The Blink That Killed The Eye - A Review

'The Blink That Killed The Eye' is the first collection of short stories written by Anthony Anaxagorou: poet and author. I am glad to have known him since I was 4 years old, when we were best friends for a few years before he moved to another school. We had virtually no contact for the best part of twenty years after that, despite going to the same secondary school, mixing in different crowds. Ten years or so later we would run into each other in town occasionally and one day we got chatting about his poetry which I'd seen online. 'Burma Makes Me Bad' hit me hard; a piece of beauty borne of harsh reality. Each and every one of his poems hit me hard, the words emphasised in their power by Anthony's flawlessly passionate delivery. He began self-publishing poetry books, going on to work with schools, universities and charities in a variety of outreach, literacy and poetry projects, before beginning a collection of short stories in 2013. I know him as a friend and as an extremely thoughtful, motivated and insightful individual. That is my personal context. Now for the book.

'The Blink That Killed The Eye'. It is an interesting title, one which draws the reader in with very little effort. A blink is a momentary lapse in our eyesight as the eye closes to rehydrate the eyeball after it has been open too long, or to shield from glare, dust, and wind. Maybe the inference is that his stories will highlight the things we miss in the blink of an eye when we are concentrating too hard on the obvious. Maybe the blink is a metaphor for us protecting ourselves from the shit flying at us as we speed through life, causing us to miss vital points that might have helped us find peace or understanding (or to avoid the shit better!). Maybe it is a broader warning to society; telling us that blinking to avoid the questions and challenges that we don't like is killing us socially. All of these are valid interpretations, and I could extract more, but to try and determine the author's meaning we must read more than the title.

Anthony begins with a man's description of his father under the chapter heading 'Bad Company'. It is written in the past tense while he describes his father, soon shifting to describe events in an imagined present; the subject is re-living experiences in his mind. The description of the father comes from a place of respect and admiration but does not immortalise the patriarch like a child might be expected to. It is written from a perspective making attempt to understand rather than pass judgement, invariably a trait attained through maturity. It hints at imperfections in the man, but attempts, successfully I believe, to place them in the wider context of his person, and they cease to be imperfections and are accepted as simply part of 'who he is'. The father is used to set the scene for the son, who is enduring physical hardships working for his uncle in the present. The story jumps between poetic descriptions of his physical struggle to successfully perform the tasks assigned to him by his uncle, his undirected, as-yet untapped interest in poetry, and the aggressive relationship with his girlfriend, who has her own undisclosed issues and is very violent in her confrontation with him. I cannot help but feel that this chapter represents the author's struggles to achieve his dreams of writing 'professionally', the physical work on his uncles roof being metaphor for the social demand for 'work', and 'paying your way', while the girlfriend plays the part of every misunderstanding skeptic and critic, not of his work, but of his personal philosophies and ambitions: 'Bad Company'. Something his father says at the beginning of the chapter echoes in my mind: "Know your worth Alex."

In the next story Anthony goes on to describe an extremely abusive marital relationship, and the psychological effect on the victim from her own perspective, drawing her torment around the reader. I feel myself wishing that every abusive husband would read this, and feel the weight of the vile abuse the subject receives. It horrifies and upsets me to read it, but I am not enduring the horrible reality of this abuse, so I count myself lucky. Anthony follows this with a story centred around security guards in a office block. They refuse to allow a woman in as she has forgotten her ID, and by the end it becomes clear that we know this woman. It links the first two stories together sweetly and subtly, and I feel water in my eyes as I come to the end of the chapter, where we start a new page joining a bunch of men in the security department of an office building. There is a minor incident with one of the workers, and this story follows the interaction between the others as they try to decide what to do. At first I am confused as to the part this story plays. It is the shortest in the book. It then hits me. I don't spot it at first because I am so used to it. The men are horrible to each other. They are aggressive, rude and abusive to each other, in the casual manner that is commonplace in many male dominated working class industries: 'banter'. It doesn't take me long to hypothesise that we have encountered one of these men in the book already, echoing his daily experiences in the most unconstructive way to his partner. The author isn't excusing anything. He isn't justifying anything. This is an examination; a study. This is an attempt to understand human beings in their overt and covert suffering. To understand why people do the things they do. No judgement.

