Including One Single Impression, Manic Monday and Sunday Scribblings.
Have you had a go yet?
Temptation is being studied again. A leading psychologist has been tempted to try to unlock the secret of why some can resist, whilst others cannot. This is a peculiarly western thing. Many eastern philosophies don’t seem to have the same problem.
They have a unique answer to temptation.
In the main, they encourage indulgence in material pleasures. Without condemnation, the person quickly realizes that they are, in the end, unsatisfying, allowing them to move on to more spiritual pursuits.
Does this unlock the secret? Could it be that it is the idea of prohibition that requires us to do? Some would argue not. Rather, people can be tempted and end up addicted. But is this temptation in its truest sense, or a route of escape from an intolerable life and society?
The difference is subtle, but also fundamental.
Further, capitalism is all about temptation, brainwashing the consumer to indulgence as an ideological necessity. If signals get mixed in such ways, excess will follow.
Is there a remedy to western temptation? A long while ago I came up with a concept I call ‘masocology’. In effect, we in the west are all masochists at heart. I say this because we are all tempted by pleasure. Yet, I’ve come to realize that all pleasure involving physical interaction leads to pain if over indulged.
Perhaps an understanding of this process can lead to moderation where pleasure is involved. Indeed, one day I might even manage to practice what I preach.
Next post, Tuesday. Hope to see you then.
© Anthony North, November 2008
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
Autumn
Falling leaves, wind no pain,
arms in air – run, be an aeroplane,
chestnuts fall, be enthralled,
conkers we play, one and all,
nights become dark, time for a lark,
play ghosties and ghouls until bed we park
Winter
Freezing chill, but we ignore the bite,
the ground so white, a snowball fight,
well below zero that stony ground,
slide ’til it’s glass, cuts ‘n’ bruises are found,
but Christmas is a great respite,
turkey, crackers, presents to delight
Spring
The first buds of life, we’re filled with delight,
race in the sun – usually ends in a fight,
but it’s a gang of friends, we cause no harm,
no weapons, no malice – trouble sorted with charm,
and don’t forget Easter, those eggs to lick,
and then fill our bellies until we’re sick
Summer
No school for an age, just hot scorching days,
football and cricket, we always play,
sweaty and smelly, get home for tea,
‘can we go out again, mom,’ our nightly plea,
and finally in bed, too hot to sleep,
dreaming of more play – through the window we creep
Today
Sat in a hot room surrounded by wires,
only through cyberspace do things transpire,
worrying about passing those damned tests,
think of future career, not being a pest,
friends are few, but follow the fad,
spending mom and dads money – how sad
(c) Anthony North, November 2008
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HARVEST – Fiction
Tony Brand knew the moment had come. The woman had moved away from her husband, left him by the lake and headed for the ice cream vendor. A hundred yards – that’s all he needed. He was good, and that would be enough time to lift her before he could get near.
When he moved, it was fast, sweeping up the woman in one arm while another went to cover her mouth. By the lake, the husband was immediately alerted.
He was good, thought Brand, as he reached his car, opened the door, took out the gun and held it to her temple.
The husband stopped in his tracks. Two pairs of professional eyes bore into each other. And the husband knew this was not the time.
Brand pushed her into the car and in a moment sped off.
The husband put down the phone the arrangements made. He was sat in his London flat, and the strain showed on his face. He had met her a year ago in Paris, and it was love at first sight. She soon agreed to marry him, even though, by then, she was aware that he was a rising agent in the Russian FSB, his job as a London embassy attaché a mere cover.
He was alerted by the door bell. Opening the door, he guessed it would be him.
Dooley, sixty years of age with a face that reflected the shadow life he had led, walked in. Said: ‘If you want her back, we want the names of all your agents in Britain.’ He smiled. ‘Time for a harvest, I think.’
The Russian smirked. ‘And what’s the point of that? We’d remove them straight away, and you’d be no better off.’
‘Ah, but we would,’ replied Dooley. ‘Your mother country is flexing its muscles again. And it needs a message. We’re still here, you know.’
It was an hour later that Brand opened the door of the safe house. Dooley walked in, looking smug. ‘Is he cooperating?’ asked Brand.
‘He’s thinking about it,’ replied Dooley. The old man opened another door. The wife was inside, sat on a chair, her hands tied, a gag over her mouth. Dooley smiled. Shut the door once more.
And as Dooley left the safe house Brand checked his gun once more. He never left anything to chance. Outside, the man in the car padded his mobile. ‘I’ve followed Dooley to the safe house,’ he said. ‘We know where she is.’
It was dark when the two men crept up to the building, jemmied open the door and silently, but professionally stormed in. Brand was taken by surprise, and before he could reach for his gun, a bullet slammed into his chest.
He fell back, blood pouring, his eyes staring into space.
Quickly they freed the woman and were away. Within the hour, husband and wife were on a plane, destination Moscow.
Dooley stared down at the still body of Tony Brand. He held a hard expression. Finally, he snapped: ‘Oh do get up, Brand. Don’t milk it.’
Brand always did as he was told. He stood, took off the bulletproof vest and blood bags. ‘Did it work?’ he asked.
Dooley replied in the affirmative. ‘They’re on their way to Moscow. His cover is blown, but his loyalty confirmed. After all, it was a grave risk to his wife going straight to his masters – as we knew he would. And in ten years he’ll have risen to the high echelons of FSB HQ. And all that time with a wife who’s a sleeper in more ways than one.’ He smiled. ‘And I feel she will harvest a good amount of information from him.’
© Anthony North, November 2008
GRATEFUL
I’m grateful to you, one and all,
no longer can I be so small,
I’m more than me, I’m in a group,
of people who care, in the loop;
I’m sorry I used to be so dumb,
individuality, see, made me glum,
thinking I was on my own,
and to no one did I atone;
Now I understand life’s more than that,
a communal table I’m now sat,
as one with my fellow man,
together to do, for now we can
(c) Anthony North, November 2008
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