OK, so I'm a Mormon, lets get that out there. I recently read an article on the 2012 American Presidential race which stated that two Mormons are running for the Republican party candidacy, Mitt Romney and John Huntsman. I did know about Romney's Mormon background from the 2008 Presidential race, Huntsman I was unaware of. I was also unaware that Harry Reid, a Democratic Senator (Senate Majority Leader no less), is a Mormon.
While I am not active in the Church at the moment, it interests me greatly when the Church is discussed, especially by non-members in a public arena. I don't think there is a subject on earth that is more discussed than religion, apart from maybe politics, so when the two combine my juices really get going.
Can a Mormon be President of the United States? or more accurately, would the American populus vote-in a Mormon candidate to the most prestigious position of their proud culture? The answer is yet to be seen. As a Mormon missionary I witnessed first hand the ignorance that many people have towards our beliefs. When I say ignorance I don't always mean a purposeful ignorance, simply a lack of understanding about our beliefs and I know that this lack of understanding is far reaching. I also know that some people simply do not agree with Mormon beliefs, which is fair enough. My question is then, will these people vote for a Mormon President, or does it even matter to these people that these candidates are Mormon?
Here is a quote from an Associate Director of the Pew Research centre written for the New York Times:
"Overall, being a Mormon is hardly an asset for presidential candidates, but it is not a deal-breaker for most Americans. A quarter of Americans say they would be less likely to support a presidential candidate who is Mormon, while 68% say it would not make a difference. For perspective, about the same number say they would be less likely to vote for a candidate who has used marijuana in the past.
But an important group within the Republican base, white evangelical Protestants, is more uncomfortable with the idea of a Mormon candidate than are other Republicans. Among all Republicans and Republican-leaning independents, 31% of white evangelicals say they would be less likely to vote for a Mormon; that compares with 15% of other Republicans. This gap is as large as it was four years ago."
Another question then springs to mind, Is it better for Mitt Romney, et al to distance themselves from their religious beliefs in order to win votes?
Mitt Romney said in 2007:
"Almost 50 years ago another candidate from Massachusetts explained that he was an American running for President, not a Catholic running for President. Like him, I am an American running for President. I do not define my candidacy by my religion. A person should not be elected because of his faith nor should he be rejected because of his faith."
Is Mr Romney trying to distance himself from his religious beliefs or is he simply saying that it shouldn't matter about his religion. I tend to believe the latter, although seperately I would maybe warn him not to compare himself to very popular Presidents like JFK too much.
While America claims to be a religion tolerant nation, I believe that it is not yet ready to elect a Mormon president. While I don't know exactly how much religion factors in the minds of American voters, I think it is certainly a point that most would consider before voting. Mormonism is not widely enough understood despite its almost 6 million American members and approximately 7 million non-US members worldwide. I believe that there is still a mystery that surrounds the Church and combined with the widespread misunderstandings of its beliefs, especially on Polygamy (which has not been practiced by Mormons for over 120 years), this would be enough to put off voters.
I'm interested to see if people agree with this opinion, especially my American friends, so please comment guys.
Also, as a post scriptum, I have tried to put myself in the voters position. I am not an American however if I were and I was asked to vote between a Scientologist or a Jehovahs Witness and another candidate who's religion was more mainstream, religion would certainly be a factor in my decision.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Sunday, 20 February 2011
The Amateur: Travel Writer 2
Well, I got myself thinking after posting that old piece of writing on here, I should get writing again! Here's the next bit of the story, so consider it a sequel to the last one.
With a few years of time already past, my memory of the following event is slightly hazy. In truth, being someone who is prone to forgetfulness, it is a miracle I can remember it at all. For example, ask me what I did yesterday and it will take me the best part of five minutes to remember, even if what happened yesterday was Elvis coming back from the dead to sing at my birthday party, followed by an impromptu cruise along the Nile with David Beckham and the current Manchester United squad…whilst dressed as a chicken. I think you get it.
My mum, her partner Garry and I were enjoying our Caribbean cruise immensely, the weather was perfect, the food was plentiful and free and the drinks were alcoholic and abundant, what more could anyone want. Well, I'll tell you, a trip to a tropical beach on the island paradise of St Maarten, where we would be served fruit or rum punch. Ahh, go on then.
We did.
It was Wednesday, I guess (knowing that it doesn’t actually matter what day it was). And as was tradition for these shore excursions, our usual breakfast of bacon, sausage, beans, bacon, toast, bacon, hash browns, sausage, bacon and egg was taken early so as to catch the coach in good time and save my mother from a mid morning panic attack.
