Max Davine's Blog, page 6

Magic

Writers strive for a certain kind of magic trick. It's not just the seduction of suspense, romance or excitement, it's the little pieces in between that make for magic; the warm summer breeze caressing your hair, gliding over a sun-kissed shore so the sunlight slimmers on the water's surface; soft, distant light in the rain at night making the droplets shimmer like falling crystals; the tint of blue twilight over a purple and golden sunset, like malaise and joy meeting in sombre sanctity; the calm sweetness of loneliness giving presence to the silent screams of frustration; the soothing hush before the storm washes the heat away, the way life gently but persistently cleanses us of the thrills and the hopes as time passes into the abyss of history...these things are all around us, all the time, and remind us we're alive. That's the magic we strive for.

The Rebound Effect

(Heart walks into Brain's store)

Heart: Hi, I'm here to pick up that jacket.

Brain: Sorry? Um...they don't make that jacket in your size...we called the supplier...you were there.

Heart: Oh, yeah...but it's cold. I need a jacket. It's winter and I'm cold.

Brain: Well...sorry. There are none for you.

Heart: Oh, hey! This looks just like the jacket!

Brain: Sir, that's a blouse.

Heart: It's so pretty!

Brain: Yes, it looks almost exactly like the jacket...except its a blouse.

Heart: Well, I'm cold, I need something. I'll take it.

Brain: But...

Heart: Done, great!

(sometime later)

Heart: I'm cold.

Once More, From The Heart

In the golden age of the Broadway musical, there was a songwriting team comprised of a heterosexual composer and a homosexual lyricist. It being the 1920's, the lyricist hid his sexuality from everyone, including his closest friend and business partner. Together they refined their craft and, over the years, slowly climbed the long ladder to success, the composer never knowing that his lyricist's beautiful, heartfelt words were all for him. On the eve of their most successful opening, the composer announced his engagement to a young starlet, while the lyricist spent the long, cold New York winters roaming the streets in the rain the snow, eventually succumbing to pneumonia. While their great show was selling out and making them household names, the lyricist suffered delirium and slipped in and out of consciousness, using his brief moments of lucidity to urge his nurse - a fan of his - to let him go. Before his final curtain fell, the lyricist opened his eyes, in a final and brief moment of clarity and composure. The nurse, at his side, asked him with tears in her eyes why; he has earned the respect of his peers and adoration of fans, he need never have worried about money again, so why let himself die? What would he die for, she asked.
Without looking at her, the lyricist answered: "What have I lived for?"
He was dead by morning.
Only real love could yield such pain.

Hope

Indulging in despair becomes such an addiction that we start to believe that hope has to come from somewhere outside of ourselves. In my lines of work, you need hope beyond hope, but where does it come from? What gives a person hope? I've been thinking about it for over a month, I had another answer then, but it was wrong; hope doesn't come from anywhere. Nothing gives a person hope but their own decision to have hope. Like faith in a God, it's what we choose. Can you believe it was once normal for a person to fall in love with another before they had sex? That one hundred years ago men crawled in squalid trenches, believing they were going to survive despite every horrifying, disgusting element and the realization that they were killing each other for no reason? That it was unusual for someone to get drunk before they had the confidence to say hello to someone? Or pay therapists and doctors and God knows what else just feel okay? I'm remembering that, today. That a century ago, men survived the unthinkable because they had hope. They chose hope.

International Women's Day

You're perfect with your imperfections. There's nothing wrong with you if you don't find sexy what everyone else finds sexy. You're perfectly within your rights not to "surrender" to anything; you are not a prize to be won or a conquest to be surmounted, you are a human and capable of reason and decision making. The way you judge men is based on your personal experiences, and part of the sum of you, don't let it go; you won't learn anything if you "let it go", it's a lesson and one that will make you more powerful. "Masculine power" and "feminine power" is a marketing tool created by businesswomen who want your money and which is not applicable to the real world: you have your own power as an individual and it's different for everyone. If you're intimidating, you will scare many, many men off. Good: those are the men you don't want in your life. The worthy ones won't find you intimidating. They are rare. You don't need healing, advice or a spiritual guru; where you're at is the point you've reached through the trials you've faced so far, and exactly where you need to be in this very moment. Take care of your body to feel healthy, not to fit an image; it is what it is, and anyone who values it more than your spirit isn't worthy of having it. That includes you. Some people will like who you are, some people won't; it's no fault or problem on either side. Stop trying to be perfect according to other people. Be perfect according to the moment: you survived, that's all you need to do, keep surviving.

mirrors

a peacock can't check it's plumage, a lion can't see the luster of it's mane, a ram doesn't know the magnificence of it's headpiece, a mayfly can't practice it's dance and a cuttlefish can't see it's stripes. A dolphin doesn't know how beautiful it is. An orca can't gauge it's strength by reps of weights. But for some of them, these displays are a matter of life and death. The animal just has to believe in it's beauty and it's power. We humans invented mirrors, we're the only ones with the privilege of checking, and yet we're the only ones who see only what we haven't got.

