Friday, 23 November 2012
Friday, 12 October 2012
Please Release Me!
Once, in the
distant mists of time, I read this fairy story. I've forgotten who the writer
was, but the story itself has never left me. And frankly, I'm amazed it is not
better known. For if it was, then many of our relationships---and not just the
romantic ones---would survive and flourish so much longer. This I truly
believe.
I cannot
find a copy of the story to hand, so let me tell it to you in my own words. You
can then decide whether I am right or wrong.
There was
once a king. He had most of everything, but that did not stop him from wanting
to find that one elusive something that most of us need to find at some point
in our lives. So, at last, world-weary and bowed under by the weight of his
duties and responsibilities, he sickened and took to his bed.
His
physicians could not find any illness that they could treat, so the king rid
himself of them and resigned himself to that lonely journey we all have to
take, sooner or later.
Every day
the king grew weaker, until at last he sensed the end was near.
One evening
he was lying alone in his bed chamber, drifting in and out of consciousness,
when he heard a sound. He listened. It was like no other sound he had ever
heard. He opened his eyes. A bird sat on his windowsill, and it was singing the
most beautiful song he had ever heard. The king's heart was filled with joy.
His exhilaration was immense, so much so that he could actually feel the
strength flowing back into his limbs.
After a
while the bird stopped singing and flew away. The king's family and courtiers
were dumbfounded by the sudden change in him, all in the space of a single
evening.
The next
evening the bird appeared again and sang to the king. And once again this made
the king so happy that he recovered his health even more. And so it went on for
several days until the king had just about regained his former good health.
At this
point the bird, one evening, after singing as usual, said to the king, 'Your
Highness, I've given you all I've got. You are now well. I'll come back and
sing for you one more time tomorrow, and then I'll have to say goodbye.'
The king was
appalled. 'But why do you have to go? Why can't you stay? I can give you
anything you want.'
The bird
just looked up at the blue sky outside and said, 'but I am a creature of the
air, and I need my freedom. To go where I want to go and do what I wish with my
life---that alone is what can make me happy.' And so saying, the bird flew
away.
The king
thought long and hard. He could not see any future for himself without the
bird. Nothing could ever make him happy the way it did.
So there was
only one solution.
Next day the
bird appeared to sing its farewell song. And as usual, the king listened. And
when the bird's song was over, out jumped the king's courtiers and quickly
captured the bird in a gilded cage. 'I'm sorry, but I can't let you go,' said
the king to the bird. 'You are everything to me. Without you I cannot live, so
I must have you to myself. I can only hope you'll forgive me.'
The days
passed, and gradually the king noticed a change in the songbird. Something was
wrong. Although it was trying its best for the king, the song is sang did not
sound as good. 'I told you, O king,' the bird said. 'I am a creature of the
air. I am not suited to the life in this prison that you have placed me in.
Much that I care for you, I cannot be with you while the blue skies yonder
beckon to my soul.'
'Well, it's
either you or me then,' replied the king. 'I cannot do without you, that's for
sure. So you have to stay and do your best and--- well---that will have to be
good enough for me, I suppose.'
However, it
was now the bird that went into decline. Day by day it grew weaker, and it hurt
the king deeply to see this, because in all truth he loved the bird dearly,
more than anything else in the world, for only that bird could nourish the
soul. To witness its painful deterioration simply tore the king apart. He could
not bear it. Finally he knew what he had to do.
The king
went to the cage and opened the door wide. 'Go,' he said to the bird. 'Fly away
and be happy, for I cannot stand to see you unhappy any more. I would rather
die than make you unhappy.'
And the bird
flew away.
The king
missed the bird. He hungered for its song. The sight of it sitting and singing
to him, it's wonderful presence in his life. And slowly he fell sick again and
took to his bed.
The days
went by until there came that fateful day which was to see the end of his life.
With all his courtiers and family surrounding him, the king was ready to breathe
his last. This time, however, there was a fierce contentment in his heart. He
was happy he had let that the bird go even though he could not do without it.
Because he knew he had done the right thing. As his eyes were closing, the king
whispered, 'oh, sweet bird of mine, be happy. All I ever wanted was for you to
be happy. I've loved you so much for the song you gave me that your happiness
meant more to me than my life, and by keeping you against your will I had
already lost you.'
