One Thousand Feelings In One Night

L

ong nights without enough sleep are not strange to me. Sometimes I have lazy nights, you know, just rolling over my bed , watching two or three movies or reading some book which might or might not enlighten me or even meditating and trying to write personal manifesto of mine-which by the way you do not care to know; most of the other nights-just forced by REALITY.

Last night was one of those nights when reality [better say necessity] held me by hooks in my skin. I was anxious as I was trying for one-of-those- last- times to go through my PowerPoint presentations and rehearse after three days and four nights of pain and agony from cold-believe me it is not your typical cold, which leaves your taste buds without function or ruins your first date night because she is not [and will never be] ready to kiss a man with a runny nose even if you have killer eyes. It left me with constantly piercing headaches, hypersensitivity to light and noise, and coughs which made me think that my throat would rapture at some point. But, yesternight I felt better and relieved after all this agony which seemed to me never stopping.

After finalizing my presentation- which I think- was mediocre [that is why I will go through it tonight for the last time or to be pragmatic for second-of -those –last –times], I felt all of a sudden hungry. I knew that I could not sleep even though it was already 4:00 past midnight. I opened the refrigerator which I knew it did not have anything but three bottles of water and half of a filthy green belly pepper which was turning to reddish brown. I opened it just because it is a very natural thing to do if you are at your room, feel hungry and have a refrigerator at arm length. It took me a while to close it back, and I cannot give you the reason because I do not remember I had one. After a pause which felt like aeon, I emptied my pocket to see if I can order Souvlaki. I was startled to see that I had only € 2.75. I reached out to a mug which I put one and two euro cents in. I counted them patiently and learned that they were exactly 73 cents. I removed some pile of papers from my desk to see if I can find more. Hoorah! I was lucky; I had fifty cents more. I looked at it and studied it. It was issued in 1999. Then I remembered why I kept it. You may roll over the floor laughing [I cannot control your bullying sentiment, after all] - I kept it because I thought 1999 issued euro coins are rare to find. I do not remember seeing one before that coin though it takes my whole courage to admit I have seen once or twice after. That is, perhaps, the reason why I did not care to lock it inside my drawer. I don’t want to keep you reading what I went through to order €5.00 food at 4:30 am and not managing doing it because I knew my forty something two cent coins collection, my €2.75 and one 1999 issued 50 cent coin [which, by the way, I still somehow believe is rare] are not enough to persuade the only open shop to send me its fatty and overdone kalamaki [meat grilled on a skewer]. I felt angry. Money! You don’t have a clue who really needs You. Even You are a victim of loss of Your purpose, oh poor money! Oh, poor me!

That was how I was able to shut my stomach off and increase my testosterone. It took me less time than it takes you to strike out the first two letters from hungry and substitute them with ‘a’. That was how I chose to read some news and stumbled on a BBC story about a stormchaser who suffers from Epidermolysis Bullosa [EB]. And I found myself watching one of the most touching and inspiring stories, a story of Jonny Kennedy who lived with this horrendous disorder for 36 years before he died in 2003.

My first thought was how it would be difficult for someone to live in this miserable condition. How bad he thought of himself. I wondered if he could spend a single minute in his lifetime thinking something else than the pain he had been enduring. I pondered no one would accuse him as biased if he told them to their face how bad he feel about this world or the coming, or the Creator. However, in the middle of the story I was laughing with his lighthearted and self depreciating jokes. I was moved by his mother who took care of him for 36 years, by the small village which embraced him. By the end of the story, I felt tears warming my face. I begged for a fraction of Jonny’s courage and patience. I felt miserable for posting on my facebook status “Dear mankind, stop your spaceflight! Stop cloning! Just get me a cure for a cold, please!! :(”

And that is how I got the time to reflect and acknowledge how lucky I am. I live in the most beautiful country in the world. I have been given the chance and the means to pursue my dream. I have met wonderful people and got amazing friends. I adore the spontaneity of the society. All the current crisis aside, there is zest of life and I love that. I am not that bad. I am rather great!

You know that I did not write all of what I felt. But I am sure that this does not jeopardize my integrity. I do not want you to know all of my thoughts [which I don’t know either] as that fast-food shop decided it cannot take order for less than €5.00 however hungry you are. But, confessing that before I went to bed I felt very soft does not look like spilling some more information. What if I add the information that I was watching lethal weapon 3 at 5:30 before I finally fell asleep?

When Silence Is Not Timidity and Roaring Not Bravery

T

here is a story of a Mother Kite and her daughter told in Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.It goes on like this.

