a long time ago, i posted pertaining to the death of gentlemen (although i don't believe that was the post i am thinking of, i can't really find it right now). nevertheless, it has occurred to me that, perhaps, there is little in the way of effort that one can do to change perceptions of others with regards to his principality. when i was much younger, a continual fuel of victorian novels and high culture embedded in me the imperative to act in ways that would not befit the norms of my country, culture, religion, and race; to open doors for others, to stand from one's chair when someone approached his table, to wish a simple and good day, were aberrant practice, and furthermore could be (mis)interpreted as haughtiness, conceit, and even egotism. of course, this lead to the instant demise of what gentleman i could have been, or at least wanted to be.
many years later, after having immersed myself in foreign culture (and i do not brag as if i know any more about these than the average person), and having become somewhat detached from said norms, i am happy to have grown into the type of practices that i used to want. or at least, i was happy to have come into such happenstance. it is with great misfortune and distaste that i would report that, even in the culture of birth of gentlemen, such acts are not warranted or even accepted readily. i have been the victim of disgustful gazes and hefty sighs all too often when enacting gentlemanly conduct to perfect strangers, and not without ill reason. i would easily and happily attribute it to ignorance, or perhaps disdain, or even apprehensiveness, but this would not be the case, as i have found the persons (particularly women) of such foreign land to want for appeasing conduct - except by far from me (or persons as myself).
i begin to wonder why this is so, and it has dawned upon me, not without little observation, and much enforcement, that the explanation is simple: the nature of a man and his submitting to gentlemanly predisposition is not of utmost import, unless the appeal of such a man is firmly established beforehand; to be perceived as such is not only a blessing, but a draw of luck, dependent upon the sole distinguisher in (what must have arisen many centuries ago) an age of perception and prejudices. succinctly put, without sufficient physical appeal, there can be no gentleman. there can be only the deadened gestures of a desolate (and desperate) man, vying for things beyond him. and for those who appease the eye, there need not be a gentleman's predisposition: even the though, or deign, or want for such action in said person is enough to entitle him that sought and bewildered title of a utopian gentleman. one such thing that a person as myself could never hope to attain, but will always endeavour to be closer to - for if one cannot be that which is the best in men, he can only aspire to be something shoddily made in such image, even though that will never be good enough for the perceiving party. however, is it not enough in the eyes of oneself to know that he has tried?
i would argue not, for the living of astute and handsome gentlemen is a great testament; one that is rarely observed today. on the other hand, the death of such dopplegangers and would-have-beens is commonplace - though unappreciated - and only with their demise can the culture of gentlemanly conduct survive (if not thrive).
i would pass the proverbial baton to all those who are pleasing to the eyes, except it is not mine to give: it never was in the first place, and i can only apologise for trying to have pried it from such worthy hands. regardless, there is only little place left for such musings, for in the death of unscholarly gentlemen, there rises the need, and want, and imperative for his sovereign ruler, his brother in arms of well-endowed looks. and him, i most graciously oblige.
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Friday, 20 March 2015
no final pardon
i once had thought that i was hold, to stand, to run upon my own,
but little did i know this fallacy was all but set in stone;
it did not take famine or death, or depraved thoughts of 'ternal strife,
to show me how i lacked in love, was you to walk into my life.
but sorry, i could not impart upon you what should be my all,
instead i fumble, foolishly, and trip then stumble then to fall;
what left after the fretful scorn, that leaves with you such wretched haste,
an unpalatable disdain that warrants hateful, bile'd distaste.
so 'pon this eve, i beg and plead, that nothing more come wedged and 'tween,
that i may ask of you one thing, that absolution from my sin;
and if you will not grant me thus, fear it is that takes my soul,
for nothing more is left of me, and never 'gain can i be whole.
perhaps redemption is too high, and ask of you upon this nigh,
but that you 'tain perfection still, no man, no demon can deny;
instead to this perfection is upon my humble'd beck'd decree,
for nothing more, and nothing less, your pardon is what sets me free.
to what i hope is 'ternal love, and if there's more, than i submit,
that even god cannot but laugh, for this mere hope, should you see fit;
to grant this soul one last sweet taste, a breath of air before i drown,
i crave your word, your sweetn'd smile more than of gold, of life, and crown.
to all who may read, to all who may hear, i cannot love beyond once more,
away.
away.
away with me.
that you should give, i would implore.