On the coach, we watched as the beautiful island of St Maarten passed our windows. Our destination, the Waikiki beach, which, if rumour had it, was occasioned by the odd nudist. Obviously hoping that no good-looking nudist girls would spoil our beautiful beach view, we arrived in the full heat of the Caribbean day. As I remember, we were dropped off at a car-park a few yards from the beach and so we set off on foot to find our complimentary sun-bed and rum punches. It didn’t take long. After we had settled into our little spot, off I trotted to find some nud… er some open water in which to swim. The water was a bit more crashy-on-the-rocks than I was expecting. Having had a superb trip to a calm Grenada beach with serene blue sea just a couple of days previous, I had expected more of the same. Now being a care-free kind of fella I rushed in and found that the crashy-on-the-rocks water soon became the scoop-the-silly-sod-off-his-feet-and-dump-him-unceremoniously-on-his-arse-in-front-of-everyone water. The power of the waves was unreal. I remember thinking, mid somersault, something along the lines of 'OH SHIT'. After I regained full consciousness, patted myself down to ensure I hadn't lost any bits and emptied my shorts (of sand), I bravely endeavoured on. Once I got past the crashy, tsunami-y bit I started to explore the wonderfully blue ocean. It was wonderful, possibly one of the best feelings it is possible for a human being to experience, surrounded as I was by the clear warm tropical sea. Ahhhhhhhh...
It wasn’t long before I spotted a girl swimming a good few metres away from me. ‘That’s a very flesh coloured bikini top’ thought I, ‘wait, she’s in the nip!' And so, being single and attracted to topless girls, I thought, 'I know, she'll probably be interested in my M25 squirrel story, I’ll go over and have a chat.' Unfortunately before I got there the sight of something directly behind me must have scared her as she decided she had better get out of the water. 'No matter, I'll just wait for the boner to dissipate and then continue enjoying the water', I sensibly concluded.
After a good few minutes I decided to get out, have a lay down and maybe a glass or two of punch. Ahh, life was feeling pretty good. It wasn’t long before the water was calling me to return, which I decided to do. This time Garry decided he would come along and have a dip. What followed will be etched into my mind forever.
The water was so beautiful, it invited you to go further and further into it. After fighting our way past that first set of waves we decided to go a bit further out than our fellow swimmers so as to be at one with the ocean. OK that’s probably a lie. But after splashing around for a few minutes, Garry spotted some even deeper blue water just a bit further out, and we decided to go and have a closer look. Well it took about 10 seconds before we both realised that this was maybe a mistake. The ocean had clearly decided that it wanted us for itself. The under-currents suddenly became stronger and grabbier and after finding that we were, ever so definitely, out of our depth the panic began. Only those of you who have experienced this feeling will know what it is like, it really feels as though the Grim Reaper is watching you, rather like a fat chick watches a turkey on Christmas Eve. My feet scrambled to find the sea-bed, which they didn’t. I started to swim with all my might against the currents and it felt as though I was getting nowhere. With Garry having the exact same difficulties, I quickly looked round to see if there was anyone around that could help us, and after a few seconds I came to the conclusion that, was there buggery. Suddenly a thought popped into my head 'a la Bear Grylls', if I could get to Garry, we could use each other to pull ourselves back. I struggled over and told Garry to grab my hand and throw me forward. So with as much force as he could muster he pushed me towards the shore. To my delight it worked, again my feet searched for the sea-bed and to my instant and endless relief, they found it, however I was suddenly a long way in front of Garry. In my haste to save my own skin I had briefly forgot that my plan was to also help him get to safety.. ‘Shit, what about Garry!’ I turned to see him still struggling against the currents and fast giving up. The Grim reaper was sharpening his scythe, he was about to strike. I called out ‘Have you found the sea-bed yet?’, ‘No’ came the half-hearted response. I reached out my hand as far as I could and saw Garry reaching for it. Nearly. NEARLY. ‘I’ve got it’ his feet had found the floor and the relief was palpable. Screw you Mr Reaper!!! Astutely we decided that our little dip was over and that we should return to the safety of the shore and to my mother who was completely oblivious to the entire ordeal.
Once we had regained our breath and looking rather dishevelled, we regaled her with our tale of near death. Smiling, she said ‘Oh, I saw you out there and thought, oh, they’re a long way out.’ Obviously worried at seeing her two boys in such a situation, she had quickly returned to her magazine and continued reading about Tina from Croydon who lost 10 stone in a 2 days in ‘What’s Pointless’ mag! Feeling that she probably thought we were over-reacting somewhat we decided that we would just keep telling her that we had nearly died until we got some sympathy. Several years later we’re still trying.
