We sometimes forget just how much our pasts inform our present. I visualize our pasts to be like a petulant kid who has uninvitingly intruded into your home, parks himself (it’s a boy in my head) in an inconspicuous corner of your house and refuses to leave. You’ve tried various approaches to get him to leave but he refuses to. He largely sits quietly in that corner. Pretty soon you hardly notice him anymore. So you go about your days like he wasn’t there. But occasionally, he lets out a shriek to remind you that he’s still in your house and then you experience the entire turmoil of having an intruder in your home all over again. But eventually you become complacent and not notice him again and you get on with your life. Except, he’s still in your home.
I think moving on from your past involves you knowing what you’re moving on from. My past has been viewed through a variety of filters and lenses that has severely distorted what really happened, what it really meant and how I eventually interact with it in my present. I have been trying recently to inquisitively prod and investigate these things in my mind, to open doors I had conveniently closed and kept shut with a huge sticker upfront that says ‘Out of sight, out of thoughts’. It hurts to drag these facts and events out into the light again and to properly see them for what they are.
It’s been a painfully humbling experience over the last couple of weeks. It feels a lot like skinning your inner man slowly with a pocket knife. I’ve had to face things that make me feel worthless, emasculated and emotionally immolated. Things that I have dressed up in pretty dresses that are in actual fact horrendously ugly in form and I have had to stare that ugliness in its face.
I see God as the social services worker that is eventually going to come around and remove that ‘petulant’ boy from my home. But right now, I have to first get to a point where I can consistently convince myself that that he needs to be removed. That involves me dragging a chair in front of him, looking into his eyes and seeing him for what he really is.
Perhaps this is somewhat improper to say but there are not many Biblical characters that I truly resonate with. Some people may pitch the likes of Paul, Moses and David as their heroes but I never felt much of an affinity with them. Mostly because if the Bible was represented as an American high school, then these are your jocks. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying they are perfect. We all know all of these characters displayed flaws in the course of their life’s narrative. But they overcame whatever supposed dysfunctionality they had and transformed their narrative into something entirely different. Something more … jockey?
Being someone who has never pitched himself even remotely close to the popularity stakes, I find myself slithering into the dark side of the Word of God to find people within its pages that I feel, at least represents some of the same struggles I have. Jonah comes immediately to mind. The very fact that his book sits within the pages of God’s approved-canon suggests at least to me, that the God I love and serve has to have some kind of sense of humor, and more importantly is not above having a discourse about the weaknesses of men.
More recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about Saul. Yes, the King, initial human benefactor of David’s rise to political power, gradually, his sternest critic and eventually, his enemy. Reading Saul’s Biblical narrative, one can’t help but wonder if we’ve missed maybe a whole chapter where he flicked a finger to the heavens and boiled every firstborn of Israel at the time.
I can imagine myself stumbling into the same potholes Saul did. The same indecisiveness, scatterbrained-ness and insecurities he seemed to have, I seem to have in great abundance today. I suppose you could argue he was king and as such should be held to a higher accord of abilities and fortitude. But I can’t help but feel in most of the key encounters he had with the people around him and with God, he resembled more a boy trying to find his footing but finding at each step that he had no support, which results in him stumbling even more. I’ve been there myself, doubting myself when it felt like the people around me was not giving me the support.
As his narrative unfolded it just gradually became one of the most contemporary human ones in the Bible. He eventually devolves from king to schemer/murdering despot, driven insane by the insecurity that was consuming him. Again, I have seen myself abandon logic and serenity during times of duress and great insecurity. What he did (besides the murdering bit) was well within the realm of comprehension for someone who is suffering from great insecurity. But yet to have proper context is to examine the circumstances that led to his state of great insecurity. It’s hard to make sound decisions when every step you make seems to be a misstep in the eyes of the people around you.