Thursday, 19 February 2015
the most uninteresting person
a very wise and intelligent person told me that people walk in and out of your life; that persistence, and indeed, love, is a chance of timing. what makes it stick is just like what i find interesting - in a novel, a movie, a piece of art, a song - who can really tell, even one's own? one day you may like kittens, and another day puppies; one day you may like melancholy, and another you may find white noise the most acceptable thing to accompany you, while other days yet, you may languish in eerie silence; one day you may lust for that sweet, bitter chocolate, where another you may find all wanting but for spice and hot of chilli and peppers. who can tell, for the interplay between subject, self and environment is something far too complex for your simple mind to predict, and for my simple tongue to express.
an expression i once came to distinct between wisdom and intelligence is:
clearly my wise and intelligent friend spoke in cryptic because she had never come to meet the wyverns and werebeasts of the relationship world - one never can when she is most beauteous and charming. for the few of us gifted and endowed to make steel and spell of unwanted visage or character, fight on!
an expression i once came to distinct between wisdom and intelligence is:
an intelligent wizard knows that facing a dragon is folly. a wise one never would.i learned this from dungeons and dragons.
clearly my wise and intelligent friend spoke in cryptic because she had never come to meet the wyverns and werebeasts of the relationship world - one never can when she is most beauteous and charming. for the few of us gifted and endowed to make steel and spell of unwanted visage or character, fight on!
Friday, 13 February 2015
that name i could not remember
this name i hear you mention, as if i’ve heard it before,
sworn to speak it in ill light, and thenceforth nevermore;
although i think now i recall with passing memories fond,
a sweetened smell, like oranges, with mildew wiped upon.
surfaced now through thickened thoughts like ether made of tar,
beyond my loathsome recesses or mayhap from afar;
i see it now, but then it’s gone, this visage of a face,
that haunting smile with playful grin, like hallowed death’s embrace.
say it now, but one more time, that i remember yet,
was it a child? was it a friend? someone that i had met?
upon a family dinner or in a vivid dream maybe?
or was it underneath the stars, over a cup of tea?
ah, yes, i see, i recall now, the times were not but one,
they spanned from moonlit, humid nights, to days under the sun;
that time we spent our lazy hours, skipping stones by the pool,
all the while just waiting on ourselves to be made fools;
while turning fronds and browning leaves that from the treetops hung,
where colourful, wild flowers hid and careless mushrooms sprung;
and in my hand - that name it sighs - a wreath of soft, blonde hair,
its silken gleam of angels’ tears for sight, my soul should bear.
then came the foretold drizzled drops, to cleanse our tired eyes,
lay giggling like mad children waiting for this earth’s demise;
and when my breath would catch upon a glaring, spiteful breeze,
i’d clench that lei of hopeful strands, and leave my heart at ease -
let chirping swallows, buzzing bees, to lead these eyes astray,
like leaves whisked on a gentle wind,
away,
away,
away…
remains yet but an image, poor, beyond my feeble mind,
a sorrowed tune, so sickly sweet, a memory i can’t find;
how would i to describe this feel, a sordid jamais vu,
that tells of past and future tales before they have come true.
a glaring blanche to pierce my eyes, that squinting sightless blind,
bedazzled states, and wild-run legs to lead a clueless mind;
as i recall, a daisy ‘pon a sun hat that she donned,
a jewelled glow for silken skin, that prances with light shone;
it seems so faint, but all too real, that brief ephemeral touch,
that meant nigh all to one, but to the other, nothing much?
yet paled the light in contrast to what grainy sea-swept floes,
that makes it hide and slinks with tide between less nimble toes;
oh, of the sea! i recall now! through which we ran at pace!
and when we stopped to catch our breaths, it reflected her face -
a perfect smile, and nonchalant, i hear her laugh so coy,
my heart fills with the same she had;
that mirth,
that gay,
that joy.
as if it were to prey upon the unwitting and slow,
the sun had set, the tides had gone, the grass had ceased to grow;
but in their stead, fall ochre leaves, and rustling winds like mad,
if change is all that we can hope, it must be good (and bad).
those sanguine leaves that creeped upon a bridge, a stump, a wall,
had she been sly? had she been quick? had she been short, or tall?