We are taken to a prison where a man has begun serving time for murdering his wife. We are informed of his being a victim of rape and other physical abuse as a child. The author does not make excuse for him on account of this, it is simple fact: this man, this murderer, this monster, this human being was once a child with a clean slate that was dirtied by the inherent corruption in the world. No father ever told him to 'know his worth'. His perception of worth was dictated by his abusers, left to deduce his place in this world off the back of the contempt shown for his existence. No justification, just facts. Here they are. Don't flinch.

Young love. Anthony takes us into the setting of a single solitary mother living with her daughter, the mother having few friends and relying on alcohol to numb her loneliness, the daughter growing up in an environment where the dominant male role model in her life is a plastic cowboy figurine planted amidst her doll collection. We are quickly spirited across a decade or so to the point the daughter has her first boyfriend, a man who reminds her of her cowboy figurine. This precipitates a violent confrontation between mother and daughter. I imagine the mother filled with the fear that her daughter is going to leave her, for a man who in her mind will undoubtedly leave her like she was left, while simultaneously robbing her of her only child and source of companionship. He would hurt her like she was hurt. The author however, alludes to jealousy as the source of her anger and aggression. I think loneliness and depression are the root cause of that jealousy. Under the influence of these negative emotions, coupled with the angry confusion brought on by the alcohol she consumes, the mother succumbs to her misery and assaults her daughter after being told that she is moving out to be with 'Alex', which, I remember, was the name of the young aspiring poet from the beginning of the book, but this Alex does not sound like the aspiring poet from earlier. We follow this story with one of separation, and Alex's sorrowful reminiscence connects us back to the young man in 'Bad Company'. We explore a young man's first encounter with love's rejection. His attempts to rationalise his feelings of sadness and loss. His reminiscence of times passed. Most of us can relate.

'The Blink That Killed The Eye': The final story briefly explores Alex's emotional recovery, his attempts at writing, then taking us into a world of physically and mentally disabled persons as he tries his hand as a carer. He meets people who have 'acquired brain injury', leaving them incapable of taking care of themselves or living 'normal' lives. The blink is our inability or refusal to see past the surface of these poor souls' lives, past the often barely intelligible speech to scratch the surface of the person that once shone from within, the person now trapped within; the happy child, the doting parent, the motivated worker; within the broken body we are presented with, within the fragmented speech and simple conceptualisation are the memories of a human being; memories of being considered a human being. The blink is the means by which we maintain a position of judgement. The blink is the mechanism of wilful ignorance with which we dismiss that which we are too damn lazy to consider: that behind every short story is a wider biography, experienced in the singular realm of the person, waiting eagerly in a lonely corner of the library for a willing reader. This book is not an easy read though. It requires patience and consideration. Empathy. Open eyes and open ears. Open heart and open mind. Realities that are too broad for newspaper headlines, too elaborate for teleprompters, yet elusive enough to be missed in the blink of an eye. Anthony is asking us, encouraging us, pleading with us, for our own sake, to consider, reflect, contemplate what makes a person who they are, the ugly and the beautiful, the good and the evil. Each thing has it's origin. Is the seed evil? Or the rain? Or the farmer? Or the very ground itself? We all too often accept the most basic explanations of the world, of society, of people, but the individual realities are infinite in their number and complexity. We hide behind our ignorant, externally imposed preconceptions of people, society, life. At those moments when we catch a glimpse of something truly real, really true, we panic, flinch, turn away, blink. We hide from that which might cause us to change the hard coded beliefs that come with 'maturity'. Anthony wants us to stop this cycle of stagnation, to face that which terrifies is most - that which we do not understand. This extends further than human interaction. It extends to encompass the entire sphere of human experience - when you are confronted with that which makes you uncomfortable, that which challenges you, that which you are most afraid of, face it! Stare it down without flinching and observe without the fog of pre-conceived thoughts. Try to learn that which you did not already know. In the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti:

"The whole of life, from the moment you are born to the moment you die, is a process of learning."