There are many sad moments in Saul’s narrative but none more so than this encounter with the prophet Samuel in 1 Samuel 15:24–28: 24 Then Saul said to Samuel, “I have sinned. I violated the Lord’s command and your instructions. I was afraid of the men and so I gave in to them. 25 Now I beg you, forgive my sin and come back with me, so that I may worship the Lord.” 26 But Samuel said to him, “I will not go back with you. You have rejected the word of the Lord, and the Lord has rejected you as king over Israel!” 27 As Samuel turned to leave, Saul caught hold of the hem of his robe, and it tore. 28 Samuel said to him, “The Lord has torn the kingdom of Israel from you today and has given it to one of your neighbors—to one better than you.”
I sometimes wonder what God sees when he looks down on me. At other times I wonder if God plays favorites. If I have to be honest, the Bible is filled with characters and situations that polarizes me personally as a believer. Some I have resolved by applying scant internal logic, some I continue to struggle with. Saul is one such character that I wrestle a little with. I know God does not demand perfection but obedience and that was ultimately what he failed at but I’ve been in many situations where intent is rather different from the outcome. What then? Am I also put to the sword on that technicality? If so, then principally, given how dismissive I am of people who behave that way, what does that say of my relationship with God?
“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”
George Orwell, ‘1984’
I’ve been thinking about the future a lot more.
It feels strange to me, this business of thinking ahead. Mostly because I’ve never done a lot of it before but also because it’s an activity that stems from the idea that you trust in possibilities.
I suppose the reason why I have spent a lot of my existence merely trying to manage through the present is because I have always been a huge believer of the philosophy of shooting oneself before someone shoots you. That way you can ensure it only hurts as much as it needs to and you can keep a backdoor ajar for the possibility that you can go, ‘yup, I was right with you all the way on that one.’
But if there’s one thing I’ve come to learn is that to properly live, we are sometimes required to put ourselves in situations where we risk becoming great clowns. No living can ever be done without some risk.
So here I am casting my lots into the future, hoping for the best and expecting no dystopian boot to my face because I don’t deserve that shit anymore. And if it happens that I end next year wearing a size nine mug, I shall comfort myself with the notion that I at least tried to live a little.
We all have ‘relationship gut’. That unsightly bit that hangs out a little when we are giddily existing in a loving relationship. It often manifests itself through a series of habitual behaviors. Naturally, the intensity varies from person to person. Some people express it by being a little more confident than they usually in person, others express it through detonating a thousand heart emojis on your screen. But if we are honest with ourselves, all of us have relationship guts.
I confess that over the years, I’ve become more comfortable with the idea that I am someone that does better when I am in a relationship. I know the world informs me that I shouldn’t be like that. That the utopia is always to develop strength as an autonomous entity first because being emotionally dependent on another person is well, a little weak. I agree wholeheartedly to these points of course. Which is why I have never dived into a relationship purely as a survival mechanism. But on the occasion where I have found a relationship worth pursuing or in my current state, a compatible partner for life, I am not ashamed to admit that it has, in those moments, made me a better version of the person I am.
I don’t know why that is. I supposed the answer I like was that I was made this way. Some people hate the cold, some people love licorice, some people prefer chicken breast, I just prefer to be in a relationship rather than not. Sure, I am conscious enough to know that preferences are often informed by personal experiences. I do not know what is informing this preference of mine. I mean, I have some ideas and theories but none I like enough to express here. But I do like the stability that comes from being a part of a unit. It often feels like it forms the base by which I build most extensions of my existence from.
My ‘gut’ is that I am a calmer, more clearer-headed individual when I am in a relationship. I make better decisions and I seem more focused on what I aim to achieve in life. Okay perhaps that’s not an entirely accurate statement. I do also have a propensity to make above-average amount of references to my partner in most conversations as well. That’s the proper love handle there.
Some people find purposes in a variety of things, their career, politics, a cause, etc. Perhaps I am someone who finds purpose in being a partner to someone. As much as the world and probably most of my community has a condescending view on this, and in many ways if I had a choice, I wish I was not naturally like this, perhaps it is time I accept the reality that maybe this is in fact, who I am.
There are probably worst things in the world to aspire to.
I think for those of us standing around and observing the demise of a relationship, we often treat it like a linear narrative of an anti-romantic comedy. You have the protagonists, their respective friends, the detractors of their union, the third parties and every unimportant character they encounter on the way to the end credits. Everybody has a role to play, nobody deviates from their function and the narrative plays out as predictably and as cleanly as a children’s alphabet block game. If we were to envisage an adequate analogy for the ‘break’, it would be likened to taking a very sharp knife and slicing through a cucumber (pardon the phallic pun). Sure, there are some residual moisture but the cut is often clean. Black and white, so to speak.
