Letters

                     To the most esteemed and revered reader, of whom it is my utmost wish that this letter should find them well and in charitable agreement to concern themselves with my meager and rude commentary,

 Aghast I stand, trembling with envelope in hand at the horror that graces mine eyes!  A letter opened before me leaks sweet melancholy into my soul; it is inerrant, polite, humble, the best I've had in ages and such a cause for strife.  For why ought this bill from Visa be the most agreeable and formal correspondence I receive?  I am sick at it's perfection.  How often I have received emails from dear friends and loved ones that do not contain but a fragment of the courteousness of my credit statement?  Why should an automated computer afford me the respect of "Dear Sir" whilst my own colleagues begin our academic exchanges with "Hey"?   Why is the Visa credit team "Sincerely at Your Service" whilst my own University signs off with no more than "Regards"?  Oh how precious little their regards mean to me now!  I am aweary with dispair.  How torturous it will be to watch the slow deterioration and death of custom!  How I wish it were already done, that this envelope in my hand were the funeral pamphlet of chivalry rather than a cruel reminder of what is still dying before me. Writhing and withering, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.  I am sick of death, but I open the message anyway.

Please consider me evermore,
     
                     Your most obedient and humble servant,




Dorian Gray,    Esq.

People Watching

"Crikey that's a big one!"
             
           -Steve Irwin


When you start people watching something funny happens.  All of a sudden you're removed from humanity.  You're the watcher, not the watched.  I think that we define ourselves in relation to people.  When we separate from them this definition starts to get blurry.  Who we are no longer matters.  It is no longer tangible to us simply because it is no longer tangible to them.  We are the watcher, the other, the detached eyes floating somewhere between elsewhere and nowhere.  We are the player on the bench.  We can watch the game without having to exist in it.  Most of all, we don't have to play by its rules.

Now comes a stern woman, middle aged, hair cropped short, tight lips and no sense of humor.  She's going to meet someone.  To say goodbye.  The heels don't look good on her.  They look good on the world, but not her.  She hates her tweed pencil skirt but wears it anyway.  A young businessman stares at her ass.  She notices and wants to break his neck; it's a good thing we didn't do that.  Then she's gone.

The businessman looks competent and he wants it that way.  If we noticed the faint smudge of red nail polish on the knot of his tie we'd know that it wasn't tied by him.  He never knew his father.  If we saw the new stitching on the cuff of his tailored pant leg we'd know that it wasn't tailored for him.  If we saw the bead of sweat running from his hairline behind his left ear we'd know he was nervous.  If we paid more attention when he bumped into the balding senior we'd have known he was preoccupied.  But we didn't.  So, we saw a businessman.  Then he's gone.

The balding senior looks good today.  He has a jump in his step that he hasn't had for a long time.  He's wearing jeans and a red sweater and he looks good.  Here is a man who was on his way to the top once.  Two cardiac arrests and a pulmonary bypass later and his money is nearly gone.  The clothes, cars, everything sold for the last medical bill.  Now he's fiddle fit, on his way back up.  That's okay, because he'll make it this time.  And money, no matter how much, is always a fair trade for life.  Then he's gone.


If we knew that the stern woman was a lieutenant, that in three days time she would fly back to Afghanistan, that in thirty-one days time she would lose her leg from an IED, we might have been more grateful to her.  But we didn't know that.  So we weren't.

If we knew that the businessman wasn't a businessman, that he was on his way to court, that in three hours time he would be found guilty of a crime he didn't commit, we might have liked to testify for him.  But we can't have known that.  So we couldn't.

If we knew that the balding senior's pump dislodged just then, that he would be dead in thirty-one seconds time, we might have wanted to run to him.  We might have told him that his old suit helped a young man feel confident in a most helpless time.  We might have told him that his daughter would be a hero.  But we hadn't known that.  So we didn't.


Small fragments mean little.  The big picture means everything.  Sit out of the game for a while and you start to see how beautiful it is.  Sit out of the game for a while, and you start to realize how much you want to play.  And, well, crikey that's a big one!




d.

Poppies

A red blossom on my gray lapel.  Men don't normally wear flowers.