Just then
there was the soft flutter of wings. Everyone looked around. The bird had
reappeared on the windowsill out of nowhere. 'Sing for me--- just one more
time?' pleaded the king. So the bird sang, sweetly and strongly, in all the
glory of its beautiful voice, and thus the king died a happy man. For he knew
he had done the right thing. He had let the bird go. Given it the freedom it
craved. Even if it had meant his own death. So much did he love that songbird.
To keep
someone to yourself, to try and change them by forcing them to live in your
environment, by your rules, away from their natural desires---this will make
them unhappy. Which is why you must accept whatever love someone is prepared to
give you and not ask for more. And if you cannot live without them, so be it,
for if you really love them you will allow them their freedom, to choose their
own life and destiny even at the expense of your own. Don't try to change
people. Let them be who they really are. And, above all, never try to keep them
all to yourself. For verily in this lies the test of true love........
and
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Thursday, 27 September 2012
Running With Zombies
When I was very young,
my teachers said that I needed to develop a wide range of interests. That these
would make me happy and nourish my existence.
And I have done my best to heed this advice, only gradually becoming aware of how right my teachers were!
And I have done my best to heed this advice, only gradually becoming aware of how right my teachers were!
Boredom is a killer,
just as sure as loneliness is too. In many countries millions of people are
spending every waking moment striving to make some sort of a living, just
trying to survive. They don't have the time to get bored and, despite having so
little leisure time, they seem more developed as human beings---more empathic,
more appreciative of the little things in life, More of a community united in
its struggle to afford itself the basic necessities of life.
We in the West, by and
large, are very lucky. Prosperity and abundance brings with it the time for
aesthetic pursuits and sport, wherein can be found so much pleasure and food
for the soul.
Except for those who
have not taken the trouble to develop a wide range of interests.
They indulge in
company/workplace politics, backbiting, serial relationships, crime, you name
it; they are prey to depression, feelings of negative self worth, and yes, the
more intelligent of them dream up scams and cons---not forgetting excuses for
waging war, for verily there is much truth in the saying that an idle mind is
the devil's workshop.
This is so sad, because
this world of ours has so much to be interested in, and to take pleasure from,
without having to hurt other human beings. So now I understand why my
schoolteachers exhorted me to develop a wide range of interests, and I am so
thankful to them. Because I never, ever get bored. There just isn't the time to
get bored. I think we must revel in every moment of respite from when natural
calamities enter our lives, for our lives are so short----and can be made even
shorter at any time through illness, accident, or the loss of a loved one. In
every spare moment that we have we must enjoy ourselves and appreciate just how
lucky we are to be alive, in one piece, with our faculties intact. Why, oh why,
do we ever need to get bored?
It was thoughts like
these that prompted me to write my thriller for young adults, an e-book called
Running With Zombies. I have reproduced an extract from it below. It has
nothing to do with zombies, the word in the context of this story being only a
metaphor for the sub-conscious self---our real self---that propels us through
our lives even though we are rarely aware that it is taking care of us. No one
can fool our 'zombies'. Our conscious self can convince itself of anything that
it suits us to believe, but our zombies know the truth, deep down in our hearts
where our real self and conscience lies.
So, if you have the
time, do please read the extract below, and if you are fortunate enough to have
few real problems at the moment, make the most of these moments to appreciate
just how lucky you are. But whatever you do, please, please, do not get
bored!
'What's up, Matt?' Mr Carter, his PE teacher had asked
as the rest of his class kicked energetically at an over-inflated football.
'It's pointless running around trying to get a ball in
a net. It's boring, that's what,' Matt muttered.
'Um….It's good for you, you know, the exercise. The
teamwork. No?'
'No.' Matt kicked at the grass. 'There must be
something else.'
Mr Carter thought this over.
'What, like going on a moonlit hunt with some
primitive tribe, armed only with a spear? Jumping off cliff-tops into roaring
streams to catch fish underwater with your bare hands? Shinning up a tree to
escape a mad wild boar only to come face-to-face with a panther?'
Before he could stop himself Matt burst out, 'yeah.