The blink hides that lesson that we don't like, that we find difficult, but this is not mathematics, science or language, this is humanity. Every person has the ability and capacity to learn and improve their understanding, if we keep our eyes open long enough.

The Forty Second Blog Of Trig - Torture

I expect there's lots of people who could say that they torture themselves psychologically. I think that perhaps if we were honest with ourselves we could all probably say that we torture ourselves to some extent. We torture ourselves with worry. We torture ourselves with fear. We torture ourselves with lust, jealousy, hatred and anger. We torture ourselves with regret. We torture ourselves because we do not understand these feelings we have named within ourselves. To understand them is to overcome them. We should study ourselves, our thoughts and feelings, see how they arise, understand them and conquer them. In conquering them we conquer ourselves.

I have sometimes consciously imagined my worst nightmares happening to me. I have pushed my mind to face my deepest darkest fears. It used to happen from time-to-time spontaneously, and it was something that disturbed me somewhat. Over time I progressively faced these demons, stared them in the face and called them out. As I defeated these demons, I found more ready to replace them, more difficult ones, and I defeated them too, but they just kept on coming, getting bigger and more powerful. I still have many powerful demons to defeat, but I believe that to defeat these demons is to achieve peace. I feel confident.

The Twenty Third Blog Of Trig - High Definition

One day long ago, I remember trying to remember something (!), and in the process of attempting to remember that thing, whatever it was, I noticed that my thought mechanism had changed. Thought had up until that point seemed something separate from language. Thought was a liquid, formless thing which I translated in approximation into the finite mechanical medium of language, but on this day I noticed that I was different, that my thought mechanism had been changing in a fundamental way since I began to learn the words for things. My thoughts had adopted language, slowly abandoning the clarity that existed before lingual definition, separating my psychological being into components which argued with each other in words rather than working together harmoniously. The fluidity of thought that I remembered seemed to have been highly objective, as I observed and interacted with the world with a limited knowledge of the definitions that link memories together. As I learned the words we have assigned to things, I linked together my memories involving each definition, creating a database associated with every single definition I held. As I grew more experienced and the memories associated with each definition expanded, the colonies of memories and experiences linked to each definition became the thing being defined, and my thought and experience grew increasingly more subjective, seeing the world as the memories I had for each definition. Subsequently my thought had become less and less objective as I got to 'know' the world, and my thinking became a construct of words more than free-flowing ideas.

The Indian philosopher/psychologist/preacher Jiddu Krishnamurti often asked how we can know that which is new, that which we do not already know, and his conclusion was that anything that was a product of thought could not be new, since it was a product of that which we already know. When we name things in language, we create a title within our minds, a definition, under which we place experiences and memories, which link to each other through associative connection and similarity of definition. When we are young and someone points out a dog, and tells us that is 'a dog', we will refer back to that the next time we see a dog, or something that resembles a dog, and call it such. We will place that new experience under the same category as the last that resembled it. A child sees the differences between one dog and another, but will classify them as the same thing through similarity and association and place them under the same title; every 'dog' is 'a dog', and is defined by the chain of memories placed under that title of definition. Does this influence perception? Undoubtedly. A person who is bitten on their first encounter with a dog will hold that memory under the dog definition for ever, seeing every dog as a potential bite.

Can we revert back to the clarity of thought we practiced before language categorized our minds, without losing that which we have learnt? It is a difficult idea to practice, since it involves 'thinking without thinking'. It is certainly something that must be studied through the kind of mental practice we have named 'meditation'. It cannot be attained through 'conventional thought', which is a complicated associative process working through an increasingly experienced lifetime of memories and definitions, involving more and more processing as our experience of this world builds. It must surely be achieved through a clear mind; clear of the languages we have learnt to define everything by, clear of the resulting thought processes we have accustomed ourselves to over the years. We must re-learn the underlying structure of our minds by unraveling the lingual definition structure we have built; easier said than done, and not particularly easy to say.

