackson, who made the song so rightly famous; and by Siedah Garrett, who along with Glen Ballard we must love forever for writing its astonishingly, confusingly, demandingly and accurately lyrical beauty.
The song is both a challenge and a comfort; both a lullaby to the best of humanity and a clarion call to its dynamisms and thirsts for real and lasting change. It requires us to change ourselves: but not as some might feel to ameliorate – where we feel amelioration is our only way out – a saddening relationship with what ought otherwise to be this glorious whirled: no, the song, its creators, those who love it, are really saying: “Don’t change yourself to learn how to deal with the shit – change yourself to change the shit!”
And this subtle difference is something I, myself, have misunderstood all my life.
The second song is another Michael Jackson song: a beautiful beautiful video and music: “Earth Song” – for me, one of his greatest greatest ever.
It also touches me because it touches a part of my heritage which has suffered greatly around the turn of the century, and which in turn, for me, has been a cause of great direct pain – both emotional and intellectual – all my life: from the very day I was born, that is.
If you find the time, and your device allows you to see the videos below, I’d really ask you to watch all three – and if you can find it in yourself, maybe weep with compassion too. For compassion allows us to do something practical; and that, I now think, feel and dearly hope, must be the next step which together we really all should take.