That would be so cool. If only!'
Then he shot Mr Carter a hostile look, sure that he
was taking the mick. But Mr Carter's face was serious as he gazed off at some
invisible horizon.
'Funny thing is, I
too get bored sometimes,' he murmured.
Matt's eyebrows shot up. Blimey, the man was a hero!
Only a week ago he had chased after a car which had knocked one of the boys
down. Mr Carter had outraced it on foot and, lunging in, had wrestled it to a
stop. Fit and tanned, with his quick charm and movie star smile, Mr Carter was
already popular. But after his heroic endeavour he had become a living legend.
And a man of mystery. Not much was known about him other than he had lived most
of his life in South Africa.
'You're having me on, sir!'
'Nope,' Mr Carter insisted. 'It's true. At the end of
term, whenever I can afford it, I take off to somewhere wild. Places where no
laws exist. Where I survive on my wits, my strength, and the ability to talk
myself out of tricky situations. Often I'm only a heartbeat away from death. I
can't help it. I need it like a drug.'
'Wow!' breathed
Matt.
'So I know how you feel,' Mr Carter went on. 'No
worry, one day when you're old enough, yes?'
Matt shook his head.
'I doubt it. I
wouldn't know where to start.'
'Well, who
knows….'
With this Mr Carter winked and sauntered off.
Later Matt told his girlfriend, Annie, about this
conversation.
'You what? He said that to you?' she had demanded.
'But how can he get bored? He's got everything.'
'Yeah, yeah. I know," Matt replied. 'Anyway, what
really got me was the way, just for a moment, I felt as if we really understood
each other in a kind of deep way. I've never had that happen with anyone else
before.'
Annie had looked away and started twirling her key
ring around her fingers moodily.
A week later Mr Carter had stopped Matt in the
corridor and taken him aside.
'Look, Matt. Here's the deal,' he had whispered. 'I've
found three other lads like you who are bored. How about a safari trip to Kenya
in the summer hols – – – well, at least that's what we would tell people. But I
know where there's much more exciting stuff to be had out there. Expensive,
though. You interested?'
Matt's jaw dropped open. Was he serious? The man could
lose his job, maybe even get prosecuted. In that instant Matt's respect for Mr
Carter soared to a near religious devotion.
'I've got some money saved. My parents will help,' he
had whispered back.
'Right, not a word to anyone.'
That evening Matt returned home as if walking on air.
Thoughts about the trip had left him giddy with excitement.
'Kenya? Isn't that rather dangerous, dear?' had been
his mum's reaction.
'It's a long way away, isn't it?' his dad had chimed
in as he looked up from his laptop.
'Well, we're flying there actually, not walking,' Matt
had patiently pointed out.
'You could catch something dreadful. And malaria – – –
you can keep getting the fever for the rest of your life,' his mum had added as
if he hadn't spoken.
'I don't care. I want to get out. I can't stay in this
this piss-boring village forever.'
Matt began feeling a warning rush of blood to his
head.
'And this Mr Carter of yours – – – do we know him?
Maybe your mum and I should have a word,' his dad had suggested.
'There you go again,' Matt had exploded. 'You just
hate seeing me happy. Straightaway you want to spoil it all. Do you want me to
look a bloody fool? Sometimes I wish I wasn't born. Go on, admit it. Nothing I
do or say ever makes you happy.'
His parents glanced at each other and some coded
message passed between them.
'You're our only child now, Matt,' his mother had said
in a trembling voice as his dad returned to his laptop. 'We want you to be
safe, that's all. We worry about you.'
'That's your problem, not mine.' With this Matt had
slammed out of the room.
But his parents needn't have worried. The trip never
happened.
Because a week later Mr Carter was dead.
He got run over by a bus as he cycled to school. He
had been cycling so fast that all the
bus driver had ever seen was a blur in his nearside mirror.
'He's dead. I hope you're happy now!' Matt had shouted
at his startled parents before running upstairs and burying his face in his
pillow.
(Reproduced from Running With Zombies by John M
W Smith, Amazon/Smashwords)
Thank you for staying
with me this far. I look forward to being with you next Friday, 5th October );
and
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Saturday, 22 September 2012
In Your Dreams, Man!
