May 082014
 

As a lad I used to run on those mountains in spite of or maybe because of the abuse suffered soon after my birth – cast out to die on the mountain, abandoned amidst the bare, unyielding, ungiving rocks. No soft flesh to nourish me, merely a rare thistle to chew on, until a passing and laughing shepherd chanced upon me. I must have been grey with death. Perhaps he saw the glint of an eye like a lost coin catches the sun and promises a free lunch. A lost shepherd searching for his lost sheep only to find the burden of a son. Or bones for the stock pot. All because of some crazy oracle. Oh yeah, I know it all came true but that’s just chance. Sleep with my mother, murder my father! What sort of life is that? Of course I should have taken my chances and boarded the boat for Africa, made a fortune, become a king . . . Instead, well you know how the story turned out and here I am seeing only flashes of light and memories, groping around. Let me tell you, blinding yourself is not a good idea, better to cut your throat.

But there is always another point of view. It seems to me that I see better now. I can see what’s what. Of course you will say, is that an improvement, is that progress? Can I bear the weight of seeing how things are? Probably not. Seeing amounts to having responsibility and responsibility is crushing. 

But, here comes another point of view, old age is approaching. I realise that it’s tough to decide exactly when one becomes old. Except for one person on the planet there is always someone older than yourself. Allowing for the problem of definition there does seem to be the phenomenon of forgetting. Perhaps forgetting will allow the responsibility to slide off one’s sloping shoulders, one’s bent back will quiver and reject all attempts at the blame that others try to pile up on one’s shoulders. I forget. I can’t be held to blame for things that happened so long ago. And there is always that brave effort at claiming, I did my best.

So let’s get on with it. Let’s climb those hills and visit the oracle. Which oracle, you ask. Who cares, one is good as another. And I promise to keep quiet about what I can see. Unless.