The sky is falling
London is a strange place to be at the moment. Recent events have taken our news pages hostage, and amidst perfectly glorious sunshine there is persistent talk of the fatal actions of the fanatically disaffected.
Fatalism abounds - it is as though outrage feels too simple reaction, too predictable, and perhaps therefore somewhat insincere. Instead, the eye of the mind looks inwards, homing in on the core, searching for the inner essence that may explain why our guts are twinging and nothing - not food, drink, sex, dance, art or spectacle - can distract us sufficiently to forget.
My ever-present, ever-crescent anger is maturing - it is stronger, and more focused then ever. At times, I feel impregnable, and at others, I feel dangerous to myself and to my friends. My anger is directed to noone in particular, but I can summon it in an instant, and I think it will be my best weapon when I return to the nowhere place of my old occupation. In geeky terms, I feel like a superhero/villain - where my anger is my special power. Come to think of it, I feel a little like Ben Stiller's "Mr Furious" from Mystery Men - and in many ways, I'm no less absurd or laughable.
All superheroes/villains, no matter what their supposed powers may be, have weaknesses, distinct susceptibilities to pain, physical, emotional or psychological. I have to admit, my anger is fighting with a bit of despair around the mediocrity of my life. It's a sheepish despair, so very aware of the comparative ease within which a Western comfort lives. But it's also a despair that exists because of the powerlessness that comes once the Make Poverty History campaign has climaxed in the Live 8 concerts, and the realisation of how futile is the donation, how little of an impact any of us can make to change things. I used to spend all my spare time trying to do something better, but my days as an activist for human rights, one world, and political justice feel hollow and insignificant. Activism is defeated - I think that we are all morally damned, inescapably so, and this is the essence of our fatalism.
Fatalism abounds - it is as though outrage feels too simple reaction, too predictable, and perhaps therefore somewhat insincere. Instead, the eye of the mind looks inwards, homing in on the core, searching for the inner essence that may explain why our guts are twinging and nothing - not food, drink, sex, dance, art or spectacle - can distract us sufficiently to forget.
My ever-present, ever-crescent anger is maturing - it is stronger, and more focused then ever. At times, I feel impregnable, and at others, I feel dangerous to myself and to my friends. My anger is directed to noone in particular, but I can summon it in an instant, and I think it will be my best weapon when I return to the nowhere place of my old occupation. In geeky terms, I feel like a superhero/villain - where my anger is my special power. Come to think of it, I feel a little like Ben Stiller's "Mr Furious" from Mystery Men - and in many ways, I'm no less absurd or laughable.
All superheroes/villains, no matter what their supposed powers may be, have weaknesses, distinct susceptibilities to pain, physical, emotional or psychological. I have to admit, my anger is fighting with a bit of despair around the mediocrity of my life. It's a sheepish despair, so very aware of the comparative ease within which a Western comfort lives. But it's also a despair that exists because of the powerlessness that comes once the Make Poverty History campaign has climaxed in the Live 8 concerts, and the realisation of how futile is the donation, how little of an impact any of us can make to change things. I used to spend all my spare time trying to do something better, but my days as an activist for human rights, one world, and political justice feel hollow and insignificant. Activism is defeated - I think that we are all morally damned, inescapably so, and this is the essence of our fatalism.
posted by nickwong8 at 11:07 pm
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