It only occurred to me on the way back from the beach that it had been completely devoid of lifeguards, or signs pointing to the perils that lay just a few feet away. I decided that as soon as we returned to the ship I would head straight for the customer service desk and lose my cool halfway and wimp out before I can make a complaint, which I did… really well.
With a few years of time already past, my memory of the following event is slightly hazy. In truth, being someone who is prone to forgetfulness, it is a miracle I can remember it at all. For example, ask me what I did yesterday and it will take me the best part of five minutes to remember, even if what happened yesterday was Elvis coming back from the dead to sing at my birthday party, followed by an impromptu cruise along the Nile with David Beckham and the current Manchester United squad…whilst dressed as a chicken. I think you get it.
My mum, her partner Garry and I were enjoying our Caribbean cruise immensely, the weather was perfect, the food was plentiful and free and the drinks were alcoholic and abundant, what more could anyone want. Well, I'll tell you, a trip to a tropical beach on the island paradise of St Maarten, where we would be served fruit or rum punch. Ahh, go on then.
We did.
It was Wednesday, I guess (knowing that it doesn’t actually matter what day it was). And as was tradition for these shore excursions, our usual breakfast of bacon, sausage, beans, bacon, toast, bacon, hash browns, sausage, bacon and egg was taken early so as to catch the coach in good time and save my mother from a mid morning panic attack.
On the coach, we watched as the beautiful island of St Maarten passed our windows. Our destination, the Waikiki beach, which, if rumour had it, was occasioned by the odd nudist. Obviously hoping that no good-looking nudist girls would spoil our beautiful beach view, we arrived in the full heat of the Caribbean day. As I remember, we were dropped off at a car-park a few yards from the beach and so we set off on foot to find our complimentary sun-bed and rum punches. It didn’t take long. After we had settled into our little spot, off I trotted to find some nud… er some open water in which to swim. The water was a bit more crashy-on-the-rocks than I was expecting. Having had a superb trip to a calm Grenada beach with serene blue sea just a couple of days previous, I had expected more of the same. Now being a care-free kind of fella I rushed in and found that the crashy-on-the-rocks water soon became the scoop-the-silly-sod-off-his-feet-and-dump-him-unceremoniously-on-his-arse-in-front-of-everyone water. The power of the waves was unreal. I remember thinking, mid somersault, something along the lines of 'OH SHIT'. After I regained full consciousness, patted myself down to ensure I hadn't lost any bits and emptied my shorts (of sand), I bravely endeavoured on. Once I got past the crashy, tsunami-y bit I started to explore the wonderfully blue ocean. It was wonderful, possibly one of the best feelings it is possible for a human being to experience, surrounded as I was by the clear warm tropical sea. Ahhhhhhhh...
It wasn’t long before I spotted a girl swimming a good few metres away from me. ‘That’s a very flesh coloured bikini top’ thought I, ‘wait, she’s in the nip!' And so, being single and attracted to topless girls, I thought, 'I know, she'll probably be interested in my M25 squirrel story, I’ll go over and have a chat.' Unfortunately before I got there the sight of something directly behind me must have scared her as she decided she had better get out of the water. 'No matter, I'll just wait for the boner to dissipate and then continue enjoying the water', I sensibly concluded.
After a good few minutes I decided to get out, have a lay down and maybe a glass or two of punch. Ahh, life was feeling pretty good. It wasn’t long before the water was calling me to return, which I decided to do. This time Garry decided he would come along and have a dip. What followed will be etched into my mind forever.
The water was so beautiful, it invited you to go further and further into it. After fighting our way past that first set of waves we decided to go a bit further out than our fellow swimmers so as to be at one with the ocean. OK that’s probably a lie. But after splashing around for a few minutes, Garry spotted some even deeper blue water just a bit further out, and we decided to go and have a closer look. Well it took about 10 seconds before we both realised that this was maybe a mistake. The ocean had clearly decided that it wanted us for itself. The under-currents suddenly became stronger and grabbier and after finding that we were, ever so definitely, out of our depth the panic began. Only those of you who have experienced this feeling will know what it is like, it really feels as though the Grim Reaper is watching you, rather like a fat chick watches a turkey on Christmas Eve. My feet scrambled to find the sea-bed, which they didn’t. I started to swim with all my might against the currents and it felt as though I was getting nowhere. With Garry having the exact same difficulties, I quickly looked round to see if there was anyone around that could help us, and after a few seconds I came to the conclusion that, was there buggery. Suddenly a thought popped into my head 'a la Bear Grylls', if I could get to Garry, we could use each other to pull ourselves back. I struggled over and told Garry to grab my hand and throw me forward. So with as much force as he could muster he pushed me towards the shore. To my delight it worked, again my feet searched for the sea-bed and to my instant and endless relief, they found it, however I was suddenly a long way in front of Garry. In my haste to save my own skin I had briefly forgot that my plan was to also help him get to safety.. ‘Shit, what about Garry!’ I turned to see him still struggling against the currents and fast giving up. The Grim reaper was sharpening his scythe, he was about to strike. I called out ‘Have you found the sea-bed yet?’, ‘No’ came the half-hearted response. I reached out my hand as far as I could and saw Garry reaching for it. Nearly. NEARLY. ‘I’ve got it’ his feet had found the floor and the relief was palpable. Screw you Mr Reaper!!! Astutely we decided that our little dip was over and that we should return to the safety of the shore and to my mother who was completely oblivious to the entire ordeal.