it must have seemed a little dense, how with the undergrowth,
what lies beneath her perfect smile, was just a bit of both;
’twas not too dinned, that starry eve, just like her person true,
but misconstructed shallow gifts, would make the day i rue:
for this, you see, is how her name, now tarnished, to forget,
i weeped a against the shallow tune of crickets at sunset;
how could it be that twilight came, sent shivers down my spine,
to recollect her name instead, when she’d forgotten mine;
i see it now, etched in the clouds that whisper through the night,
i’d lull upon her fingertips,
i wish,
i may,
i might.
but warmth evades this very thought,grows tenebrous and cold,
it haunts me even in my sleep, as sure as i grow old;
but seasons turn, as minds do fade, just as her thoughts of mine,
but who’s to say that in mine stead, is something less sublime?
for in that final hour or with its fast encroaching fare,
my hopes for one last stroke of luck, i beg of this you spare;
as holy as i clenched upon that golden lock of hair -
but how could i to cherish what was smeared beyond repair?
you see, what once was temperate to the touch, is now so icy cold,
as if her sun-touched mere embrace is now bereft of soul;
and with it borne a frigid stare, what piercing blue-green eyes,
such that all that had been our truth is now but paltry lies,
yet who could blame such detached glance, that skewed and sent away?
for all that would to speak my name had perished with the day.
but how would it be described now, this decrepit, white shame? was it a truth? a mere facade? a folly of a game?
if you permit, that it should have no bearing all the same - ’twas love, you see, that’s what she was; indeed, that was her name.
sworn to speak it in ill light, and thenceforth nevermore;
although i think now i recall with passing memories fond,
a sweetened smell, like oranges, with mildew wiped upon.
surfaced now through thickened thoughts like ether made of tar,
beyond my loathsome recesses or mayhap from afar;
i see it now, but then it’s gone, this visage of a face,
that haunting smile with playful grin, like hallowed death’s embrace.
say it now, but one more time, that i remember yet,
was it a child? was it a friend? someone that i had met?
upon a family dinner or in a vivid dream maybe?
or was it underneath the stars, over a cup of tea?
ah, yes, i see, i recall now, the times were not but one,
they spanned from moonlit, humid nights, to days under the sun;
that time we spent our lazy hours, skipping stones by the pool,
all the while just waiting on ourselves to be made fools;
while turning fronds and browning leaves that from the treetops hung,
where colourful, wild flowers hid and careless mushrooms sprung;
and in my hand - that name it sighs - a wreath of soft, blonde hair,
its silken gleam of angels’ tears for sight, my soul should bear.
then came the foretold drizzled drops, to cleanse our tired eyes,
lay giggling like mad children waiting for this earth’s demise;
and when my breath would catch upon a glaring, spiteful breeze,
i’d clench that lei of hopeful strands, and leave my heart at ease -
let chirping swallows, buzzing bees, to lead these eyes astray,
like leaves whisked on a gentle wind,
away,
away,
away…
remains yet but an image, poor, beyond my feeble mind,
a sorrowed tune, so sickly sweet, a memory i can’t find;
how would i to describe this feel, a sordid jamais vu,
that tells of past and future tales before they have come true.
a glaring blanche to pierce my eyes, that squinting sightless blind,
bedazzled states, and wild-run legs to lead a clueless mind;
as i recall, a daisy ‘pon a sun hat that she donned,
a jewelled glow for silken skin, that prances with light shone;
it seems so faint, but all too real, that brief ephemeral touch,
that meant nigh all to one, but to the other, nothing much?
yet paled the light in contrast to what grainy sea-swept floes,
that makes it hide and slinks with tide between less nimble toes;
oh, of the sea! i recall now! through which we ran at pace!
and when we stopped to catch our breaths, it reflected her face -
a perfect smile, and nonchalant, i hear her laugh so coy,
my heart fills with the same she had;
that mirth,
that gay,
that joy.
as if it were to prey upon the unwitting and slow,
the sun had set, the tides had gone, the grass had ceased to grow;
but in their stead, fall ochre leaves, and rustling winds like mad,
if change is all that we can hope, it must be good (and bad).
those sanguine leaves that creeped upon a bridge, a stump, a wall,
had she been sly? had she been quick? had she been short, or tall?
