imagination and adventure.

When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not - Mark Twain

The imagination of the young is beyond comprehension.  But what happens to this imagination, those endless worlds and possibilities as we transition into first adolescence and later adulthood?  I like to believe I am something of a dreamer, a philosopher amongst my peers, but I never gave a thought to my lost imagination.  I don't know if I even realized it was lost.  Once upon a childhood I was able to imagine worlds and stories, to create a lifetime's worth of inspiration and pluck it from the air around me to become a part of my world.  Where did all that hope, all those ideas go? I didn't realize it was gone.

The fact is my imagination came back to me in a dream, boring and generic though that is. In place of my usual dreams, a compilation of fragments from my everyday life, I dreamt of exploration.  I found a place at the end of the world.  A place of oceans, rain, peace and friendship. 

This dream was so vivid, the colours, the rain, even the actions of my imagined self that I hope it always stays with me.  But the intensity of this fictitious world has restarted my imagination.  Reinvigorated my daydreams.  Made me wonder about the world and what adventures there are waiting in my future. 

All guilt about my carbon footprint aside, I have plans to travel extensively in my lifetime.  Before the dream it was something I wanted to do, but in a half forgotten manner.  This dream has given me understanding of what travel is to me.  It is to explore and imagine different ways of life within the confines of reality.  It is my adult imagination.  It is adventure, danger, longing, beauty and discovery. 

The imagination of my youth, which I mourn without the ability to ever return fully to its boundless opportunity, must now evolve to become the imagination of my adulthood; grounded in reality, in opportunities, missed chances, loss, and the future.  The imagination of my adulthood is the imagination of the world.

to resolve or to not resolve? apparently, this is the question.

It's December, and so we come to that time of the year.  Not only the time for Christmas and excessive, present buying, eating, drinking and general having of fun, but also the time for reminiscing about everything that's happened or not happened in the past year. And (even more terrifying than critically appraising the past year and what one has failed to achieve or just been too lazy to get around to) it is time for the new years resolution,

Every single year I cheat at my new years resolution.  I resolve to be happy and to make the coming year better than its predecessor.  Laziness beyond redemption, I know.  So, last year I made a change. A tiny, tiny change.  And it has made the world of difference.  I resolved that I would catch the bus to uni everyday, instead of driving.  I pinpointed my ecological and environmental guilt about driving my car everywhere I go and realized I had the power to make a positive change.

So, a new years resolution for 2011 is what I am now seeking, and this year I'm having a hard time of it.  I have no desire to go back to my lazy 'be happy and make it a good one' days and resolving to work harder at my studies seems pointless as I always aim to work hard.  In the end, I think this year it's going to be about buying local produce and supporting my local community. Going for localisation instead of globalization.  Which is probably a bit stupid, but its something I think I can and should do. It also has the added advantage of following neatly on from last year's resolution.

So, here's to resolving, in one form or another.  To set challenges, in whatever form.  And (more importantly) to not telling a single living soul your resolution, so no-one knows if you give up after a week.

the violence of naming.

Words have power.  For me, the source of their power is in their ability to name.  In naming something we give it recognition, boundaries and are able to personalise it. We use words in order to do this.  Language is our primary means of communication and words form the basis of this.

So far, this is all bloody obvious and you're probably wondering if I'm some imbecile who has only just noticed the power of language.  But the point of this musing of mine is actually to wonder if in naming something, we do violence to it.  This thought has been peculating away in my brain for some time.  Through studying English at uni I have come to understand the challenges of definition and how meanings can change over time.  In this class we also discussed how naming can be used to inhibit and belittle, in our study of Katherine Susannah Pritchard's novel, Coonardoo.  But this was just an idea, until it was stirred up after reading two different articles.  The first was an article by a young woman who was writing about coming out to her friends and family.  She was questioning the need to 'come out' at all.  The second was an article by someone who was writing about the 'anti-ginger' sentiment that seems so rampant at the moment.  She likened derogatory names for people with red hair to a form of violence and racism; to me, this made perfect sense.  And so I started to think on how I and the people around me name things.

The spoken word portrays your thoughts and being to the world at large in a much more powerful medium than your physical being and actions ever can.  The written word is lasting, and has the power to inform and inspire over a protracted period of time.  Words have a direct effect on what they are applied to.  Call someone a moron (however accurately) and you have just defined them at such, both to yourself and to themselves and anyone who heard you now believes that you think that person is a moron.  Said in jest or in earnest, it is lasting.

And so, I come to the violence of naming.  Words are descriptive, useful, communicative, beautiful and informative. But, through naming we can diminish the meaning of something.  An African-American is more then colour and history.  This goes beyond calling someone 'black' or 'white'.  In giving something or someone a name we unconsciously associate them with all the stereotypes and ideas we personally associate with that definition or word.  If we, as a society, insist that someone 'comes out' with regards to their sexuality we are forcing them to give themselves a label, one that straight people are rarely asked to provide.  We are asking them to put a label on themselves that can then be used by others to their own advantage. Why is this label even important?  I didn't have to come out as straight to my family and friends.

With regards to those of the red head persuasion, words are currently used in a demeaning, violent manner.  They are used to make the individual believe that having red hair makes them a lesser person, someone separate from the rest of society.  This is totally bloody stupid.  I personally refuse to be defined by my personal characteristics, and I don't see why anyone else should have to be.  In the article I read the author likened current attitudes to racism and I agree with her viewpoint.  Calling someone a 'ranga' or 'ginga' is naming them in a popularly violent manner. Just don't do it.  How would you like it if someone called you according to your personal appearance - 'hey big ears' - etc? Let's face it, you wouldn't.

So.  The violence of naming.  After my brief musing I believe it comes down to being critical of language and careful in the words you use.  It comes down to the age old adage of do unto others as you would have done to you.

thankful perfection

Is your life perfect?  Within this, what is perfection?  I'm not interested in a dictionary definition; perfection is subjective and dependent on interpretation by the individual.  As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, can we ever really give two hoots about the interpretation of perfection by the other?  Why am I even interested in this abstract and over rated notion?  The answer goes something like this...

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch on the balcony of my share-house, glass of wine in one hand and book in the other, sunshine beating down on me, when I was hit by the revelation that my life is pretty much perfect.  

Sounding arrogant?  That's because it is.  But it's also more then this and, quite frankly, my arrogance is not the point: the point of my electronic-based musings is about being thankful.  About appreciating that which we are given.  Loving it and embracing it.

It a world where the shit is continuously hitting the proverbial fan, everywhere and everyday, every moment even, I am bloody lucky.  And I have a message for you, reader.  It's not original, it's not life changing, it's not even particularly profound. But for me, in having finally learned to love my life, it is instrumental.

Do not strive for perfection, learn to love your current being.

No-one is perfect; one persons idea of perfection is another's laughing stock.  In striving to reach perfection, in my opinion, you have to learn to love the self and the surrounds.  

And if you can't, then make a change.  Get out there and find that which inspires you to strive and love and accept.  Learn, laugh and dance.

The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, find laugh, laughter and contentment wherever you can.  Be grateful for the moment and take inspiration from that instant.