Once we had regained our breath and looking rather dishevelled, we regaled her with our tale of near death. Smiling, she said ‘Oh, I saw you out there and thought, oh, they’re a long way out.’ Obviously worried at seeing her two boys in such a situation, she had quickly returned to her magazine and continued reading about Tina from Croydon who lost 10 stone in a 2 days in ‘What’s Pointless’ mag! Feeling that she probably thought we were over-reacting somewhat we decided that we would just keep telling her that we had nearly died until we got some sympathy. Several years later we’re still trying.
It only occurred to me on the way back from the beach that it had been completely devoid of lifeguards, or signs pointing to the perils that lay just a few feet away. I decided that as soon as we returned to the ship I would head straight for the customer service desk and lose my cool halfway and wimp out before I can make a complaint, which I did… really well.
The Amateur: Travel Writer
Chances are you've read this already, I've had it on facebook for about a year, but if not have a look. Travel writing is definitely something I would love to do, who wouldn't!
The day, as I remember, was relatively mild for an early January morning. We had set off very early, filled with all the excitement that accompanies an eager traveller at the beginning of a long exciting trip. The party consisted of my Mother, her partner Garry and me. Our first destination was London’s Gatwick Airport, and as we lived a good distance from it we had agreed that it would be best to leave early and avoid at least some of the inevitable morning traffic build up on the M25.
For those who have travelled along this treacherous motorway, the ‘M25’, its reputation will have no doubt been reaffirmed by hours of non-stop queuing, resulting in, well, honestly, you have no idea. After waiting hours in a long string of traffic, suddenly the road is open and traffic is flowing once again. Your brain tries to surmise what could have possibly happened to cause such erratic traffic patterns. Maybe drivers were distracted by a squirrel that had wandered onto the road searching for nuts and they felt it best not to disturb it and so waited for it to retreat a safe distance, although I fear that may be a rather romantic theory.
Not being a great sleeper anyway, the thought of this exciting trip had kept me up all through the previous night and so I tried in vain to get some rest before the eventual drama of the ‘M25’ arrived. While stretched out across the back seat of the Ford which was our carriage, my head resting on and regrettably squashing the lunch my Mother had thoughtfully packed for us, my mind turned to the week that lay ahead. Our final destination was the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean; from here we would pick up our ship, the aptly named ‘Destiny’. Several other tropical destinations would then follow, with plenty of rum punch to devour along the way and even the odd hour spent lazing on a white sand beach before having to return home. It was to be the perfect holiday, and unless something was slipping my mind, it had started out in pretty perfect fashion.
The mood in the car was understandably joyous as we tootled along the motorways which lead to London from Lincolnshire. The M25 was approaching. No-one, in the history of the world, has ever travelled this route without some kind of disruption, but it felt like we may just do it, after all this was to be our perfect vacation. Suddenly, on the horizon, appeared the signs that beckoned us onto the notorious London peripheral.
“Deep breathe people” was the call from the front of the car, and so we all obliged. Ten minutes of open motorway fuelled our optimism. We were gonna do it, the future was to be filled with interviews by famous people and endless questions as to how we had avoided the unavoidable. But no, we dared to dream and surely this was our undoing, the horizon suddenly filled with red brake lights and the nightmare had begun. What followed will live in infamy, not in written word, well apart from this account, but in my Mother’s conscience, forever stored, ready at the slightest provocation to be pulled out and used to chastise and reduce me to a quivering wreck. In years to follow, I can see it now; “No Mum, I swear I know what I’m doing!” to which she will reply “Ha! You know what you’re doing! Must I refer you to the ‘INCIDENT’ on the M25?” to which my involuntary response will be to curl up into a ball and plead for mercy.