But really, the end of a relationship is more akin to trying to tear a large piece of really dry and stale bread into two. There’s a separation, but its lines are never that refined and clear. There are residual crumbs spilling all over the place, some at his end and some at hers. And the two pieces that are separated, in some ways, will no longer ever be as pristine as before. There’s obviously been a break, it obviously hurt and there’s clearly been pain all around.
We can sometimes be perplexed when looking back in hindsight, how it’s possible that during the tumultuous weeks of a breakup, that you find a conversational exchange between both parties on menial things like what gift to buy for a mutual friend’s birthday or a seemingly innocuous comment on a social platform. That’s because the narrative of a breakup is never linear, and if faithfully translated to film, would make for an extremely tedious, confusing and frustrating watch. The residual crumbs of the break requires time and effort to be properly swept away cleanly.
We sometimes forget the amount of force that’s required to bring two people together. The years of having your character and physical appearance molded by happiness, tragedy, social connections and experiencing life, so that you can be attractive to the other party. The serendipitous circumstance that may have brought your paths to intersect, at times with the pathways shaped and altered years in the making, so that you can end up at that party of your friend who also happens to know her. Fate? I call it force.
When so much force is required for two people to find and choose each other, it seems almost foolhardy to think that by nature’s law, it would be simple to separate them, or that it would be possible to separate them cleanly into autonomous entities again.
As someone who has never been to the UK, I have subscribed to certain clichés about how the place would be. Now I am aware that these are blatantly untrue for some parts, but like the irresistible urge to pick up the last piece of roast pork and stuff it into your mouth, there are things one can’t logically reason with your mind. Or at least I can’t with mine. It’s stuck in its rebellious teenage phase for some time now. It locks itself in its room, turns up the volume on a Morbid Angel record and pretends like I have little control over it. It’s been doing this for so long that I have all but given up and surrendered to its intended notion that I indeed have little or absolutely no dominion over it.
So what are these clichés? Proper polite people speaking in rounded sentences, existing amidst a landscape of cloudy and cold weather, cobblestone streets, charming Victorian-era buildings and lush and pretty countrysides. The food would always have a side of gravy, the cars would travel at pedestrian pace and you need not be alarmed if you have to stop at a junction to allow way for a horse carriage. Yes, my mind occasionally knows how to have its cheese. Granted London, sometimes regarded as an unforgiving city, has done a decent job in smashing these islands in my mind’s sky to bits in well-coordinated attacks during my four day stay there. The Estonian with a heavy Baltic accent serving us our pint of ale at a British tavern was the final swing of the hammer.
But our adventure on the fifth day, which started with a train ride from King’s Cross up north, did much to restore my delusions, despite the day ending with us enjoying a spicy cup of Korean noodles. York is a city that has no qualms with encouraging the most typical of stereotypes concerning a city in the Queen’s land. If I had landed in York before London, I would be slightly crippled at just how true the definite-delusions I had were. The streets of York are paved with cobblestone, often between rows of Victoria-style buildings housing old-school candy houses, bookshops and the occasional tavern. There are cathedral-like structures at the end of most streets, housing anything from churches to restaurants. The town is not designed in neat grids, with little lanes sprawling into little nooks and crannies that you wouldn’t resist exploring, giving the impression the town was constructed a structure at a time, not by a well organised town council. There is even a medieval wall flanking almost the entire city, which you can walk on and imagine what it would’ve been like in days or lore, to patrol and guard the city vigilantly. If not for the sight of Primark breaking my reverie on one of my lookouts, I might have been inclined to lob the largest rock I could get my hands on outwards to starve off an invasion. Thankfully, no man nor his dog was hurt.