it must have seemed a little dense, how with the undergrowth,
what lies beneath her perfect smile, was just a bit of both;
’twas not too dinned, that starry eve, just like her person true,
but misconstructed shallow gifts, would make the day i rue:
for this, you see, is how her name, now tarnished, to forget,
i weeped a against the shallow tune of crickets at sunset;
how could it be that twilight came, sent shivers down my spine,
to recollect her name instead, when she’d forgotten mine;
i see it now, etched in the clouds that whisper through the night,
i’d lull upon her fingertips,
i wish,
i may,
i might.
but warmth evades this very thought,grows tenebrous and cold,
it haunts me even in my sleep, as sure as i grow old;
but seasons turn, as minds do fade, just as her thoughts of mine,
but who’s to say that in mine stead, is something less sublime?
for in that final hour or with its fast encroaching fare,
my hopes for one last stroke of luck, i beg of this you spare;
as holy as i clenched upon that golden lock of hair -
but how could i to cherish what was smeared beyond repair?
you see, what once was temperate to the touch, is now so icy cold,
as if her sun-touched mere embrace is now bereft of soul;
and with it borne a frigid stare, what piercing blue-green eyes,
such that all that had been our truth is now but paltry lies,
yet who could blame such detached glance, that skewed and sent away?
for all that would to speak my name had perished with the day.
but how would it be described now, this decrepit, white shame? was it a truth? a mere facade? a folly of a game?
if you permit, that it should have no bearing all the same - ’twas love, you see, that’s what she was; indeed, that was her name.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
where heaven is a state of mind
when i was younger, i never really understood why heaven was described the way it was, or why people would want to strive to be in it. judaism paints a picture of lush, green expanses, with flowing waters and streams of honey and ambrosia. those familiar with renaissance paintings will have a good idea of what the descriptions are like. similarly, the christians have a timely portrayal of clouds and angels, harps and cherubs, and your obligatory God the Father, alongside Jesus, shepherding the people into a life of ease and prosperity. The muslims, have a similar depiction, though, that of grand and expansive castles, made of gold and jewels, which coincidentally house not only the persons themselves, but also their families and friends (?), who also have palaces of their own, in which prayers are held and merriment is had. oh, and let's not forget to toss into all the abrahamic interpretations a handful of beautiful (virgin) maidens (though i want to assume for the female counterparts, there will be lustful and glistening men of bronze, ivory or whatever it is flavour that catches your eye); perhaps more riches like mountains of gold and foods that will make connoisseur seem lacking and tasteless. (this is my favourite ice cream. recognise).
of course, the more practical or etymological amongst us will be quick to argue that these depictions are catered for the times and people they are preached to - and this makes a lot of sense to me. but for religions that should transcend time and place, age and bearings, i find it hard to fathom that a heaven or any semblance thereof can be so limited to those descriptions.
i believe that, the essence of heaven is that of an idyllic or utopian place. people. things and ideas. a perfect everything. and this is something that boggles me the most - is this a unified utopia, for each and all, to be made such that everyone can lounge and languish in the perfection that is God's ultimate reward (and arguably, test, as well). or is it catered to the individual? can there be a heaven of gourmet foods and tasteful wines, of extreme relaxation and pampered devotion, which accommodates for the hedonistic amongst us; but at the same time a heaven of culture and knowledge and exploration for the inquisitive? can there be one of merriment and company and inclusiveness for the socially apt, just as there would be one of solitude and peace for the introverted? do these have to be mutually exclusive?
the expanse of considerations are limitless, but the gist is that 'how defined is heaven, at least for the human mind?', and furthermore, 'how well does the translation and representation of heaven become for humanity?'. i cannot think that, if God, in his all encompassing powers, is able to create an infinity of idealisms (or ideals), he is not capable of creating them all at once and in the same existence. surely there must be a(n unfathomed yet) heaven that accommodates and speaks to all. and if not, just how well can there be cross compatibility between the different visions (or hopes) of heaven?
i do not think that religions (and we have not even discussed the alternatives outside abrahamic ones!) have yet portrayed sufficiently what haven is (to be). and i hope that there is such a thing, only that it is ill defined in holy scriptures with purpose of being enticing to the reader, but not exclusive to those with... different (deviant?) wants.