As we sat there, nervously watching the little analogue clock, it seemed only logical to stretch my legs a little. I exited the car and, while trying to look cool for all the adoring fans peering from behind their steering wheels, stretched out making sure to tense my arms and look as muscular as possible. What harm, thought I, to having a little stroll up a little way to see if I could spy the little squirrel collecting nuts in the middle of the road and holding everybody up? Surely none whatsoever and so off I ventured, off into the mess of very similar looking cars. The more astute readers among you will now have reached a conclusion as to the problem that was shortly to befall me.
After a rather extended leg stretching session and finding no squirrel, my want was to return to the comfort of the Ford’s backseat. And so it began; my fruitless search. To begin with there was little panic; I would find it, eventually. No I believe the panic began when I heard an ominous rev of engines in the distance and then, as the sound grew closer my panic level probably rose from a respectable 4 or 5 to a not so respectable 5 and a half million. As the cars at the side of me started to move I knew I was in real trouble, so being a very astute individual, I moved myself over to the hard shoulder and continued to run. Looking good for my adoring audience no longer struck me as important. I thanked my lucky stars to have brought my mobile phone with me on my ill-fated nature hike along the busiest motorway in Great Britain. I called my Mother, who by all accounts was rather panicky, and after several missed calls and misunderstandings I managed to rediscover the sanctuary of the Ford’s backseat. It turns out I had ran straight passed the car and disappeared into the distance before my Mother could catch my attention.
After a tearful reunion and after I had nursed my pride back to full health the trip continued and rather miraculously we made our flight. The holiday that followed was indeed the perfect holiday that we had envisioned, and I was sure to remain seated the entire car ride home.
The day, as I remember, was relatively mild for an early January morning. We had set off very early, filled with all the excitement that accompanies an eager traveller at the beginning of a long exciting trip. The party consisted of my Mother, her partner Garry and me. Our first destination was London’s Gatwick Airport, and as we lived a good distance from it we had agreed that it would be best to leave early and avoid at least some of the inevitable morning traffic build up on the M25.
For those who have travelled along this treacherous motorway, the ‘M25’, its reputation will have no doubt been reaffirmed by hours of non-stop queuing, resulting in, well, honestly, you have no idea. After waiting hours in a long string of traffic, suddenly the road is open and traffic is flowing once again. Your brain tries to surmise what could have possibly happened to cause such erratic traffic patterns. Maybe drivers were distracted by a squirrel that had wandered onto the road searching for nuts and they felt it best not to disturb it and so waited for it to retreat a safe distance, although I fear that may be a rather romantic theory.
Not being a great sleeper anyway, the thought of this exciting trip had kept me up all through the previous night and so I tried in vain to get some rest before the eventual drama of the ‘M25’ arrived. While stretched out across the back seat of the Ford which was our carriage, my head resting on and regrettably squashing the lunch my Mother had thoughtfully packed for us, my mind turned to the week that lay ahead. Our final destination was the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean; from here we would pick up our ship, the aptly named ‘Destiny’. Several other tropical destinations would then follow, with plenty of rum punch to devour along the way and even the odd hour spent lazing on a white sand beach before having to return home. It was to be the perfect holiday, and unless something was slipping my mind, it had started out in pretty perfect fashion.
The mood in the car was understandably joyous as we tootled along the motorways which lead to London from Lincolnshire. The M25 was approaching. No-one, in the history of the world, has ever travelled this route without some kind of disruption, but it felt like we may just do it, after all this was to be our perfect vacation. Suddenly, on the horizon, appeared the signs that beckoned us onto the notorious London peripheral.
“Deep breathe people” was the call from the front of the car, and so we all obliged. Ten minutes of open motorway fuelled our optimism. We were gonna do it, the future was to be filled with interviews by famous people and endless questions as to how we had avoided the unavoidable. But no, we dared to dream and surely this was our undoing, the horizon suddenly filled with red brake lights and the nightmare had begun. What followed will live in infamy, not in written word, well apart from this account, but in my Mother’s conscience, forever stored, ready at the slightest provocation to be pulled out and used to chastise and reduce me to a quivering wreck. In years to follow, I can see it now; “No Mum, I swear I know what I’m doing!” to which she will reply “Ha! You know what you’re doing! Must I refer you to the ‘INCIDENT’ on the M25?” to which my involuntary response will be to curl up into a ball and plead for mercy.