It was a city that encouraged me to be silly in my indulgence of British stereotypes. One that you would not find too difficult to imagine being stalked by the ghostly figure of a serial killer named Jack or an actual specter in a top hat. Yes, that kind of specter. You can even attach a Lincoln-like beard to that specter if you please. In fact, I can confirm that one of the reasons my wife wanted a stop at York, was because she read that it was one of the most haunted cities in Europe. My wife appeared thrilled with the thought, repeating it a couple of times in the months leading up to the trip. I suspect she felt the pictures she was looking at of York, made it feel like she was obligated to bump into a specter in a top hat or a serial killer vying for her entrails. No visits of a macabre nature unfortunately for her, but we did get a jolt when trying to check into our accommodation, the White Horse Inn. We were told by the polite policeman at the door that the premise was closed at the moment because it was a crime scene. Yes, a crime scene. I would imagine my wife would’ve been tempted to ask if it was committed by a bearded man in a top hat that was glowing green. We didn’t, which probably served her fantasies and notions better. To be told that it was just a reveler in a footie shirt clocking another over the head with a bottle of Guinness would’ve been underwhelming to say the least.
It’s hard to pin down just what was the nature of our day in York, but it would be hard to look pass our meal at The Hairy Fig as probably its main event. A part of the cheesy clichés playing in my head of course includes the kind of food I would be expecting to eat in Britain. I imagined warm tomato soup served in pretty dinnerware, preceded by puffy scones with a side of clotted cream and preservatives and a main of no-frills pork pie served with a side of mushy peas. And of course, tea. And that was exactly the meal we had at The Hairy Fig. I could’ve snapped a picture our meal, print it on a postcards titled ‘British Food’ and sold them to naive Asian tourists. The café itself was insanely charming. Just a small dining room with about four tables hidden behind a storefront that sold exotic oils, vinegars and spirits. It was the stuff of children’s novels. The floor panels creaked with each step, the doors framed with aged wood and the tables and chairs lacked uniformity, like a scattered set of random heirloom furniture that were put together in a single space.
The meal was exactly what we needed at that moment, after the cosmopolitan meals of the last couple of days, it was nice to tuck into something that felt home-cooked. In fact, it was probably not that far from the truth. The pork pie was brought out of a refrigerator, padded up and sent into a home-sized toaster oven while the mushy peas were cooked and softened in a small hand-held pot that looks like something we had at home as well. No juggernaut-sized confectionery ovens or military-drilled line of sous-chefs. Just a small café run by three ladies who have no desire to see this business turn into an empire. The ladies running the place were so warm and friendly that for a moment, I forgot that I was dining in a café. It felt like we were invited into someone’s home for a meal with their family. The pork pie was especially a pleasing thing. I’ve always read about British meat pies and have been intrigued by them and this one at the Hairy Fig did not disappoint. It was basically just sparsely seasoned minced pork in flaky pastry. No jazzy ingredients. And this would be my cliché-laden mind working again, it tasted like food for the working class. And after all we’ve consumed up till that point, eating something so simple but delicious, was just glorious.
Our day in York was a befitting recess between the manic senses-overload of London to what would be a gorgeous sojourn into the solitude of Scotland. It was a rag-tag, patchy day punctuated by oddball activities such as a shopping spree at Primark to a personal prelude to a ‘happy’ evening for me thanks to some lovely testers of ale at the Ye Old Shambles Tavern. No, it was not lit by candles and managed by a hunched inn-keeper.
By the time we retreated back to our accommodation, the police were gone, the bar downstairs was opened again for sloshing and the inn-keeper (she called herself a manager but I’ll call her whatever I want here) claims she has no idea what the crime was all about (strokes chin). We opened and checked all the closets and storage spaces anyway just in case. Reflecting it did not feel we did anything of significant meaning but yet it felt like the end of a good day. Looking back, I would still not trade my day in York for any of our other stops. In fact, it’s one of the places in this trip that I would want to return to and experience properly.
Maybe spend a little less time in Primark next time.