Ballad Of The Hallmark Poet

My beauty can only be heard or read, it can never be seen,
No! Look not, know me as you always have, leave it as it's always been,
See me through your heart, avert your eyes and keep them clean,
Through your eyes you will despise, through your heart you will love me.

To lose your love is death for me, don't look,
The last petal from upon my rose is shook,
No Belle came in time for me,
To release me of this monstrosity.

In my dark palace I will be,
Keeping you in love with me,
In the arms of another you may be,
But all his words, they come from me.

It's he you want, but his spell is mine,
The lovely words of every line,
Mine until the end of time,
Thus you are my secret Valentine.

Female Power

the difficulty with women in film and literature is similar to the cultural minority, in that they are often a plot device rather than a character unto themselves. For example, even a strong woman may appear alongside a man in a story, but she ultimately is part of the hero's overall goal; something to be won, or an element of his proving himself is winning her affections, or being captured or killed in order to send the hero into overdrive to complete his mission. In a story where she is the main protagonist, she often has to shed her femininity in order to complete the task. The fact that they are women overtakes from their serving the story as a character, rather than an object. Cultural minorities often appear to portray a view of their culture; the Russian will be a Russian and do Russian things. The woman will be contrary, or compensate for her womanhood by being overtly tough and masculine, or sexy and seductive therefore manipulative and ultimately something for the hero to either deny or conquer. A great example of the culture stigma NOT being exploited is in Wentworth: Doreen is an aboriginal, we see that, but being an aboriginal doesn't play as a device. It's a part of her, not the overruling definition of her, and while issues pop up regarding the fact, they are not at the forefront of the character. Women, it seems, are even more ingrained in our minds as elements or objects which only appear in order to have a titillating effect on the audience, or to serve another character's journey as either a challenge or a hindrance. What we want is to see women in stories who's sex is noted, drawn strength from without compromise thereon, but not of consequence to other characters or the evolution of the story.

Letter to the young

Allow yourself to be a child. You don't have to be so wise and so strong. Know what you want, and set about getting it, but don't sacrifice you're right to learn and make mistakes along the way.
Stop trying to make people proud of you. You never will, and that's not a bad thing. Nobody can be proud of you for long, not your parents, teachers, or anyone, because nobody truly understands you or what you want. It's not up to you to fulfill people's expectations of you. Set your own standard, and rise only to that.
Worship life. There is no higher power. What you breathe and what you bleed are the essence of you, and the completeness of all creation exists in your veins and in your heart. Don't give it to the next life, there might not be one, and this one is too precious to ignore for a hypothesis.
Let people down. Not all the time; keep the promises you make, but make promises sparingly, and don't be afraid to break them if the action or belief which prompted them is undermined. Don't be so afraid to hear people are disappointed in you. They don't have realistic standards for you, because they see your potential through the reflection of their own. Other people's experiences and abilities are not yours. Those who will forgive you are the only ones valuable enough to keep you. The rest will only hurt you, and your efforts will be wasted. They don't love you for you, not even if they are your parents, they love what you can do for them. Those who forgive you are those who truly love your for who you are.
Stop trying to take everyone's pain away; you can't, your words and your support cannot penetrate the present, and if the present is hurting someone, then they won't need or want you to help them. Support them, comfort them, be there for them and take care of them, but you cannot, nor should not, change the way they feel. They will only learn from it if they deal with it themselves.
Be an embarrassment, to yourself and others. Voice your feelings, tell that person, let your actions speak, as well as your words. You will face the repercussions, but they are better than a life spent in falsehood or denial. Those you are trying to impress, or who are judging you, are not you, nor do they know you, and they will disappear from you life, and you will have lost both them and your chance at letting yourself be known.
Don't be afraid of heartbreak. It is one of life's constants, and the sooner you can learn to deal with it, the better your life will be. You will forgive those who do it to you, through you, or those who you break yourself against, and if you are forgiven in turn, then bonds are formed which cannot be broken.
Live.