As we sat there, nervously watching the little analogue clock, it seemed only logical to stretch my legs a little. I exited the car and, while trying to look cool for all the adoring fans peering from behind their steering wheels, stretched out making sure to tense my arms and look as muscular as possible. What harm, thought I, to having a little stroll up a little way to see if I could spy the little squirrel collecting nuts in the middle of the road and holding everybody up? Surely none whatsoever and so off I ventured, off into the mess of very similar looking cars. The more astute readers among you will now have reached a conclusion as to the problem that was shortly to befall me.
After a rather extended leg stretching session and finding no squirrel, my want was to return to the comfort of the Ford’s backseat. And so it began; my fruitless search. To begin with there was little panic; I would find it, eventually. No I believe the panic began when I heard an ominous rev of engines in the distance and then, as the sound grew closer my panic level probably rose from a respectable 4 or 5 to a not so respectable 5 and a half million. As the cars at the side of me started to move I knew I was in real trouble, so being a very astute individual, I moved myself over to the hard shoulder and continued to run. Looking good for my adoring audience no longer struck me as important. I thanked my lucky stars to have brought my mobile phone with me on my ill-fated nature hike along the busiest motorway in Great Britain. I called my Mother, who by all accounts was rather panicky, and after several missed calls and misunderstandings I managed to rediscover the sanctuary of the Ford’s backseat. It turns out I had ran straight passed the car and disappeared into the distance before my Mother could catch my attention.
After a tearful reunion and after I had nursed my pride back to full health the trip continued and rather miraculously we made our flight. The holiday that followed was indeed the perfect holiday that we had envisioned, and I was sure to remain seated the entire car ride home.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
The Amateur: Photographer
Inside me there is a photographer trying to get out, occasionally he finds small opportunities to use his skills. Here he got the better of me at a wedding, that's Rachel on the right and her sister on the left. Actually I lied, there is no photographer inside me, it was me all along. I took it in black and white because I think it looks more classic and even romantic, and so befitting a wedding.
I like this photo because of the girls but also the bare brick and gothic style window give it character. By the way, they were posing for a real, bonafide photographer and I snook in with my fujifilm!
I like this photo because of the girls but also the bare brick and gothic style window give it character. By the way, they were posing for a real, bonafide photographer and I snook in with my fujifilm!
I took this photo at Christmas, I thought I'd take the opportunity that nature had given me to try and make Boston look pretty. I tried to leave out anything too modern so that the photo could have its own timeframe, if that makes sense, probably not, ha.
I like this picture, although I did get in a bit of metal fence. Call me old fashioned but I like my photos ugly-metal-fence free, but thats just me.
I was gonna put a photo of my bum on here, but its got a crack in it.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
The Amateur: Auto-biographer
OK, so this is a piece of writing I did for a college assignment, it is semi-autobiographical. I wanted to attempt to convey feelings through writing and so chose to write about some experiences I had had.
As I sit here in my cold, dimly lit, melancholy, somewhat untidy room, I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment at where I find myself. I am twenty-two, single and living with my grandparents and a ghastly creature that they call Brian (my grandmother's brother).
Brian, aged 70 at least, lives most of his life in his room, a relative hermit, that is except for early every Wednesday morning. It is at this time he springs to life and cleans the entire house, being sure to pause outside my room with the vacuum cleaner just long enough to wake me from my rare and well earned slumber. Apart from this intrusion, he remains relatively disconnected from me, with only the odd grunt to reaffirm his presence.
My eyes wander around the dreary room I currently call home, searching for a stimulus to take my mind far from this reality. Facing me is a small window which peers down on the street below and down the street facing it. From here I grasp that life does indeed continue without me. On one side of the room stands a large, rather imposing wooden wardrobe; on the other looms my massive collection of movies, piled high from to ceiling. This is escapism at its best, from the mindless violence of 'Rambo' to the soft, yet powerfully poignant 'A Beautiful Mind'. As I survey the astronomical number of titles in my collection I conclude that they must number at least 600. And so there stand two relative towers that seem to suffocate the room and press down upon its inhabitant, rather like a blanket would suffocate an asthma victim.
This is my world, trapped in a non-sensical atmosphere, anticipating and longing for something, anything better, something to break the monotony. My eye finds and peruses a section of my DVD collection. Michael Palin - 'Around the World In 80 Days' in which he follows the fictional route of Phineas Fogg as he toured the world in Jules Verne's classic tale. Bruce Parry - 'Tribe' in which ex-marine Bruce Parry travels the world meeting and living with different indigenous tribes, learning about their respective cultures and more importantly how to appreciate them. Ewan McGregor + Charley Boorman - 'Long Way Round' in which the boys travel the world on their trusty, and may I add, beautiful motorbikes, meeting hundreds of fascinating people. Each of these men has had adventures that have taken their breath away and then considerately notified the rest of us that life is to be lived and not spent. How I admire and envy every one of them.