‘Your seats are down that way’, the steward gestured us down the steps towards the Wembley pitch. I was expecting for me and her to climb steps upwards, only finding our seats when our noses bleed and lungs rupture. I’m not sure why that would be my posture. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism against disappointment. Then again, looking around the stadium, seeing half of it bathed in Chelsea blue, it would be hard for this fan to be disappointed today, even if I had to lose a lung as a result. But as it stood, we were sitting about 10 rows from pitch side, the manager dugout about diagonally 30 feet away, surrounded by Blues supporters and it feels absolutely surreal. Those lonely nights in front of the telly at mostly-witching hours, urging the team on with a cup of coffee in one hand while clenching the edges of the couch with the other has led me to this. Finally, fiction has become fact.
The day had already been pretty fabulous up till that moment. We had woken up early for a leisurely coffee stop, decked in our matching Chelsea kits, We chatted briefly with a stately-looking Chelsea fan at the coffee place who told us that his daughter named her hamster ‘Vialli’, after Gianluca Vialli, the once-Chelsea forward/manager. We then headed over to the Music and Video Exchange at Notting Hill Gate for a bout of vinyl-digging where I managed to find a Shadows compilation my dad used to have and a double LP Carpenters compilation for me to properly drown my sorrows in (should I ever need it). She managed to find a couple of classical ones for 10p each. We then headed across the main road to The Mall Tavern for their Sunday Roast. Actually, it was more like lunch had us. I had told her before the trip that one of the boxes I wanted to tick was to have food I’ve come to dub ‘medieval food’. In my mind, it was pornographic amounts of meat with vegetables and potatoes and downed with a nice bitter pale ale. The kind of food I would eat before a day of war-mongering (I am under no illusion that I am being insensitively general and thick here). What I got was more than I bargained for. Crackling-skinned pork slow-roasted to tenderness accompanied by sweet root vegetables, soft potatoes and a threatening-sized Yorkshire pudding. For a moment I thought my meal was going to come alive and devour me. Thankfully, I devoured it first.
The journey to the stadium was an experience in itself and I was determined to take it all in. We took the train from Queensway, following the Central line. With each stop, sporadic pockets of Chelsea and Southampton fans boarded, with the train gradually morphing from a hodgepodge of random colours into a forming sea of blue and red. As the train filled, I grew more self-conscious about wearing my jersey. We had this season’s matching away kits on. I thought about how we looked. Two Asian tourists, with new-ish kits on looking like this date with Wembley would be a one-and-only. I felt judged. I clearly did not look like I was reared in the bowels of Putney or Parsons Green. But I wished so much I was at that moment, only because it would embellish me with much needed credibility to wear this kit. I look to the left and see a young father and his son in a black Chelsea polo-tee and Hazard-10 blue kit respectively, enjoying their train ride to the stadium. The son was waxing lyrical about the rumoured return of Ramires and how he thought Cabellero is a better keeper than Courtois (the boy obviously has no idea what he’s talking about). It was a nice picture of what Sunday football is or could be.
Once we found our seats, it took us a while to settle into the occasion, to take everything around me in. When I eventually did, I noticed the Chelsea players warming up just a stone’s throw from where we were. Pedro was kicking a ball into a second goal behind the actual one, Gary Cahill was leading the starting lads on a jog-about in the foreground. She notices her favourite player Willian. Actually she probably noticed his hair before him. In many ways, watching these players in the flesh is more gob-smacking to me than catching an Arcade Fire concert. I’ve spent probably more meaningful time watching them in the last two years than I have listening to Win Butler and co. But these are not rock stars bathed in spotlight, designed to look more superior than the average human being. The one thing that immediately struck me was just how human they looked and moved. Stripped of dramatization from eager commentators, they just look like a bunch of athletic individuals preparing for a bout of sport. I found it doubly intriguing just how normal and approachable they looked.
It was strange to take in a top football match without accompanying commentary. I have been so used to watching all matches with the velvet-voiced Peter Drury guiding my eyes and thoughts that at first, I found it a little bewildering on what I should be focusing on. My eyes darted around furiously during the opening exchanges, going from the dugout where Chelsea manager Antonio Conte was typically doing his best impression of a corporate executive with a rat running about in his pants to the fans all around me back to the pitch where I just about caught Willian doing a typical mazzy run by accelerating himself past a couple of Southampton players. Quarter of the match in, it felt like my eyes had just participated in the London Marathon (incidentally, also happening that day).