perhaps, if i hope for a heaven where all is not idyllic, i can be granted such? maybe, au contraire, i can hope for something like an easymode videogame, or a leisurely but intriguing book, or perhaps a mind blowing movie. the cruces of which are that they are all amazing, but different. or perhaps, i should just hope that there will be pegacorns and ninja zombies alongside death rays and time travel. i definitely would like that (as opposed to attending mass or jumaah or sermons, which are apparently all part of the utopian heavens). or perhaps God will have made me love for those things where i do not as yet.
oh, that's right, i didn't consider that i'd probably never set foot in any such heaven in the first place, huh? time to go pray or something.
of course, the more practical or etymological amongst us will be quick to argue that these depictions are catered for the times and people they are preached to - and this makes a lot of sense to me. but for religions that should transcend time and place, age and bearings, i find it hard to fathom that a heaven or any semblance thereof can be so limited to those descriptions.
i believe that, the essence of heaven is that of an idyllic or utopian place. people. things and ideas. a perfect everything. and this is something that boggles me the most - is this a unified utopia, for each and all, to be made such that everyone can lounge and languish in the perfection that is God's ultimate reward (and arguably, test, as well). or is it catered to the individual? can there be a heaven of gourmet foods and tasteful wines, of extreme relaxation and pampered devotion, which accommodates for the hedonistic amongst us; but at the same time a heaven of culture and knowledge and exploration for the inquisitive? can there be one of merriment and company and inclusiveness for the socially apt, just as there would be one of solitude and peace for the introverted? do these have to be mutually exclusive?
the expanse of considerations are limitless, but the gist is that 'how defined is heaven, at least for the human mind?', and furthermore, 'how well does the translation and representation of heaven become for humanity?'. i cannot think that, if God, in his all encompassing powers, is able to create an infinity of idealisms (or ideals), he is not capable of creating them all at once and in the same existence. surely there must be a(n unfathomed yet) heaven that accommodates and speaks to all. and if not, just how well can there be cross compatibility between the different visions (or hopes) of heaven?
i do not think that religions (and we have not even discussed the alternatives outside abrahamic ones!) have yet portrayed sufficiently what haven is (to be). and i hope that there is such a thing, only that it is ill defined in holy scriptures with purpose of being enticing to the reader, but not exclusive to those with... different (deviant?) wants.
perhaps, if i hope for a heaven where all is not idyllic, i can be granted such? maybe, au contraire, i can hope for something like an easymode videogame, or a leisurely but intriguing book, or perhaps a mind blowing movie. the cruces of which are that they are all amazing, but different. or perhaps, i should just hope that there will be pegacorns and ninja zombies alongside death rays and time travel. i definitely would like that (as opposed to attending mass or jumaah or sermons, which are apparently all part of the utopian heavens). or perhaps God will have made me love for those things where i do not as yet.
oh, that's right, i didn't consider that i'd probably never set foot in any such heaven in the first place, huh? time to go pray or something.
Friday, 3 October 2014
things i’ve learned from microbiology (of life, loss and love)
retrospect imparts insight in the most interesting and unexpected ways. when i was younger, i had thought that individuals grow with a linear and expectant outlook - that with maturity, we would only learn from the current, and use it to predict, anticipate, and prepare for the future. of course, what is to be gained from the past is not so easily deciphered, and what we garner from our experiences is not so easily interpreted. in fact, it was only in my late teens that i came to realise that even a single experience can teach us many times, as we can easily find different interpretations, meanings, and importances, weighted differently as we age. however, this preface has little to do with my subject beyond that something i learned early on in an academic setting would prove to have an extended educational value in everyday life. it is, however, something i wish to say, nonetheless, because the revisiting of prior experiences has brought me to many new outlooks on life, and is something that implore upon the reader (if there is any one), though i would stop myself short of sounding preachy or derogatory; the rest is up to the reader.
in any case, i have learned a great deal from and about microbiology and infectious diseases. this particular lesson, i had forgotten since my introduction to basic pathology in my first year, and would only encounter it again in my final year of my masters course (and again during a recent conference, which is what prompted this post). i believe, though, that simple as the message is, it is an indispensable and generalisable truth whose importance cannot be further underrated and whose use should be made more practical. when you or i become infected with an infectious disease, we are quick to jump to the thought that “clearly there must be something causing the disease, and to get better, i should rid myself of it”. there is no flaw to this logic, and indeed, many, if not most, clinical treatments do centre around this mode of action. however, at least of academic value, are two other contributors to the development and progression of disease, which are the host itself, as well as the environment.
