Why so serious?

Not only am I not an child, I was not the first born. A circumstance that makes for both a (often times) easy and (mostly) troubled coming of age under an older sibling – especially since my older sibling had a penchant to mete out grossities (it should be a word!) the likes of which most people (other than possibly other first borns) could never imagine.

This is not to say that I was tormented, far from it, most times I probably did not have to pay for “our” crimes. As a relative rule across all families, irrespective of national or socio-cultural backgrounds, the prime directive was that the older sibling “was supposed to know better” than to lead the “less experienced, trusting younger sibling who only follows an example.” (If this write-up was a film, now would be the perfect frame to dissolve into a close-up of innocent fluttering eyes... sigh.)

Anyway my brother and I had a fairly fun time growing up, apart from the times (which were quite frequent when we were younger) when he was the dominating fiend of Dickensian lore – the sinister Fagin shadow over my poor naïve Oliver Twist rendition (dissolve to close-up of my innocent fluttering eyes).

We were like the musketeers, always together as we were growing up, with what I was possibly hoodwinked to believe was a “all for one, one for all” mantra. Which really didn't work because even when I supposedly took the “heat,” the prime directive took precedence... at least that is how I will always remember it.

Except for one instance in particular.

The crime for which my very life was threatened by my mother (who incidentally swore she would beat me to my death; I was witness to so much high drama from a tender age) has been long forgotten to the point that it might not have even registered in the first place during all that chaos and cacophony.

Truth be told that I had no recollection of this incident, but the 'event' was, on occasion, brought up with joviality thanks to the yellow-bellied reproach of my brother – the head musketeer! My mother remembers with great mischief that my brother requested her to wait to mete out her corporal punishment upon innocent me (close-up of... you get the picture) until he had left the room!

That story was a favourite of my mother's (she saw it as proof as my brother's devotion to me... huh?). Over the years that story also served as the root of an epiphany and the birth of a Talatism truth. Humour saves lives, and, more importantly, deflects the seriousness of the moment.

I'd imagine that my mother's harden resolve softened somewhat at my brother's request – clearly he had indicated by his action (no matter how cowardly I deemed it) that while he fully believed that my mum could accomplish what she has set out to do, he made it abundantly clear that he did not want to be a witness to the snuffing of a fragile flame. That softening of the resolve may be reason why I do not remember the incident – I am almost sure that an event such as a “beating to death” would be quite vividly etched into my psyche had it actually happened.

So there you have it. Humour puts most things into perspective – no thing (sic) is important or serious enough in life not to be able to see a lighter side. As I had discovered quite early that you shouldn't sweat the small stuff and that given the right perspective everything is small stuff. I suddenly realised that humour was the tool that helped put everything in the “right perspective.” Everything is worth a chuckle, lest we take things too seriously.

As for the memories of my formative years under the influence my domineering older sibling... we really did become like the musketeers and I have no doubt that it is “all for one and one for all” this time around.

Don't panic, re-evaluate

In my experience I find that a lot of otherwise level-headed people panic when they find themselves in an unexpected situation. Panic is of course a survival instinct that prods the body into either 'fight' or 'flight' mode.

Being a naturally docile, peace loving person my first option is never to fight; which, you will agree, would leave me, innate instinct-wise, only one real option – flight. But then you would be wrong.

In my opinion human beings must evolve beyond baser instincts to pause for a lightening speed re-evaluation of circumstances. Believe me if you haven't reacted in the split second, there is always time to re-evaluate.

For example the man on the bicycle will not be saved from injury as you barrel towards him at an idiotic speed if you see him and do not react in the split second – what will be will be after that instant; what is left is only time for re-evaluation.

When you think about it, in the example above, after that split second there are lot of options that are open: a) swerve, b) not swerve, c) swerve left d) swerve right, e) brace, f) brace with eyes open, g) brace with eyes closed, h) tighten up, i) loosen down, and j) look away (I am sure there are more, but you get the point). Gladly these lightening evaluation of circumstance happen in the subsequent sub-seconds that follow the first split second, and it happens rather automatically based on decisions that you brain had made before on your behalf and your basic character. An epiphany or a Talatism truth? You decide.

Given the circumstances, sometimes there is little to really do but make the most of it.

Which brings me to a rather peculiar news item filed by Reuters that I came across on the web about a german man who had to rescued by the mayor from a women's prison.

Apparently the man had walked into the women's prison without noticing while strolling about the town of Hildesheim. However by the time he had realised his error the jail gates had been closed, thus locking him inside (the two questions that beg to be asked, but unfortunately the story did not have the information, was 1) why the gates were open in the first place, and 2) if the gates was closed then someone closed it, it didn't just shut in a light draft – don't think prison gates are built that way).

Anyway, so what did this man do when he found himself locked in an all women's prison? He did what any red-blooded, testosterone-filled he-man would do in the circumstances, he downright panicked and started screaming for help.

Luckily Hildesheim city Mayor Henning Blum was passing by the prison and heard the man's cries for help (which only proves that our macho man was not too deep inside). The good mayor notified the police who subsequently came and freed the 24-year-old.

