SEVEN7

SEVEN7 is slowly joining NINE11 as landmark dates in modern history – but quietly, daily, the accumulative trains of events which make almost a common diet in certain places like Iraq everyday miniatures of 9-11, 2001.

Desiderata hesitated to put thought in writing on the bomb blasts last Thursday (july 7) in London that took more than 50 lives and injured hundreds more. It’s one of those occasions that remind me of Chiaroscuro – that in-betweeen zone of laight and darkness difficult to describe or discern, in the ever-changing yet unstopping journeys of the human race in all its diverse ethnicities, froms and colours, some converging, mostly diverging. Hence the London blasts – associated with 77 -- were not as surprising as 911 because the human race has in its memory bank the experience of the past. And this memory bank tells him similar events like the 911 were inevitable. SAD, but that’s the reality. In human affairs, the parallel in science is reflected in one Newtonian Law governing Force and Motion: Every action has an equal but opposite reaction.

As certain and inevitable that Death follows Life, that where there is Light, there is Darkness, and varying shades of light&darkness in between.

So after five days of the event in London, this is my rumination of two pennies worth, and I must stress I accept and respect a whole range of other views and convictions which may agree with, or diverge from, mine from other Readers – esteemed and mutually high in high regard, I hope.

Being at the wrong place at the wrong time

The footballer player or golf enthusiast, even the TV viewer in the living room, can have his/hher life snuffed out at the speed of light when lightning strikes. Bomb blasts in Londo, New York, Baghdad, or Jakarta, el Spaniola or nu Malayanaya – they do not respect the colour of the victim’s skin or the origins of his roots.Nor his/her religious bent. White, black, brown or yellow – equal probability of being struck down by unseeing explosives.

Yes, these are euphemistically classified as COLLATERAL DAMAGE (proud American media creation) flowing from some “stupid” WAR. I won’t go into this arena because today’s topic is more about Death. But there is also the living dead.

Who are these potential living dead? Just naming some – the tycoon in his Ferrari going at 150km/hr when the law permits only 110; the yuppie changing lane and driving onto the emergency lane because his yuppie GF has been ringing him several times from Bangsar just because he was running 10 seconds late; or the lowly ruffian ding gymnastics on Jalan Raja for his high and that of the spectator-friends, both GF and BF and in-between, and most terrifying of them all, and increasing in numbers on the Malaysian seen – the “road rage bully” whose maxim on the road, Might Is Right!

The last named category of potential living dead coupled with the speed maniac trait turns them into FI-ENDS on the highways and byways. Do you know (God forgive me!) -– I do pray when one drives past me -- they just knock into a tree or a stationary tanker as they take the next bend before they take innocent Malaysians along with them to an early END.

Many people are hesitant or wary (Superstitious belief, taboo, or bad fengshui nuts?) to discuss about life and death, worse yet, risking an expriment once a while to test it. Writers/poets generally are not scared of tackling any subject under the sun – bold and foolhardy maybe, or even death-wish proprieter mayhaps, I know not, but curiosity and busybodiness are necessary trademarks for this trade, I guess.
I shall continue my ramblings on this light&easy subject over the coming days, in view of yesterday’s narrative about lightning strikes, and MY Postman NOT Having Rung Twice (Is Jessica Lange Posing as One in S'ban?)


Whether it is war in ancient times, or in the 21st century, or in years to come, the basic philosophy on the battle-field applies: “Kill or be killed!” I conclude today with a reflective poem, how I wished it was my effort, it’s to the credit of Thomas Hardy (1840-1928):


The Man He Killed

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin.

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because –
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough; although

He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand-like – just as I –
Was out of work – had sold his traps –
No other reason why.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.