1. life
as we’ve established, the most obvious, and perhaps the most influential contributor to disease is the infective agent itself; one does not miraculously contract malaria without contracting the plasmodium parasite (note that plasmodium sp. is a protozoa, which may be unfamiliar to the reader, but this is besides the point, except for being an interesting observation), just as much as one does not come down with a fever without contracting a disease of any, non-specific sort (the more informed reader will now be quick to point out that not all infections cause pyrexia, just as not all pyrexiae are caused by infections. this is true, but again, not the point being made). the point that is that a foreign being is cause to the disease / symptoms, and the correlation between the two is a direct one. i’m sure i don’t need to point out to the reader more than she already knows that life is indeed a culmination of external factors causing influence upon herself - or more accurately, living life is the experiencing of these external factors. there is the argument that we are merely products of our experiences - a construct begotten from a series of domino-like events set in motion upon our birth into the world, and is little more than an automaton that is refractory or reflective. i do agree that this is part of the experiencing of life, but this cannot be the whole of it. quite recently, i have questioned my ‘success’ in life more than i usually do; i used to believe heavily in effort-reward, and that there is little more that determines our progress in life. but there must be something to be said about fate, or destiny, or qadha and qadar. though i cannot say that it is something so metaphysical that influences our outcomes in life, but perhaps there is merit in being humble enough to think that the vast majority of our successes aren’t ours to claim at all - my entry to a prestigious university or being awarded a competitive scholarship are perhaps a statement more about the stringencies (or lack thereof) from the awarding entities than they are about me. and perhaps the saving grace of such belief is that the antagonistic countenance of success also obeys the law. our failures are not purely our own, either.
2. loss
my grandfather passed away earlier this year. in the parallel i make, this is where i would say that the ‘environment’ plays a role in that, and is severely underestimated for doing so. in the infection analogy, putting an infective agent with a(n in)competent host does not cause disease progression in 100% of the cases. doctors, for example, who are in constant contact with patients with tuberculosis, do not all go on to have tb themselves. is it because the doctors are immunologically healthy, or that the mycobacterium is sufficiently weak to only infect a specific cohort (of the elderly, young, or already sick)? yes, to all and more of these. but often overlooked is that the environment may be conducive, or insufficiently so, for the doctors to contract the disease. was the aeration in the ward negatively pressured such that the infective agent could not find a suitable host? was air conditioning set too low for the establishment of an initial colony? were antibiotics used, reducing the chances of bacterial spreading disease (or too lavishly so, such that they developed a nasty immunity to common antibiotics, causing infection to be more severe)? the environmental potential is limitless, but because of that, perhaps, is why we overlook them, and do not try to treat from this angle even once considered.
but, regarding old grandpa, i do not know to what extent the environment can be blamed for his passing. i was not even here for the event, the funeral, or the subsequent mourning (which i, quite unfortunately, did not proceed to partake in during my absence for unknown reasons). would i to blame him for his death? perhaps not. were i to blame those who cared for him during the time leading up to it? definitely not, as i observed my own family take care of him better than i could hope to have myself taken care of in my twilight. but to blame circumstance, or conditions, or unassignable variables - perhaps the beauty or solace in such lies in the indispensable comfort of ambiguity. that knowing that the ‘environment’ was all-encompassing and ready enough to embrace fault (for it is a conglomerate of factors, enough to distribute the blame thinly as to not bear enough conscience upon a singular being), or that it is so diffuse as to become inanimate and impersonal. who knows? and i do not pretend to want to, definitely not beyond the ignorance that loss, and gain; beauty and bewitchingness; poignance and insanity; can all be explained in terms of self, and others. and that which cannot be reconciled? well, for that, there is the environment.
3. love
i am fond of the expression that ‘we all makes decisions, but as importantly, our decisions make us (who we are)’ (or something to that extent). to a large extent, we are not only products of how the environment has shaped us, how others have influenced us, but also how we have acted and reacted against everything external - and this is the counterweight, the balance, the yin and/or yang to the fatalist; and is not something for the lighthearted or the careless to succumb to. and perhaps, it is hardest to acknowledge that we are, though not masters of our fate, captains of our own vessels, generals of our own armies, and most importantly masterminds of our own demises. the same way that a large cohort of persons who come down with a disease are not because the disease is so virulent, but because they are more susceptible to disease (in general) than your average, healthy person; the immunocompromised, those with genetic predispositions, co-infected hosts, etc. and this is what i’ve learned of love:
sometimes, you could do all the right things, like wait for her in drenching rain,
and other times you’ll comfort her through times of unrelenting pain;
get her chocolates for her birthday, even when you’re out of cash,
let her scream (it’s not your fault) when she just needs a time to lash.