When questioned, the man said he had inadvertently entered the prison mistaking it as a shortcut to a nearby park. While the reuters report stated that the police said they were investigating why the prison gate was open in the first place, there was no information as to whether any inmates went strolling out into town as a result – perhaps to visit this alleged park nearby.

While I understand the high-voltage jolt of realisation the man might have experienced when it dawned on him what he had done and that obviously he was, like me, a pacifist and thus switching to 'fight' mode was not his first reaction, I am at pains to reconcile to the fact that he cried like a baby.

Perversions aside, being a man in a women's prison cannot be a bad thing. Obviously you don't belong and so at least you can be assured that you will NOT be allowed to remain inside and the way out is literally the way out. I mean the man was in a prison, filled with women, yes, but these women were caged away and the facility was also manned (pardon the pun) by law enforcers – it was not like he found himself as the only man in the middle of an Amazon women's tribe in heat.

In those circumstances, I will admit I could be seen panicking, not so much doubting my virility but because it could be such a bother...

Guts and Glory

The biggest, most sensational news that had taken the world by a storm most recently was, not quiet so astonishingly, equally celebrated and denigrated across the globe by millions of people at large.

Everyone had an opinion. Some quarters lambasted it as one of the most cheerful stories to come out of the west since the Obama victory – notwithstanding the heartaches and agonies of close calls and near misses over the last nine years that reminded the west that perhaps happy endings are sometimes only relegated to the story books. The general populace had years of nail biting to contend with until the fateful day that many thought might never come.

Naturally the royal wedding was a big affair. The fairy tale union of King of England, twice removed, and a coal miner's daughter (allow me the poetic license) was celebrated across the world. The BBC counts over four billion watched it live in their living room; give or take another few millions who watched it from the sidelines. The event was televised live for all to see with minute by minute updates – polished in its glory. screams and all. Clearly a day not to be forgotten; better yet, remembered from time to for all its sweetness and saccharine.

Contrast that to another fateful day that was simultaneously as long anticipated as it was given up on. Six people watched this live from the situation room; give or take another dozen or so watching on the sidelines. This event in particular was fed through a secured line from a helmet cam for a secretive bunch – rough and unedited, spilled guts, screams and all. 40 minutes that will probably live in the minds all its witnesses; revisited again from time to time through unanswered questions regurgitated for all its deception and darkness.

Interestingly I read a report on the Osama assassination that revealed that the word “wedding” in despatches of the Al-Qaeda signified a “bombing.” Talk about the ultimate irony in historical trivia.

Not to belittle the rather hollow US victory over terrorism – but the US walked into that war thanks to the misplaced bravado of a rich, spoilt Texan wildcatter and his callous, one-time inebriated, born again son (with possibly the JC complex). Americans should be forewarned that walking out was never going to easy as “kicking their ass,” because the killing of a Bin Laden does not amount to any “ass” being really kicked.

Had Bin Laden been captured and tried in an independent court, things might have been a little different but even then no “ass” would have been really kicked. As much as Bin Laden was hated we should mark Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's words when he cautioned that “returning hate for hate multiples hate.”

Bin Laden might be dead, and while some in America might find peace and still others court re-election, sadly America is no safer for it.

Let’s start from the top

I was smarter when I was younger, not to say that I am not smart now or that I was ever smart then but it just seems so.

I think my intelligence (over-smartness, in some people’s estimations) came from a unique sense of perspective; something, I’m sure, my poor parents probably had a tough time reconciling with over the years. One of my first memories from school was “geography” and “mountains,” which was also the source of a life altering epiphany for me.

Now kids those days weren’t expected to know all about mountains or valleys, but what they were expected to know was what the ideas were. I had the basic information down pat, smart kid that I was; spelling, however, was a completely different matter, particularly BIG words like “M-O-U-N-T-A-I-N.” Eight letters not sequenced in the manner that my young fragile mind had committed to only just a few years ago.

I would think that most kids would diligently sit at the table and recite the sequence until they had it right and could spell the word on their own; but not me. It occurred to me fairly early in the exercise that in a test that would ask me what a ‘mountain’ is, there was no way to get around it without actually spelling the word in the question! You ask me what a ‘mountain’ is; at least I know how it is spelt.

While this might seem simple and straightforward, it set in me a sense of work ethic that ensured that I not waste time on avoidable details. Interestingly my brain, now not compelled to remember rewarded me by quickly absorbing the information!

This in a way probably explains how a lot of great inventions, such as the discovery of penicillin or flight, happened accidentally. Sometimes you miss the forest for the trees and all that kind of gakooky. So incredibly by asking my brain not to remember, what my brain was doing was by remembering what I asked it to do it was actually remembering what I had asked not to! An epiphany? Let’s just call it a Talatism.

Simply said we pay too much attention on the details and not so much on the facts. Like the time I got a ‘C’ in history or geography when I was in the fifth grade, my father was irritable until I pointed out that we’d laugh at the test sheet in five years. Naturally he was not much amused at the time, but I am pretty sure that at the end of those five years my grade was duly forgotten let alone matter.

Like they say, “don’t sweat the small stuff.” It’s nice to also know that given the right perspective (and time) “everything is small stuff.”