The Deprived

The First World is in peril. No, the threat does not come from terrorism, for these are conflicts which have always been thus and shall continue for a thousand years more, until there is no more human blood to be spilled. No, not economically, for thus is the nature of free enterprise; it rises and falls like the tides and we are but subjects to it's own ebb and flow. The bombs will not fall, we love our children too much, and can have their that so too do our opponents. The world, Gaia, she may be sick, but we are not so powerful as to leave a lasting mark on her body, or her soul. She may weep, but she will recover and forget us more quickly than we came. The peril I am speaking of is not guns, or insurgents, or the wrath of Mother Nature. The danger, the threat, the greatest enemy we and our children will face is one far more insidious, one far more powerful and one far more alive and immediate than the speed at which a nuclear weapon can be launched. Our enemy, our one true nemesis, lies within. Gaia may weep, but it is our souls which are being destroyed. The worst aspect of it is, we don't have an iota of a clue how, or why.
As a person existing in the real world, which I seldom do, I find that there are certain social constructs to which I am poorly accustomed. Small talk is as alien to me as would be riding side-saddle on an asteroid to you. I go out, drink my coffee or tea at the pub or at a house party, or event, or what else have you, and see people smiling, laughing and chatting away in a manner that I have no concept of. I see casual, soon-to-be one off lovers whispering to each other and can't fathom what they're saying. I see friends jabbering enthusiastically on subjects I don't understand. I am a loner, and accept myself thus. I'm happy.
Having said that, the privacy settings of my mind are virtually nil. My struggles, trials, thoughts and feelings are open book. So, that being the case, should anyone take the time to come talk to me at one of the aforementioned gatherings, they soon find themselves entangled in deep conversation. What they ask, I answer. Plainly and candidly. A man will know if I like his blazer. A woman will know she is attractive. If the conversation should veer into the arena of the deeply personal, I do not withhold answers. It can be as simple as asking me where my drink is. I'll tell them I don't have one, I'll tell them why. If they ask why I'm sitting by myself, I'll tell them.
The effect is not what might be expected. Sometimes they quickly lose interest, and retreat back into their preferred field of sweet nothingness. But often, and often is relative, they quickly open themselves to me.
I've seen tears begin to flow. I've seen eyes downcast as people talk. I've heard the tone of their voices drop as self-shame and regret begin to seize them. I know of their addictions, battles both fought and in progress, I know of their relationship traumas, their parents, their breakdowns. I then, more often than not, see them quickly escape back into themselves, and make for the nearest wine cask. Sometimes they avoid my instinctual reach for them, to comfort them, or to provide them with further conversation that, inadvertently, may ease their suffering. Sadly, it more often that not isn't long before I see them passed out, doubled over in their own sorrow or simply further galvanizing the walls in which they guard themselves.
The frequency of this occurrence is alarming. So frequent, in fact, that I can now barely look at a happy face without feeling some element of empathy for what may simply be a facade, a mask shielding great pain. I see a generation of financially secure and physically blessed people, lost and desperate, reaching out to shadows and mirages which offer them no solace. I see a generation in darkness.
We find outlets; some box, some dance, some act, some sing, some write...but ever the core of the pain is sheltered. Hidden for fear that someone might see it. What should be simply social groups converging over a mutual love for some practice becomes an angry clique, seeking out and attacking those who practice the same hobbies differently to vindicate themselves. We seem incapable of forming a group to work for the better of ourselves, without becoming a gang of thugs out to degrade another group who share our passion, albeit in a different light.
What is this fevered nightmare that bids to tear the beautiful people apart? What is this fear of exposure, when are lives are so easily shared and our pleas are so easily heard? We have all become addicted to being known about, but we are traumatized at the thought of being known. We treat connection as though it were poison. Love as though it were a toxin, or a cure upon which we invest too much of our own happiness. We fear showing ourselves, because we hate ourselves.
But why?
Rightly our compassion has swelled over the past few decades. We care now for the world's wellbeing than we ever have, we care more for those less fortunate now, and we fight for our beliefs. But too often we wage war on peaceful ground. We love everything except ourselves. Depression is anger turned inward, happiness is love turned inward. When we love ourselves, we give permission to others to love us.
So I can only deduce that this lack of permission we give to anyone to know us, comes from some deep-seeded pain and revulsion at our own selves. Only now has a woman ever reacted angrily to hearing she is thought of as beautiful. Only now has a man been outraged at a genuine show of friendship. These have been commonplace amongst the emotionally deprived in the past, but now, like an epidemic, it has poisoned us all.
We take great sympathy on the Third World, rightly so. We send them our cheques and we pray for their future. But we are the poorer. They are only trapped by poverty, dictatorship or close-quarter combat. We are trapped by ourselves.
From that, there is no escape.