and when it comes time for romance, you’ll dance with her upon the beach,
at her wedding you might even stand, deliver a whole-hearted speech;
but most important isn’t the things you’ll do, i think you know of this by now,
it’s all the things you refrained from, especially when you don’t know how.
the apex of all you could give, perhaps is what she’ll never know,
that when it came for time to love, you reluctantly let her go.
so perhaps, as with all young men who think they know all there is to know about love, and just as well, think they could offer all that other men could not, it can be said that, yes, we are not only responsible for the things we do right, but also that which we do wrongly. though it is easy to blame another for our own shortcomings (and it is all too easy to justify that we’ve taken the righteous road, the best of decisions, the most amiable of assumptions), maybe what love taught me is that it’s not another’s fault if you cannot love they way you idealised (and, you are free to substitute the word ‘love’ for any other). it is not only expected upon you to own up to your mistakes, but more pertinently, to let the fault be your own, and move on, instead of trying to fix that which cannot be fixed, not only in the eyes of others, but inherently to yourself. such things are easier to say when one believes that there is an objective thing, such as love, waiting as an eventuality, but i cannot say that this is the lesson that i’ve come to appreciate thus far.
in any case, i have learned a great deal from and about microbiology and infectious diseases. this particular lesson, i had forgotten since my introduction to basic pathology in my first year, and would only encounter it again in my final year of my masters course (and again during a recent conference, which is what prompted this post). i believe, though, that simple as the message is, it is an indispensable and generalisable truth whose importance cannot be further underrated and whose use should be made more practical. when you or i become infected with an infectious disease, we are quick to jump to the thought that “clearly there must be something causing the disease, and to get better, i should rid myself of it”. there is no flaw to this logic, and indeed, many, if not most, clinical treatments do centre around this mode of action. however, at least of academic value, are two other contributors to the development and progression of disease, which are the host itself, as well as the environment.
1. life
as we’ve established, the most obvious, and perhaps the most influential contributor to disease is the infective agent itself; one does not miraculously contract malaria without contracting the plasmodium parasite (note that plasmodium sp. is a protozoa, which may be unfamiliar to the reader, but this is besides the point, except for being an interesting observation), just as much as one does not come down with a fever without contracting a disease of any, non-specific sort (the more informed reader will now be quick to point out that not all infections cause pyrexia, just as not all pyrexiae are caused by infections. this is true, but again, not the point being made). the point that is that a foreign being is cause to the disease / symptoms, and the correlation between the two is a direct one. i’m sure i don’t need to point out to the reader more than she already knows that life is indeed a culmination of external factors causing influence upon herself - or more accurately, living life is the experiencing of these external factors. there is the argument that we are merely products of our experiences - a construct begotten from a series of domino-like events set in motion upon our birth into the world, and is little more than an automaton that is refractory or reflective. i do agree that this is part of the experiencing of life, but this cannot be the whole of it. quite recently, i have questioned my ‘success’ in life more than i usually do; i used to believe heavily in effort-reward, and that there is little more that determines our progress in life. but there must be something to be said about fate, or destiny, or qadha and qadar. though i cannot say that it is something so metaphysical that influences our outcomes in life, but perhaps there is merit in being humble enough to think that the vast majority of our successes aren’t ours to claim at all - my entry to a prestigious university or being awarded a competitive scholarship are perhaps a statement more about the stringencies (or lack thereof) from the awarding entities than they are about me. and perhaps the saving grace of such belief is that the antagonistic countenance of success also obeys the law. our failures are not purely our own, either.