There was also the ‘Stand Up If You Hate Tottenham’ song to keep things ridiculous throughout. Thankfully, my detention time in the closet of bewilderment was chopped short thanks to a bunch of hilarious Chelsea fans just behind us. No commentary, no problem, they came up with their own. No Drury like vocal warmness or even the monosyllabic droll of Beglin. What we got instead was snappy British humor without the watching eye of censors and powered by a pine or two. They went after Cahill first (‘Calm down Gaaraay’), were suitably incensed when Bakayoko was asked to warm up (‘Sit back down Bakayoko’), segwayed to how well they would do if they entered the London Marathon (‘I would just cab it to the end’) and even delivered some absolutely gob-smacking industry-changing ideas (‘personally, I think if you are earning 100,000 quid, you should not be offside, ever’). I was so entertained by their commentary that I was a little lost again when they came back late from half-time drinks. It was 0-0 at half-time, 2-0 at the end, thanks to Giroud and Morata. It had been a glorious afternoon, mainly because I was glad that I did not spend the monetary equivalent of my right butt cheek to watch my team crash out of the FA Cup semis
It was a fittingly rapturous end to our London sojourn, and a nice shift of pace from the museum-filled day on Saturday, a day which began with a lovely brunch with Audrey and Guy, followed by a whole day of filling our minds with a bit of culture. There may or may not have been some delectable cod goujons and ale in between (there was).
The British Museum offered little intrigue for me. My travels have shown me that I have rather low affinity for historical museums. Then again, I should know this, especially when my Form Five history teacher chose to pinch me in the stomach when I asked her for my History forecast results. With each turn of her fingers, she was exorcising two years worth of nonchalance I have given her in the class. I suppose it was a big moment for her. For me, I guess it worked out well that I never headed to college immediately after secondary school otherwise I would have some difficulty explaining why I was able to obtain forecast results for all subjects except history, ‘I got a pinch instead’; ‘What’? ‘Yup’. I can see how something like the Rosetta Stone would’ve been a fantastic fast forward button in deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphs at the time when it was discovered, but that’s the thing, everything I am looking at in a historical museum is something that would’ve had its time in the sun a long time ago. In the now, framed against our current landscape, the Rosetta Stone looks well, like a large rock with inscriptions on it. I would’ve been just as excited to read about its relevance in a book. Looking at it offered little additional value for me. The sight of middle age tourists senselessly snapping photos of it with their flashes on, with phones on mounted monopods, just made it more of a turn off for me.
On the flipside I had a thoroughly enlightening time at the Picasso 1932 – Love, Fame, Tragedy exhibition at the Tate Modern. I normally would’ve been less than elated with an exhibition of this sort but the additional £4.50 we shelled out for the Audio Guides turned out to be a wonderful ROI for me. I am attracted to narratives, I need to see art within the context of its conception and not just as a piece on its own. I do not enjoy drawing my own subtexts from it. Perhaps I am lazy. I like it served to me, guiding me like a homing missile towards the intended target. The audio guides in the Picasso exhibition offered this to me in abundance. The narratives were forward and clear. The pieces I was looking at were created during the time when his first marriage was falling apart and he was obsessed with his new object of lust, Marie-Thérèse Walter. It offered a glimpse into the mind of a philandering genius who was struggling to cope with the expectations from the public and the forbidden lust he was feeling in his soul. It was a fascinating sojourn that unwrapped the crucial year of 1932 and what Picasso was feeling and being inspired by at that moment.
I spent a lot of the time I was in the exhibition thinking about motivations and inspirations and how they drive our expressions. Picasso had a wonderful medium to express himself, and the talent to do it. He captivated many with his creations, borne a lot out of his own desires, feelings and frustrations. I was wondering about the people who are not privy to such an outlet. What then happens to these feelings? Do they get filed into a deep cabinet in their mind and heart, left to fester like an infected wound over time. And what does that ultimately lead to? Well, dinner in my case. The one thing I’ve learned from age is that when storms hit your mind and you find yourself being bewildered by challenging existential questions, just feel yourself a lot of fried rice and go to sleep. I’ve found in most cases, it’s a new day when you wake.
Nothing resets the mind better than carbohydrates.