Effort

Read the last four paragraphs; the first two are simply mundane chronicles. The last four are a return to my semi-incoherent-quasi-depressive form...

Ah - it's that time of the year again. The steamy tropical afternoon descends upon you as you rouse yourself from the air-conditioned-induced stasis, willing yourself to holler for yet another cool iced coffee. Thirst sated, you recline once again and doze off into an odd slumber, which hovers between a nightmare where you're being chased by ECG waveforms yelling 'ST elevation!' and a lovely dream involving a thrilling, daringly successful mission to rescue the beautiful daughter of the Vatican ambassador...hang on a second...Vatican men are celibate...okay - his beloved orphaned niece, then.

Went along with my uncle to his farm/plantation today; chose to unleash my 'inner oomph' by firing eight rounds (12 gauge shot) from a shotgun - yes, it's confirmed - I'm a cock-eyed freak who aims consistently to the left of the target and can't hit a can at 15 feet. Pathetic - my nine year old (female) cousin did better. Argh. Rather annoyingly some rotten thieves had stolen quite a few ripe mangosteens from the trees...putrid infidels...double argh. Cool comfort finally came as we hacked away at delicious fresh coconuts, squeezing sweet limes into the succulent interiors before draining out the life-force and plastering our hands, lips, faces and shirts with the sweet sappy juice. Simply divine. A stark contrast to the previous half hour of having to inspect farm goats while wearing my Sunday shoes as I tread daintily on slimy goat-muck. Where are boots when you need them?!

If you could do it all over again - what would you do? Terribly sorry for the poorly phrased question - I mean - what would you change if you could? Life is so very full of regrets, which I know only too well. My little 'motto' for the past year has been 'no regrets' and it's soon going to be time to think up a new one on August 20th when I turn 20 - hey! Turning twenty on the twentieth - just noticed - perhaps I ought to have a bash...). The big two-zero...

Anyway - time for a little pause and reflection. 'No regrets' is a bashful yet boastful, simple yet serene little phrase...as I arrived at my uncle's house on Friday afternoon I sat down in front of the piano in a very gloomy, sombre mood; before placing my copy of Beethoven's piano sonata no. 14 in C# minor (You know, the 'Moonlight' one) on the stand I shifted my cousin's sheets aside but the top page caught my glance - the simple title of 'No Regrets' paralysed me for a second that somehow drew itself out into an instantaneous eternity (yeah, yeah, I know it doesn't make sense but I haven't had the chance to use the word 'oxymoron' in ages - oxymoron oxymoron oxymoron!!!). No Regrets - none at all...? Really? No, no, no. I'd be a fool's fool if I was so presumptuous as to declare myself victorious in this ineffable quest.

If anything I've simply become much more impervious to the stinging pain of failure. It's all too evident in the way the roaring fires of rage are used to overheat the cold, mean problem-solving machine in my efforts at countering disappointment. No more tears - the flames evaporate those before they can even quench the parched emotions; instead, the anger burns within - it growls, groans and gnaws away at the self/non-self-inflicted burdens.

So what of the effort - does it help? Does the vainglorious quest to 'never regret anything' mean anything at all? In a sense it succeeds as far as the 'regret' part is concerned - you just slap the word aside and take every event as an unavoidable fact - 'what's done is done and can't be undone!' - iacta alia est - les jeux sont fait - the die is cast! I'm not speaking of a hopeless headlong rush down a path you don't really want to take - just that one feels compelled not to 'look back' but to keep one's eyes on the target ahead, 'for better - or worse.' Then again, the 'no' part isn't quite a resounding success - one breezes into the pits of the unknown, fearful of the consequences of having not done something. You stumble and bumble along until you realise that perhaps all this self-torture isn't worth all you make it seem to be in the grand overall game of averages. You push and push, not wanting to give up - ever. At the end of the day, whether squeezing a stone yields any water isn't up to you; the cliche's a cliche for a spankingly good reason: our call is simply not to question why but rather, just to do - or die.