The irony of all this post is that I am using the definitions of language to describe the psychological limitations that the definitions of language impose upon us, and advocating their deconstruction in that very same medium. I am attempting to make a creation of language which advocates its' own destruction. Can it work? Who knows.

This is 'The Twenty Third Blog Of Trig', signing off.

The Thirteenth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 4 - 03/07/2011)

Finally, my first Barcelona beach day! Sunday the third of July, CELTA-1.

I woke up leisurely after my long walk and party-watching day Saturday, and went out early to go shopping. I had not had the opportunity to buy any groceries yet. I kept it simple; cereal, yoghurts, bread, cheese, ham, pasta, and of course a couple of large bottles of water. When I got home I made myself two large sandwiches with ham, lettuce, tomato, and avocado, and packed them into my bag with some English teaching books and my notes, before saying goodbye to Alan and setting off to the beach.

It must have been lunchtime by the time I got off the Metro at the bottom of La Ramblas, and I was feeling quite hungry. The sandwiches in my bag were calling me, but I decided to wait until I made it to the beach before I tucked in. I headed past Columbus' Column by the port and walked down towards Barcelonetta, occasionally looking up to smile happily at the sun above me. This was partly to distract me from the multitude of lovely bronzed legs that surrounded me on the route to the beach, not one fake-tan in sight. Gotta love summertime.

I arrived at Barcelonetta Beach and sat on a bench facing the shore. Barcelonetta is a long stretch of beach with bars dotted along the back, each with a public shower/changing area for beach-goers. Volleyball nets are all taken by lovely bikini-clad ladies and lads straight out of the gym. Behind the beach there is a foot-and-cycle path that covers the entire length. Here, as with most of Barcelona, rollerskaters pass constantly like a Malibu cliche. The female skaters catch my attention; wonderful thighs. I eat my sandwiches and watch the world go by before moving onto the beach to enjoy my last day before the course starts.

I chose a spot near the back of the beach and before I've sat down an oriental lady approaches, calling "Massaja? Massa-he?". I say no initially, but she is persistent and it's only 5 Euros, plus I have a bad back, so I accept. I try to tell her to be gentle with my back but she doesn't understand. It takes a minute or so of acting to explain that I am injured, and that she must be careful around my spine. I wrap my arm around my bag and lie on my front and she begins.

The massage is good. She works my back, bum, arms, neck and head for a good ten-to-fifteen minutes before asking if I want my legs and feet done for another 5. I accept. When she is done I am very relaxed. She tries to get more out of me but I am happy. I give her ten and another Euro tip and she says goodbye. I lay back and enjoy the sun on my body.

It is very warm. I consider going in the sea, but I hadn't brought any swimming shorts with me, hoping to buy some here. In any case I couldn't leave my bag here what with all the thief stories I'd heard, so I made myself a sand-pillow, got out an English teaching book and did a little last-minute revision, while enjoying the view of theose ladies who were confident enough to go topless, and the others too. It's hard to concentrate under these circumstances, but I somehow managed it in between cheeky peeks.

While on the beach I listen to the voices around me. I hear lots of Australian girls, a few loud American guys, a few Brits, and a few Spanish. I start getting pain in my back from the way I am sitting, so I remake my sand-pillow a few times to keep my posture straight. I've not written about this yet, but a few weeks previously I fell something like 15 foot off a ledge in a forest in France and landed on my back, breaking a log that I fell on. I was very lucky to walk away, or hobble as the case was. My back has not been the same since, and might not ever be. I'll have to write about that trip sometime.

As the sun moved slowly behind the city I got my stuff together and moved off. On the way back past the port I encountered a salsa-style band playing well-known songs in their own style. I sat down amongst a sizeable crowd of people to listen a while. They danced as they played, jumping around each other with so much energy I wanted to get up and join in, but I didn't. I filmed them a while, enjoyed their music a little longer and then headed off, dropping my change into their hat at the front.