My mind wanders through the back-alleys of my past to recover some memory that will affirm to me that I too have experienced moments of sheer beauty that have taken my breath away. Is there a fragment of memory, perchance, that confirms that I have contributed towards something worthwhile? Pleasingly, my mind is suddenly alive with reconstructed memories of happy times that were, not too long ago, realities.
Yes, I remember, aged 12 or so, both me and my dear Father taking part in a raft race, organised by the local church. The men constituted one team, us boys the other. The task at hand, to build a raft out of any materials we could find and then hope our craftsmanship was sufficient enough to last the duration of the race. As far as memory serves, neither craft managed to reach the finish line and everyone, man and boy, ended up swimming to the riverbank to the rapturous applause and laughter of everyone watching and taking part.
Yes I remember, aged 15 or so, experiencing what I then considered to be the greatest moment of my life, watching my beloved football team Manchester United win the European Cup. Now before you judge me too harshly, you must realise what a huge percentage of a 15 year old boys life is dedicated to football, then add to this the unforgettable series of events conspired to hand us victory. Oh yes, I remember well, defeat was imminent and but for two heroic and breath-taking moments of sporting lore, the dream would have been shattered. The regulation 90 minute period over and with just added time to go, we trailed by a goal to nil. With 92 minutes on the clock, David Beckham, the maestro, swings in a beautiful corner which is met by a United head and after a scuffed shot by Welsh wing wizard Ryan Giggs, finds the veteran Teddy Sheringham who scores to equalise. Then with 94 minutes on the clock, sporting history is made as young Norwegian Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scores from yet another delicious David Beckham corner. Euphoria!
Yes, of course, I remember, aged 19, going off to serve my Lord God on a mission for two whole years. I met people who changed my life; I believe I may have even changed the lives of some of those I met. I learned the beautiful French language and conversed fluently with people on topics as diverse as the after-life, the meaning of our existence and my overwhelming belief in a restoration of Christ's ancient church in these latter-days. For two years I devoted my entire life to what I considered to be the Lord's work. It was more than important to me, it was everything.
But wait, yes, I remember, aged 21, returning from France, a hero in my father's eyes. I remember well the moment, walking through the door of the arrivals lounge waiting to be greeted by a proud father and an ecstatic mother, only to find my dear father was too ill to stand and embrace me. Riddled with cancer, he was confined to a chair as my mother tearfully and excitedly squeezed me while making me promise never to leave again. Yes, I remember, watching for six long, but all too short months as my father steadily succumbed to his evil illness and moved closer and closer to his last days. Each day was like a dagger in my back and heart. This dagger didn't draw blood; it drew faith, love and belief. This dagger didn't cut flesh; it cut testimony, self-belief and my love for the gospel I had recently been so eager to share. On September 29th 2006, my father passed away, and in retrospect, I suppose a large part of me did too.
So the back-alleys of my past have lead me to the present and have reminded me as to why I find myself in the situation in which I do. I have been taught that yes, I have had adventures, I have met people that have fascinated me and experienced moments of sheer joy that have left me breathless, but these have been suffocated by recent tragedy and bereavement. These memories now serve only to stir my soul to regret and guilt. Guilt so palpable it looms over me and presses down upon me. Guilt that cries to me that I should have experienced more, yet currently restricts me from doing so. Regret that I didn't love more, or more accurately, didn't share my love more.
As for the future, if indeed there is forced to be a future, I await, in the hope that life does deal us a winning hand every so often, and that life will see fit to do so and leave me to enjoy it.
THE END
As I sit here in my cold, dimly lit, melancholy, somewhat untidy room, I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment at where I find myself. I am twenty-two, single and living with my grandparents and a ghastly creature that they call Brian (my grandmother's brother).
Brian, aged 70 at least, lives most of his life in his room, a relative hermit, that is except for early every Wednesday morning. It is at this time he springs to life and cleans the entire house, being sure to pause outside my room with the vacuum cleaner just long enough to wake me from my rare and well earned slumber. Apart from this intrusion, he remains relatively disconnected from me, with only the odd grunt to reaffirm his presence.
My eyes wander around the dreary room I currently call home, searching for a stimulus to take my mind far from this reality. Facing me is a small window which peers down on the street below and down the street facing it. From here I grasp that life does indeed continue without me. On one side of the room stands a large, rather imposing wooden wardrobe; on the other looms my massive collection of movies, piled high from to ceiling. This is escapism at its best, from the mindless violence of 'Rambo' to the soft, yet powerfully poignant 'A Beautiful Mind'. As I survey the astronomical number of titles in my collection I conclude that they must number at least 600. And so there stand two relative towers that seem to suffocate the room and press down upon its inhabitant, rather like a blanket would suffocate an asthma victim.
