Angelus Novus, Klee
We’ve been living through metaphorical dark moon years, with debris stirred up from deep, and yet, when brave souls explore the confusion in such times, sharp beams break through cracks in the mud.
Wars fought over territories and resources have become wars over ideologies and identity. The internet intensifies clashing ideas, and where free speech is allowed, arguments find air. Whose side to take, where to place oneself – left, right, center, past, present, future? Peace- loving citizens are challenged. Does one go numb, angry, self-righteous, or suffer confusion? Are they defensive reactions to the cacophony of voices struggling for attention? Some shout, some play clever games, some share information, true or false, and others offer sharp insights, be it through anguish, sincerity, passion or irony.
Marina Hyde from the Guardian does the latter, with anguish, sincerity, passion and, most of all, irony. Conflict inspires the search for her truth. Like a martial artist, she uses words that dance without hesitation, in swift, spirited and glittering moves. The new moon a few days ago brought a dazzling peace of her journalism, a laser glance at recent politics. Marina’s dark irony brightened my confused and deflated mood – because she speaks to the truth.
Marina Hyde – her bit on Dominic Cummings
… using words my mother would never have …
cathartic therapy, Sufi style
It’s of course useless, and mostly counterproductive, to blame or dispense anger about ideologies on particular people or nations.
Far better to release the rage by smashing up old cars, as my former Sufi teacher, Fazal Inayat-Khan, encouraged us to do. But who has such novel opportunity? For now, we’re in this storm blowing from paradise together.
Nationalism is the pathology of modern developmental history as inevitable as neurosis in the individual. – Tom Nairn, The Break-Up of Britain
Relevant, my post on nationalism from April 2012 … here is everywhere …
Embodying the perfect autumn warmth, a divine stillness, devoid of mental chatter, other than a faint hum of the river of cars flowing along the town’s bypass, and the gentlest sound of a disintegrating wood chime in my cherry tree, whatever else happens in the world is another dream.
Course of Mirrors 