When I arrived back at the house Alan offered to take me out for dinner again since it was my last evening of freedom before the course started. We went out for pizza. As we eat and drink a couple of beers we discuss 'demons', those insecurities which can whisper in our minds and drain our confidence with their patronising self-criticism. We discuss ways of defeating these demons, and whether they actually need to be defeated, or just understood and satisfied. Alan says that he tries to imagine them as having some positive purpose hidden in our subconscious, and through discovering this purpose and giving attention to these subconscious monsters we can satisfy them. Of course, any subconscious demon is simply an aspect of its' host's personality, and for a person to be whole and complete they must acknowledge their own subconscious and not do battle with it.

We discuss the demons of worry. When I have things to do and I put them off, I worry about them. Subconscious demons whisper words of discontent to me, making me uncomfortable and causing me stress. This is remedied simply by acknowledging the demon, by either doing the task I am putting off or making solid plans to complete it. The 'demons' are a call for unity from my subconscious. A part of me separates from the 'active me' and attempts to influence the active me. It should be my aim to eliminate the distinction between these parts and myself. These nagging thoughts I am referring to are just like any other thought; an integrated part of myself. To allow for internal conflict creates them. When I eliminate my internal conflicts my subconscious will have nothing to say. Rather than my intentions materialising as thoughts trying to initiate actions, they will manifest as actions first time around, removing the need for internal nagging.

Anyway, got a bit lost there. I talked to Alan about Krishnamurti and his views on the thoughts of man, how thoughts are time, and time is an illusion that can be escaped by the cessation of thought. How we try to observe ourselves in our lives, but in doing so split ourselves into an observer and an observed, where we are only one person who should embrace our unity within infinity. I could go on and on about that but I won't. It's quarter to four in the morning and I need to get some sleep.

Alan and I finished our food and went home. I got to bed straight away to get up early for the beginning of my CELTA course in the morning. I was a little sad that my free time in Barcelona had ended, but excited to be starting the course. It was going to be one hell of a ride.

This is 'The Thirteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.

The Seventh Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 1 - 30/06/2011))

So, Barcelona here we are! You're probably gonna ask me how my first day was, so before you do I'll tell you, it was pretty epic.

On the plane I sat next to a lady with lovely legs, exquisitely planning what seemed to be months of travels. Her daughter was sat next to her doing maths problems which I momentarily considered offering my help with, but she seemed okay with it, and I suffered a migraine on takeoff which I was still recovering from. I listened to music and then started watching a film on my laptop which I tired of quickly. Flight was uneventful. A bit of a jittery takeoff but otherwise peaceful. Lovely view of the mountains as we approached Barcelona.

I landed and grabbed my bag from reclaim, then headed outside. Lovely weather greeted me, which was to be expected really. I looked up and down the strip in front of the airport for a bus stop and saw one, got on for a fare of 5 Euro and chatted to a couple of Aussies a while, before suddenly realising I was in the centre of Barcelona with no idea whether I had missed my stop or not. Up ahead was a massive busy roundabout, in the centre of which was an enormous, beautiful monument with fountains and waterfalls. I decided to get off here and find out where I was.

I was in one of the main junctions in the city, full of tourists, cars, police, and buses whose destinations I could not for the life of me understand. Behind me in the shot above was a large building with an enormous stepped square in front. Many people sat on the steps, some older, some young couples. I wandered around a while, trying to make sense of a couple of bus maps, and failing, before approaching two police officers to ask for help. I had the address and directions written in my phone, but I had to find my way to where the directions began for them to be useful. Unfortunately, the police were in the process of searching two young lads for what I assumed to be drugs, so I wandered about the square pretty aimlessly a while until they had finished. They were not much help though, so I called my host Alan for assistance.

Alan was very helpful, quickly figuring out where I was and explaining where I had to go to find his house. He said it was a 25 minute walk, which it was, plus some for the weight on my back. It was about a mile and I finally made it soaked with sweat, finding myself in a small side road, very typically Spanish, with fairly simple but pretty looking houses either side.