This is my world, trapped in a non-sensical atmosphere, anticipating and longing for something, anything better, something to break the monotony. My eye finds and peruses a section of my DVD collection. Michael Palin - 'Around the World In 80 Days' in which he follows the fictional route of Phineas Fogg as he toured the world in Jules Verne's classic tale. Bruce Parry - 'Tribe' in which ex-marine Bruce Parry travels the world meeting and living with different indigenous tribes, learning about their respective cultures and more importantly how to appreciate them. Ewan McGregor + Charley Boorman - 'Long Way Round' in which the boys travel the world on their trusty, and may I add, beautiful motorbikes, meeting hundreds of fascinating people. Each of these men has had adventures that have taken their breath away and then considerately notified the rest of us that life is to be lived and not spent. How I admire and envy every one of them.
My mind wanders through the back-alleys of my past to recover some memory that will affirm to me that I too have experienced moments of sheer beauty that have taken my breath away. Is there a fragment of memory, perchance, that confirms that I have contributed towards something worthwhile? Pleasingly, my mind is suddenly alive with reconstructed memories of happy times that were, not too long ago, realities.
Yes, I remember, aged 12 or so, both me and my dear Father taking part in a raft race, organised by the local church. The men constituted one team, us boys the other. The task at hand, to build a raft out of any materials we could find and then hope our craftsmanship was sufficient enough to last the duration of the race. As far as memory serves, neither craft managed to reach the finish line and everyone, man and boy, ended up swimming to the riverbank to the rapturous applause and laughter of everyone watching and taking part.
Yes I remember, aged 15 or so, experiencing what I then considered to be the greatest moment of my life, watching my beloved football team Manchester United win the European Cup. Now before you judge me too harshly, you must realise what a huge percentage of a 15 year old boys life is dedicated to football, then add to this the unforgettable series of events conspired to hand us victory. Oh yes, I remember well, defeat was imminent and but for two heroic and breath-taking moments of sporting lore, the dream would have been shattered. The regulation 90 minute period over and with just added time to go, we trailed by a goal to nil. With 92 minutes on the clock, David Beckham, the maestro, swings in a beautiful corner which is met by a United head and after a scuffed shot by Welsh wing wizard Ryan Giggs, finds the veteran Teddy Sheringham who scores to equalise. Then with 94 minutes on the clock, sporting history is made as young Norwegian Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scores from yet another delicious David Beckham corner. Euphoria!
Yes, of course, I remember, aged 19, going off to serve my Lord God on a mission for two whole years. I met people who changed my life; I believe I may have even changed the lives of some of those I met. I learned the beautiful French language and conversed fluently with people on topics as diverse as the after-life, the meaning of our existence and my overwhelming belief in a restoration of Christ's ancient church in these latter-days. For two years I devoted my entire life to what I considered to be the Lord's work. It was more than important to me, it was everything.
But wait, yes, I remember, aged 21, returning from France, a hero in my father's eyes. I remember well the moment, walking through the door of the arrivals lounge waiting to be greeted by a proud father and an ecstatic mother, only to find my dear father was too ill to stand and embrace me. Riddled with cancer, he was confined to a chair as my mother tearfully and excitedly squeezed me while making me promise never to leave again. Yes, I remember, watching for six long, but all too short months as my father steadily succumbed to his evil illness and moved closer and closer to his last days. Each day was like a dagger in my back and heart. This dagger didn't draw blood; it drew faith, love and belief. This dagger didn't cut flesh; it cut testimony, self-belief and my love for the gospel I had recently been so eager to share. On September 29th 2006, my father passed away, and in retrospect, I suppose a large part of me did too.
So the back-alleys of my past have lead me to the present and have reminded me as to why I find myself in the situation in which I do. I have been taught that yes, I have had adventures, I have met people that have fascinated me and experienced moments of sheer joy that have left me breathless, but these have been suffocated by recent tragedy and bereavement. These memories now serve only to stir my soul to regret and guilt. Guilt so palpable it looms over me and presses down upon me. Guilt that cries to me that I should have experienced more, yet currently restricts me from doing so. Regret that I didn't love more, or more accurately, didn't share my love more.
As for the future, if indeed there is forced to be a future, I await, in the hope that life does deal us a winning hand every so often, and that life will see fit to do so and leave me to enjoy it.
THE END
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