A puff of moisture as I exhale.  Gone in the crisp November air.


A boy in front of me plays with a transformer.  It's hard to remember what you don't yet understand.

A man behind on his cell phone.  It's easy to forget what you've known for so long.


A soldier in shiny boots.  Being motionless is less painful with fifty men to your left.

A soldier with bare hands.  It's less cold with fifty men to your right.


An old man with a walker.  He isn't in anyones way today.

A veteran in a faded uniform.  It's hard to stand but he does it anyway.


It's harder with so few to his right.  So few to his left.

Harder than last year.


A cannon thumps in the silence.  I can feel the shockwave in my chest.

A cannon thumps in the silence.  A heartbeat alongside my own.


I remember someone lost.  It's hard not to cry now.

A tear streams cold down my cheek.  I cry anyway.


I'm glad I did.







d.

The Fifty Shades

Having never read the book, there is little that I can conjure up about it in our Gray Space.  Thus, I'll keep things brief.

1.) This blog is not one of the shades, thank you very much.

2.) It sounds like porn, I wouldn't read it if I were you.

cheers,

d.

On Plagiarism

Is the world not in a sad state regarding this issue?  So selfish and greedy we have become, that each little idea, innocent and helpless, is skewered with a giant flag to mark its ownership.  Those who attempt to represent the idea flag-free are locked up, fined exorbitant amounts of money or booted from University.  While we’re still lucky enough to be children, a stern lecture on the capitol offense of plagiarism might suffice. 

Imagine I give you a gift.  It’s heavy, and wrapped in metallic green paper, and you think that you may want it.  Maybe it’s a plaything.  Maybe it’s a tool, something useful.  Perhaps it’s even a fragment of something, that missing piece you’ve been looking for.  Now I tell you that you must give me a gift back, if you want to open your present.  “How rude,” you might say to me.  If I’m unlucky, you might say something even worse about my poor custom.  And yet so too is the way with academia!  So too is the referencing and copywriting system we’re told is so sacred!

If I’m fortunate enough, some of what I’ve written, or rather will write, may seem wise to you.  In that case, consider this blog as a gift given freely.  If you fancy any idea please use it in whichever fashion you like.  Do not repay me with the gift of a reference, for such gifts are in the medium of glory.  I deserve no glory for what you find in the pages to follow.  They were not written by me, but rather through me.  The true author is my Muse.  So I invite you to use what is written freely, and in doing so my Muse may become your muse.  He may speak through you too and, hopefully, the glory that you have not wasted on me may be perfected onto Him. 

Let us break the cycle.  Use freely what I can offer.  Mold it, add to it, change it into something entirely new, into something all your own.  And when you give it to the world, give it free.

Yours,

d.

A Note to the Reader

The Gray Space is not meant to be a journal.  I will not treat you like the pages of my diary.

It is not a rant.  I will not treat you as a silent enemy, a punching bag.  


The Gray Space has no illusions of grandeur.  I will not speak as if the world were listening.

It is not a show.  I will not try to entertain you.


Most of all, The Gray Space is not narcissistic.  

Caravaggio, "Narcissus", Oil on Canvas, c. 1594-6

Narcissus, consumed by his own image, would not leave the shore from which he watched himself.  Possessed by his beauty, he would stare into his reflection day after day.  So, the legend has it, Narcissus would have looked himself in the eye as he died by that pool.

There is no life to be found inside oneself.  So too, this blog will have no life if it simply serves as my reflection.

As a reminder to myself, I have chosen to write under the pseudonym Dorian Gray.  The man who could not look at his image. 

Ever since I was a child, when I did math, I would close my eyes and see sandbar green numbers, equations, formulae, scrawled across the blackboard of my eyelids.

When I would recall a verse of poetry, or a keyword on an exam, I would see it written in a deep blue.

And when I would ponder, philosophize, daydream and work through problems, I always found myself inside a vast Gray Space.  In here, I can conjure up scenery, people, objects, worlds, or nothing.

And so, dear reader, cherished partner, this is all you will ever know about me.  As I will know even less about you.

Welcome to The Gray Space.  Please, come in, sit down.  Let's fill it, together.

Yours,

d.