Coincidence.

The word 'coincidence' is insufficient to describe the myriad subtle shades of coincidence which occur on a very regular basis.


The online dictionary defines the word to be 'a striking occurrence of two or more events at the same time,' and I infer from this that the occurrence is striking because of its immediate impact.


What if it the coincidence fails to make an immediate impact, or conversely no impact whatsoever? Does it still qualify as one, even if we never think about it again?

If, for instance, you are buying some trousers from a shop, and you are about to approach the person who will process the transaction. At that precise moment you become aware of a love song playing over the shop's radio system.

This is a coincidence, but shop asssitant implies love song does not have any obvious meaning or sentiment. It is therefore an empty or dormant oone, as is passing a complete stranger in the street at the very moment you spot an aeroplane overhead.

Does the crossing of two lines on the graph of your existence become more significant when you become aware that the sales assistant is attractive? What metaphors then when the love song is absorbed into your half-awake brain?

If you walk out of the shop, instead of snappily demanding her mobile number, is the coincidence still an empty one? Or is the fact that the universe is appearing to flirt with your imagination enough to render it valid?

Determinism.

The above snippet of writing suggests that at least some human relationships are deterministic – they are doomed to failure because the ‘calm, crisis, calm’ model has to be followed.

It was a conversation with ‘A’ which set the wheels of this idea in motion. ‘A’ suggested that her life is akin to a film, and I drew the conclusion (without any evidence) that she is far from the only one so inclined.

On Tuesday, a conversation with ‘J’ added further support to this idea. J stated that her partner requires constant validation, and no matter how much love or attention is lavished upon him, it is apparent that more is expectedof her. Furthermore, J’s partner conjures crises in their relationship during times which are smooth and uninhibited.

What other reasons are there, besides the execution of the crisis theory, for someone to behave in such a manner towards their partner? There is at least one other, and it’s one that we’ve touched upon before. Is it better to sit in apparenly contented silence, with the awkwardness of such obvious parentheses, or to create a situation which requires dialogue?

Creating a conflict situation satisfies two criterion, then, and I assume it to be one of the reasons why people argue. When there is nothing left to say – a situation more grave than a temporary, pleasant hiatus – then at least some of us engineer scenarios where the silence must be broken.

Why is having nothing left to say of such significance to the western mindset? It must be significant, otherwise we'd not go to enormous lengths to fill the empty space with false, angry dialogue.

I suspect it is significant because the western mind can never countenance a lack of activity; can requires always something to stimulate it. We eat quickly and move quickly because we are always about to do something more important or interesting. The westerner perpetually travels but can never hope to arrive.

Cinema.

I would argue that, in general, films follow a particular narrative structure.

In no way do I speak as a lover of the cinema, but my theory applies to most works of fiction - including but not limited to books, films, and plays.

The narrive structure I hypothesise is this, very briefly: calm and 'normality,' followed by a crisis or crises, and when these are resolved, normality is assumed once again.

During an instant messenger conversation earlier tonight, the very perceptive 'A' claimed that her life is akin to a film. I wondered at this point if it might be the case that the 'calm, crisis, calm' hypothesis is relevant and pertinent for A.

That is to say: if the 'calm, crisis, calm' model does not occur naturally, is it the case that 'A' unconsciously invents some sort of crisis which needs to be resolved in order for the narrative to follow its structure?

Is it the case that people with a literary or cinematic bent experience the tenets of the theory more frequently than those without? I intend to ask 'A' some more questions over the coming days (she is aware that I'm likely to blog her responses) and perhaps between us we might tease out 'A's' theory of cinematic externalisation.

It won't be particularly scientific, but I'd heuristically imagine that, if it's at all valid, she is far from the only one to formulate it, even as she is unaware of formulating it.

Subtraction.

Where, then, to turn when the inspiration behind a weblog (book, series of articles) is subtracted from the creative process?

For this is indeed what has happened, and words are typed slowly and mechanically, where once they flew across the screen, each a vehicle which carried the memories of a brief and distant interlude, arrowing out to her across the divisions of space and time.

I need only mention the briefest of details of how the subtraction came about: that it happened needs not to be pondered upon too much. How to create in the absence of a creator is of more immediate relevance.

The person who inspired this tiny little shred of the internet is no longer in contact with me. We - I - decided that this should be the case, because the anguish she felt every time I communicated with her was worse than the communication was beneficial. There is no reason, however, why I shouldn't continue to blog, and here's as good as anywhere else.

Now that the catalyst has disappeared, writing immediately becomes more difficult. It is evidence, as if any were needed, that there needs to be an extrinsic purpose to the idea of writing, an engine and a life-force.

Writing for its own sake is mere strings of words, some of them more emotive than others, and some of them clustering around interesting and original thoughts. The beauty, intelligence and coherence which should be apparent as a thesis is gone, and empty words waft around the mind of the reader, devoid of any logic.