He answered his door and shook my hand with a strong grip, which I tried to return without seeming hostile. The interior of the house was beautiful, with lovely art on the walls, nice furniture which had obviously been chosen carefully, well-kept terracotta floor tiles throughout, and a visibly high standard of building and decorating. He took some time to show me around, being extremely friendly and welcoming, beaming as I commented on how lovely it all was. And as I look round while I write this, it really is.

Alan took me up to the roof terrace, where we had a nice open sky and a view of surrounding buildings but no horizon. It was nice and quiet. He showed me the balcony. He showed me his garden, small but nicely designed and well kept, with some enormously leaved plants dominating the area. 

He showed me my room, not large, not small, clean, tidy, cosy, tidily furnished and flawlessly decorated, as was the rest of the house. When my tour was finished, I had no questions. Alan seemed to have thought of and covered everything. The time was about 5-6pm and I was desperate for a shower after my sweaty march through Barcelona. Before my tour of the house was over he offered to take me around the maze of surrounding streets and show me the local amenities. I gladly accepted, and out we went after I had showered my grimy self.

We left his house and he took me round the surrounding area, which was very much full of locals rather than tourists. He showed me the local Metro station, supermarkets, fresh food markets, restaurants and bars, indicating which were reasonably priced and which were not, and which offered the best quality food. I tried my best to remember where we went and maintain my sense of direction, but I was very tired.

As we approached the end of his tour, he asked me if I was hungry. I told him that I was starving, and he suggested that we grab some food somewhere. He told me that his wife and himself had agreed that he would treat me to dinner on my first night. I was overwhelmed. This man had just met me, taken me into his lovely house, shown me around the town, and now he was offering to buy me dinner. His hospitality was humbling.

I asked him to use his expert judgement on where to eat, and he took me to what appeared to be a lovely delicatessen from the outside, with amazing smelling dry meats, rare game and seafood. The proprietor was a collector of Coca-Cola badges, which were neatly displayed in frames covering the walls throughout the cafe in the middle of the shop and the secretive restaurant area up some stairs in the back. The central cafe area had a few stony-faced local gentlemen nattering away in Spanish, some eating tasty-looking food. Alan introduced me to the owner in effortless Spanish, telling him that I might pop in by myself for some food. He smiled and shook my hand. 'Mucho gusto senior'.

We walked up a narrow staircase in the back into a small but tidy restaurant area. Sitting next to us was an oriental couple, and there was a couple of tables of locals talking and laughing. I looked at my menu, turning a few pages before the realisation that I do not read Spanish hit me. I left the ordering to Alan.

We ordered beers, which were lovely and went down beautifully. Alan ordered a starter of bread, cheese and ham, but this was not any old bread cheese and ham...this was Marks & Spencers rustic Spani......no, sorry, wrong advert. This shat on M&S.

The ham slices were arranged in concentric circles on the plate. On the outside was 'Jamon Iberico Bellota', or 'Iberian Acorn Ham'. This costs as much as £185 per kilo, coming from pigs fed only on acorns. It tastes amazing, certainly the very best ham I have ever had. Next circle was 'Chorizo', then 'Fuet', a peppered salami, and finally 'Lomo Iberico Bellota', or 'Iberian Acorn Fillet', which is the fillet of Iberian acorn fed pigs, dried and sliced. Again, amazing. Alongside this was rustic bread drizzled with olive oil, and 'Queso Manchego Semi-Seco', or 'Semi-dried Sheep Cheese'. Wow! What a plate! It was amazing, and that was just the starter! My main course was not as impressive. I had a steak, which was a bit tough, a bit fatty, and far too big for me to finish. Still tasty though. I brought the last of it home to stick in a sandwich.

Alan and I talked and ate. He told me about his wife and their history in Barcelona. He educated me on the food we were eating and other foods on offer, such as the Kobe beef, which is fed beer its entire life and treated to massages to keep the meat tender. I'd be happy with that life, but maybe with a happier ending!