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IN YOUR DREAMS, MAN!
In my waking world I am a slave to rules, routine, and tiresome responsibilities. The people are stuck up and boring, so anxious to make the right impression. My surroundings are wishy-washy shades of grey. No, give me my dream world any time.
In my dream world I’m on a well-lit movie set, vibrant with colour. Anything is possible, everything is just waiting to happen. The freedom is breathtaking. The people can be unpleasant, downright weird, or just plain defective--but never boring. And I ask myself, now who in their sane mind would rather live in their waking world?
When I was 13 my dad took me bear-hunting in the Himalayas. We climbed to 14,000 feet and trudged through old snow in the middle of summer. My dad had a .375 Magnum Winchester rifle that went off like a cannon, but we never shot any bears. I’m glad about that.
In the night we slept in an empty shepherd’s hut. At that height the sky is crystal clear, the stars a dense carpet of pulsing pin-prick lights. Everywhere it’s almost as bright as a football stadium. Forget the moon. You hardly notice it.
While my dad snored in his sleeping bag I lay reading about how Sherlock Holmes set about attacking The Speckled Band with nothing but a thin, wooden cane. But so magical was the night that after a while I put my book aside and simply gazed up at the dazzling, swirling, canopy of stars. It’s unbelievable how many satellites were wandering past. I began imagining that one of them was a 1957 Cadillac Eldorado, just about the most beautiful car in the world, cruising sedately along a diamond-strewn highway.
But in the end even this sublime moment couldn’t keep me away from my dream world.
Besides, I was really tired. So my eyelids drooped shut and I dreamed, as always, of faraway places and fantastic goings-on; fierce creatures in dense jungles, tank brigades swooping across rolling battle-plains (you’d be amazed at how fast a modern tank can go!). Of riding a 1200cc Yamaha bike with my babe sitting behind. When I accelerated powerfully she clutched me tight and gasped and squealed in my ear. Then I was deep sea fishing with blisters blooming on my hands as I wrestled, Ernest Hemingway style, with a giant marlin at the end of a heavy-gauge fishing line. Hang gliding over war-torn mountains where bearded outlaws fired up at me, their spent bullets only reaching far enough to clink harmlessly off the aluminium struts of my glider…I couldn’t believe it when morning came and our guides spoilt it all by shaking us awake with steaming mugs of tea. I’d been having such fun! My dad smiled sleepily and pointed at the horizon. Ice cream mountain-tops were turning to pink sugar confections under a honey-gold sun. It was my turn to gasp (I try not to squeal too often!), because I had never seen anything so mind-blowingly lovely.
On the way back down we breakfasted off cherry trees and later we caught trout from a mountain stream. They tasted fantastic after we’d tossed them in flour and fried them in butter.
Yes, this was the only time in my life when my waking world managed to be every bit as good as my dream world. I’ll never forget it…if only there were more moments like that then I wouldn’t get tired of my waking world so often.
Sometimes in my dreams I can fly. Yes, fly, simply by climbing an invisible staircase and just sort of, well, taking off from the top. Once, half awake, I got up from bed and stubbed my toe when I tried to climb. It really hurt!
I find anything is preferable to the disappointing reality of my waking world – – but I can only sleep so much. So what about when I’m not sleepy any more? Well, I have this marvellous companion called a lapdog. Lapdog? Sorry, laptop, which has far more interesting worlds nestling within its cute little 14 inch face than all the spreading vistas of human struggle outside my front door. Hey, listen, it might not be for everyone, my kind of life. Or even good for everyone. I think I can handle it, though; my books, my sheets of lined, A4 paper for writing stories...stories that just keep tumbling around inside my brain. A warm kettle and a nearby bed are everything else I need. And to anyone who says to me, hey, get a life, man! I say, thank you very much, I already have one. And you, man?
Don't miss my next new post on Friday 28 September, called 'Gaby The Go-getter'!
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Don't miss my next new post on Friday 28 September, called 'Gaby The Go-getter'!
Welcome to my website (click)
and
WELCOME TO MY WEBSITE (CLICK)
Welcome to my website (click)
Free Short Story (click)
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