Mother Kite once sent her daughter to bring food. She went, and brought back a duckling.
“You have done very well,” said Mother Kite to her daughter, “but tell me, what did the mother of this duckling say when you swooped and carried its child away?”
“It said nothing,” replied the young kite. “It just walked away.”
“You must return the duckling,” said Mother Kite. “There is something ominous behind the silence.”
And so Daughter Kite returned the duckling and took a chick instead.
“What did the mother of thick do?” asked the old kite.
“It cried and raved and cursed me,” said the young kite.
“Then we can eat the chick,” said her mother. “There is nothing to fear from someone who shouts.”

Mother Kite had at least a daughter to care. It may not have been against the law of nature when she sent her child to do what a bird of prey does well. But she was intelligent enough not to ignore the sense of foreboding that were to come even if there was no a deafening shout anywhere around. Had our leaders- who steal a loaf of stale bread from the starved child while they have a basket full of fresh brioches- had this knowledge, had they known what they do is against the law of nature, not because to oppress the weak is naturally wrong, but simply because to take what you do not need, to consume in excess is toxic to oneself, they would not have swallowed everything they chewed. Perhaps, if they had been a little bit sophisticated, they would not have snatched the kid his bread; had they been a little more tenderhearted, they would have shared one of their brioches with him.

But who knows? They might have thought all of these stuffs ahead. They say you cannot dispute the fact that the kid did not have strong teeth to bite the stale bread. They had to take it just to help him with the same reasoning they tell us they are the only hopes- The Great Nation Hopes- while they silenced whoever hoped and spoke it loud. And they ask yet, where is the challenger? Those who gather the crumbs from under their feet roar for they would not have the chance if they lived in a just world.

Smart they are not, for they ignored a matchstick is enough to burn oil soaked wet logs. Prudent they are not, for they do not rule with a just advice. They should know that silence is not always timidity. It has a voice. One surely can discern the dissatisfaction through it. However, it is up to the ears and the heart. But as of the ducks, I pray to you to know these ones are not Mother Kite. They take our ducklings if we remain silent, if they don’t do that they surely take their future. Believe me, I have been a duck-well until recently.

የስደተኛው ህጻን ጸሎት

ሰንዱቅ አልጠይቅ ብር የተሞላ
ሱሪም አልፈልግ ከሀር የተሰራ
ይቅርብኝ 'ልልታችሁ ይቀመጥ ለኋላ
ግና...
ስጡኝ መሬት 'ትብቴን ምቀብርበት
ስጡኝ አገር እንድኖር ሣላፍር

እኔም አይደለሁ...

የማር የወለላ የጥፍጥና ገንቦ ተነግሮኝ መሆንሽ
አንዳች ጭምብል ሳይኖር
ማር እቆርጥ ብዬ ብጠጋ ከቀፎሽ
እባጭ ፊቴን ሞልቶት ሸሸሁ ከሠፈርሽ::
አንዴ ከመቅመሴ ከወለላ ማርሽ
ሰው ፊት እንዳልቀርብ
ከውስጥ የመሠጉ ነድፈውኝ ንቦችሽ::

The Kids are not alright

I

t is too depressing when you see that we live in the era of tabloid lifestyle- a lifestyle without philosophy and substance. Preachers preaching about money and boasting about their mansion and limousine, people going on television to sell their personality- a personality molded by others, nothing original. Everybody copycatting that lifestyle- and somebody who shuns it- thrown to the corner and patronized.

Everything is commercial. I wish I could travel back to the sixties and seventies. I wish I could buy a ticket for songs with deep message. Where is that all now? Every song about money and sex, every book with a title "How to..." as if there is a simple remedy to solve every question or as if we all are from the same cast. We are fed stories about someone's embarrassing act, tickets he was served, his sexuality or marriage failure. We know about his previous night even before he gets over the hangover and learns whatsoever happened to him. Even those deceased are not spared. If you have a page on Wikipedia, know that your bedroom story is also included.

As Shelley Berman put it beautifully "As a culture I see us as presently deprived of subtleties. The music is loud, the anger is elevated, sex seems lacking in sweetness and privacy."

I think we are going dumber and dumber as what we read, we listen and watch is anything but with substance. We don't know that we love or support, hate or admonish. We are not sure about what we believe, and everything we say we know is superficial.

The system has made us indifferent to knowledge much less reactive to a challenge. Our dialogues are about the pockets of others, or about their bling and swag or who is gay, who is straight. We don't care about issues we say we care. The Future, Racism, Sexism, Poverty, Liberty, Equality? No we don't care about all these stuffs. We just avoid all these topics. And if we somehow talk about them, we don't reason-we just use a vulgar language to tell it. We swarm a provoking statement from someone with more hateful comments. Our skin is thinner than our fathers', our scope much shorter.

It is not a coincidence that now we hear many in the showbiz business confessing that they suffer from bipolar disorder. If we continue like this- I am afraid- we will end up LITERALLY slaves to those who are feeding us this lifestyle while they indeed keep abhorrence towards it. Perhaps, it is that either I am melancholic or getting older.