When I look to the horizon beyond our compact garden, I imagine I can hear the sound of the bombardments in Ukraine. It might seem fanciful, but I remember my mother saying to me that once a sound is unleashed from mouth or object, it travels round the world and out into the universe endlessly. I’ve never checked whether or not that’s fact. Physics tells me it probably isn’t, although matter is indestructible, so why not sound waves? I have this idea that one day some words I said years ago will ambush me out of the silence and whisper things into my ears that I don’t want to remember. It’s almost like the old time travel paradox – if I meet my future or past self, I will destroy myself and the fabric of time. But perhaps nothing is impossible.
Last night I spent a lot of time looking at what humanitarian aid agencies are actually doing in Ukraine and its neighbouring countries, and was overcome by the enormity of the task, the cruelty of what is being done to the Ukrainian people, the impasse the West and the East now find themselves in. In essence, it all boils down to vanity and the ridiculous capitalist quest for eternal economic growth – on all sides, because, let’s face it, Putin is as much a capitalist as any western industrialist or politician. Communism, just like organised religion, long ago became a parody of itself, and, just like western political ideology, became centred on the self, on concentrating as much wealth and power in the hands of one person as possible. Humankind has not moved on from the primitive, has not moved on from the Middle Ages, the Dark Ages, the simple theatre of the village chief deciding he wants to be chief of the next village, and the next village after that, and spend his evenings counting how many huts he rules and how many concubines he has, and how many pieces of whatever the currency is he has.
Progress is a busted flush. Only the weapons have changed, and villages have become continents.
There are no noises on my horizon this morning. No echo of my voice whispering to me. It’s a sort of relief.
I can only write what’s in my head; fiction or fact.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 23