2. loss
my grandfather passed away earlier this year. in the parallel i make, this is where i would say that the ‘environment’ plays a role in that, and is severely underestimated for doing so. in the infection analogy, putting an infective agent with a(n in)competent host does not cause disease progression in 100% of the cases. doctors, for example, who are in constant contact with patients with tuberculosis, do not all go on to have tb themselves. is it because the doctors are immunologically healthy, or that the mycobacterium is sufficiently weak to only infect a specific cohort (of the elderly, young, or already sick)? yes, to all and more of these. but often overlooked is that the environment may be conducive, or insufficiently so, for the doctors to contract the disease. was the aeration in the ward negatively pressured such that the infective agent could not find a suitable host? was air conditioning set too low for the establishment of an initial colony? were antibiotics used, reducing the chances of bacterial spreading disease (or too lavishly so, such that they developed a nasty immunity to common antibiotics, causing infection to be more severe)? the environmental potential is limitless, but because of that, perhaps, is why we overlook them, and do not try to treat from this angle even once considered.
but, regarding old grandpa, i do not know to what extent the environment can be blamed for his passing. i was not even here for the event, the funeral, or the subsequent mourning (which i, quite unfortunately, did not proceed to partake in during my absence for unknown reasons). would i to blame him for his death? perhaps not. were i to blame those who cared for him during the time leading up to it? definitely not, as i observed my own family take care of him better than i could hope to have myself taken care of in my twilight. but to blame circumstance, or conditions, or unassignable variables - perhaps the beauty or solace in such lies in the indispensable comfort of ambiguity. that knowing that the ‘environment’ was all-encompassing and ready enough to embrace fault (for it is a conglomerate of factors, enough to distribute the blame thinly as to not bear enough conscience upon a singular being), or that it is so diffuse as to become inanimate and impersonal. who knows? and i do not pretend to want to, definitely not beyond the ignorance that loss, and gain; beauty and bewitchingness; poignance and insanity; can all be explained in terms of self, and others. and that which cannot be reconciled? well, for that, there is the environment.
3. love
i am fond of the expression that ‘we all makes decisions, but as importantly, our decisions make us (who we are)’ (or something to that extent). to a large extent, we are not only products of how the environment has shaped us, how others have influenced us, but also how we have acted and reacted against everything external - and this is the counterweight, the balance, the yin and/or yang to the fatalist; and is not something for the lighthearted or the careless to succumb to. and perhaps, it is hardest to acknowledge that we are, though not masters of our fate, captains of our own vessels, generals of our own armies, and most importantly masterminds of our own demises. the same way that a large cohort of persons who come down with a disease are not because the disease is so virulent, but because they are more susceptible to disease (in general) than your average, healthy person; the immunocompromised, those with genetic predispositions, co-infected hosts, etc. and this is what i’ve learned of love:
sometimes, you could do all the right things, like wait for her in drenching rain,
and other times you’ll comfort her through times of unrelenting pain;
get her chocolates for her birthday, even when you’re out of cash,
let her scream (it’s not your fault) when she just needs a time to lash.
and when it comes time for romance, you’ll dance with her upon the beach,
at her wedding you might even stand, deliver a whole-hearted speech;
but most important isn’t the things you’ll do, i think you know of this by now,
it’s all the things you refrained from, especially when you don’t know how.
the apex of all you could give, perhaps is what she’ll never know,
that when it came for time to love, you reluctantly let her go.
so perhaps, as with all young men who think they know all there is to know about love, and just as well, think they could offer all that other men could not, it can be said that, yes, we are not only responsible for the things we do right, but also that which we do wrongly. though it is easy to blame another for our own shortcomings (and it is all too easy to justify that we’ve taken the righteous road, the best of decisions, the most amiable of assumptions), maybe what love taught me is that it’s not another’s fault if you cannot love they way you idealised (and, you are free to substitute the word ‘love’ for any other). it is not only expected upon you to own up to your mistakes, but more pertinently, to let the fault be your own, and move on, instead of trying to fix that which cannot be fixed, not only in the eyes of others, but inherently to yourself. such things are easier to say when one believes that there is an objective thing, such as love, waiting as an eventuality, but i cannot say that this is the lesson that i’ve come to appreciate thus far.
Wednesday, 1 October 2014
thank you
i shalt not want for other things,
that were not destined for mine own;
like love and lost, of queens and kings,
and hope for sitting 'pon thine throne.
or perhaps to loft on spread wings,
with strength of sinew, blood and bone;
i could not want for other things,
how fair to reap what i've not sown?
that were not destined for mine own;
like love and lost, of queens and kings,
and hope for sitting 'pon thine throne.
or perhaps to loft on spread wings,
with strength of sinew, blood and bone;
i could not want for other things,
how fair to reap what i've not sown?
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