He asked me what my ambitions were and I told him about my love of writing, which he coincidentally also shared a passion for. I inevitably began talking about my many philosophical ideas and research. Luckily he is of a similar disposition, and this led to interesting discussions about the pursuit of truth, the liberating force of Empathy, the one true moment of reality we experience and the subsequent illusion of time, and other related ideas. We chatted until our food was gone and our coffees were finished and headed back to the house.

When we arrived home we went to the balcony and continued our philosophical discourse. We discussed Empathy further, with Alan relating it to his coaching work. When he is coaching someone, he must honestly Empathise with the person, in order for them to trust him and believe his show of interest towards them. This means that they then feel they can be honest with him, enabling him to do his job to the best of his ability. If a student senses that their coach or teacher is not genuine, they may not feel comfortable enough to be completely honest about themselves, and the quality of the exchange is reduced along with the effectiveness of the coaching.

We continued talking until our discussion was interrupted by the burglar alarm downstairs. We both looked at each other bemused. He got up and went down and I followed, pondering the strange possibility of him being broken into the first night I stayed. He had earlier given me the code to unlock the alarm, and a keyfob with lock, unlock, and panic alarm buttons. There had recently been changes made to the system and we assumed a bug. The phone rang and he assured the security company that everything was okay, then chatted for a short while in Spanish.

He got off the phone and we went back to the balcony and chatted more. Alan described his novel ideas and I shared ideas for my own half-finished projects, when the burglar alarm went off again. Alan again went downstairs to speak to the security company and I sat on the balcony wondering if I had jinxed it somehow. As I went to bed a little later I took the security key fob out of my pocket and something clicked in my head as I realised the possibility that the panic alarm button was being pressed in my pocket. This seemed to be the likely cause. I told him of my theory, apologised and we both laughed. Problem solved.

We chatted a while longer, dissecting life and the universe and getting on very well, before it was time for some rest. I had had a very long day. I thanked him for his unprecedented hospitality, for the lovely meal and his guided tours, and went to get some sleep. Barcelona day one, done.

This is "The Seventh Blog Of Trig", signing off.

The Third Blog Of Trig - A Common Philosophy

Okay, blog number three...'three'...'three'...where do I go with 'three'..?

'Three's a crowd'...'crowd'...'people'...'life'...'philosophy'...I'm off! Here we go!

Differences in philosophy are a major, dominant factor in the wars of humans. Of course, common philosophies do bring pockets of people together in agreement to some degree, but ultimately the petty differences between the different world religions/cults/beliefs can lead single minded egotistical humans to become very angry, to the point where they will hurt, maim, rape, kill each other to punish the other for not agreeing, or to simply rid them from this Earth. I don't think it is unreasonable to say that this is the most devisive issue in the world today. Where does it stem from?

More often than not in this world, people neglect their enquiry into the nature or purpose of their existence and latch onto someone else's explanation or conclusion, or else they simply abandon their enquiry altogether and chase material or physical pleasures. The late preacher-teacher Jiddu Krishnamurti famously said, "truth is a pathless land." By this he meant that each individual can only find truth, god, enlightenment, peace, through their own path, that as individuals we inevitably all tread different paths, so to all follow one spiritual path led out before us is folly. He also said that in order to embrace our own true path we must embrace the moment we pass through, which is the only real truth we ever encounter in our lives.

The world needs a common philosophy, without doctrine, to bring about peace. My logic tells me that this could only be based around the realisation of the indisputable fact that life, the one moment of unity we all occupy and pass through, is an amazing miracle. Don't take that statement as having any relation to religion. I refer to the difference between consciousness and unconsciousness, between living and not; to be born out of nothing that we can recall and be presented with an ongoing moment of perception, from within a strange unchosen body, faced with challenges, and questions we may never see answered, as part of an amazing, infinitely varied yet unified world.

It IS a miracle, this moment. How can you willfully depress the miracle of another person's life under that realisation.

This is "The Third Blog Of Trig", signing off.