So your author needs a coalescing, pushing force, else his writing will in the future lack even more style, substance and passion that before. Unification required!

Children.

The problem with making a choice is that we are restricted in so many ways. It's an obvious point, but it is one worth pondering.

When I need to decide what to wear in the morning, there are limitations imposed upon me, not least that I cannot wear anything that isn't already contained within my wardrobe. Of the billions of garments collected on the earth, I am restricted to what? Thirty?

My other problem is temporal: I can't know that I'm going to spill lunch down my top in five hours, and so wearing white isn't the best idea I've ever hit upon.

Such trivial problems magnify themselves more seriously when we make choices which impact upon the direction of our lives.

When asked by a partner whether I'd ever want to give her children, I found myself restricted by the 'wardrobe' of my previous experience. It contained only one garment therein: a shiny, overshadowing NO! which no human could ever hope to topple, so far was its base rooted into the floor of my being.

Furthermore, when the declaration of NO! was made so forcefully, it was made with the conviction that the status quo which had prevailed throughout the life of your author would continue without end.

What the conscience can stand now is what the conscience will be able to tolerate forever more - it is on this basis that we arrive at conclusions, and put them into action.

Hence, when a series of small children, all of them in their own way delightful and amusing, make themselves known, an examination and refutation of the principles which resulted in the earlier reticence takes place.

Two years ago, when pushed under a canvas sky in Africa, I had no idea that by the autumn of 2008, I'd have changed my mind about little humans so conclusively.

Symbols.

When I was very young, I had a series of mental symbols or images which stood for particular words or concepts.

I say I had them: that is, they appeared or were manifested. I didn't consciously strive to associate images with words - it either happened independently of the thought processes I could control, or I was born with the associations hardwired, as it were.

I sometimes wonder where they were derived from, and what significance the images representing the concept had.

There used to be a greater stock of images-representing-things in my growing mind, but the store has depleted over the years, and now I can remember only a few. Of those few, here is a non-exhaustive list:

Saturday: a series of striated shalllow hills or what looked like a long sleeping beast with one leg pushed forward, shrouded in mist to give a blue tinge to proceedings.

Friday: a statue made out of animal bone; the extremities of the structure tipped with brown. At other times, I might have considered that it was not a statue but a tree. It just hung there, naked in the void, and no light glistened off its edges.

Brother: two small dolls with wiry black hair, looked at from above. Were they made from wood? Both wore blue jackets.

I possessed internal images for every day of the week, for whole numbers, for family members, for a limited spectrum of thoughts and emotions. Gradually, their presence dwindled as I got to the age of about nine or ten. They were useless, anyway, for represented a word and only a word. They never changed, I couldn't multiply or divide them, and nor could I rotate them or zoom in and out of them in my mind.

For all that they were, somehow, the definition of my childhood. They endured more than any particular emotion or concept, these static little pictures, and were more real than a dream. I'd like to know why Saturday was striated hills, or Thursday a plough in the fog, or Tuesday a toffee-coloured lollipop. Can someone out there explain?

Romance.

I decided earlier that romance is the abolition of wishes and passion for the wish and passion of another person.

This means, in other words, that the driving force of a life is at some point subverted, and re-directed towards another person instead of an object orientated goal. Temporarily or otherwise, the wellspring of ambition becomes spent: books are drowned in the river because of a new and interesting centerpiece of one's existence.

We carry around with us, then, the potential to at some point negate everything we have ever worked for - but in doing so, we are still only halfway towards sweeping our new lover away on a tide of sentimentality.

Once the notion of romance has taken root in the mind, we are still to understand the current which underlies its every transaction, and thereafter to hold up our hands and admit to it.

In every case, the romantic gesture equates to an admission of weakness, and a method - delivered voluntarily - to exploit it. The handing over of a flower, or a piece of homemade poetry is the key which unlocks the human vulnerability we spend vast swathes of our day trying to disguise.

In a society where weakness or perceived weakness is openly derided and preyed upon, the ultimate sacrifice we can make is to give another person our flaws and the tools by which they can be dragged out into the light. We make a gift of the ungainly, unvirtuous and chaotic, and this is the foundation of all that is romantic.

The completion of this pendulum motion - from self-absorbed to absorbed fully in another person - is the public declaration that, yes, I am replete with a million problems, and I entrust this individual not to deliberately worsen them.

Such recognition comes in the form of a gift or gifts which act as a tactile reminder of the unspoken promise that was made at some point in the past: at least some of the time, my flaws will leak through the pores of my skin, and you'll be disgusted. Remember how you used to think that the romantic encapsulated the tender, delicate, and beautiful? Inside that cladding rages the dark shaft of the unconscious mind, and it is this which I hand over to you in the guise of a rose.