Intention

In response to The Appeal of Automation… Will Eaves

It is not my intention to stay always as I am yet in the history of time I don’t seem to have altered much from that abandoned infant left to fend for itself - defensive and defiant. I can do this, don’t tell me how to do that. Oh, summers pass and the intention wavers and the mood becomes clouded with doubt and the doubts of sinners and all those sins forgotten but nothing especially learnt, not deep down, because the lessons are repelled by the rebellion. The defiant This is Me! Maybe you needed that to survive. Intention doesn’t come into it. It is not my intention to hurt you. But what is your intention? You know what your intention is NOT. What is your intention? Arundhati Roy said - to love and be loved. And a host of other demands, a whole list of ‘never forget’ and ‘make great art’ but I get stuck on number one. ‘To Love and Be Loved.’ Start there. Start at home. Start at the beginning. Love yourself, you idiot. That’s what he said. But how do you start?

Intention. What is my intention in writing this? To become aware, to know myself more fully; to hear my voice; to have a different experience of myself, outside of the usual confines of routinised ways of thinking, of being. To be opened up by the words, the thoughts and feelings of others on the page, in the room and for these to somehow find their way into my consciousness, filtered by my mind-sieve, weighed or floating weightless. This is the hope, to be opened, to open. The intention is just to see what is now here – what has landed, resounded, found a space; what now feels it can come forward from its waiting place, confident of being met, being connected to, not left unattended, unacknowledged. Baggage going round and round the baggage claim; unclaimed cases, anonymous, battered, a flapping strap, overhanging buckle contacting the metal base scraping its way round, grating, the pierced fabric, sliced or somehow otherwise penetrated, intruded into – or opened up. What lies beneath. What are these items that have been carefully collected, folded, compacted, fitted neatly or tossed carefully into these neat confines, these square boxes, rectangles really, not quite all the same. Handles waiting to be grasped. Zips waiting to be drawn back. Contents waiting to be discovered, to be taken out, unfolded, held up, hung up somewhere, stored in drawers, set on the floor; open or hidden from view. Claimed baggage aired at least to some extent, at least temporarily. A chance to breathe. A chance to expand beyond the rectangle, to discover other forms, one’s own true forms. To feel into one’s flow and drape, to – what- clamming up here – words of hang, fall, undulate – but also now of uncertainty. To what end? What do these forms contain, offer. The fear of the irregular, the unknown, the individual. Fear of being disapproved of and stuffed back in a box. Is it better to stretch one’s legs if only for a moment. Small leg space on an airplane. Confined while outside immense space. Thinking of the dogs in M—dog shelter – the row of dogs that hadn’t left their small concrete cages – cells- for 4 or 5 years. Opening up that one cage, and out she bounded.

Intending to appear normal, I chatted away for a few hours to people I have never met and possibly never will again. It's something I have done before and most certainly will do again. I ask all the right questions, I smile and laugh and nod and sip my drink, making sure the sips are not too long, because I want this one drink to last. One drink is all I want, but it seems people find it hard to accept that I might want to be at a party, standing sober. 'Got to drink to have a good time' seems to be the motto. And, ok, I've been there, I've drunk to have a good time, but that was a lifetime ago, when I was so frozen I needed something to make me appear human. Humans crave interaction, humans are sociable, humans need contact, friends, support. Fast forward 20 years and I've taken the alcohol out, but I'm still as awkward as I was back then. Perhaps worst. Now I'm comfortable in my own skin I don't have to feel sorry for myself for not enjoying parties. Yet here I am, pretending I am doing just that. Enjoying myself. But I'm not. I want to run back home and bury my head in a book. Even cleaning at this time of night would be preferable. I am a fake. A pretender. Not human. A shocking introvert. Yet I vomit out words and secrets and thoughts on these pages and read them out to strangers in a cold room. What makes these strangers different from the drinking strangers at the party? Possibly the level of conversation. It's the small chat I can't do. But I try. At least I try... Who am I trying for though? It is not for my benefit and I'm sure they wouldn't give a shit if I died face down on the carpet.

At the start of this New Year I find myself railing against those who make fanciful Resolutions. Selfishly they plan to improve their life chances by a commitment to alter their bodies, by reshaping their physiques. They resolve to spend more time personally enjoying themselves with families and friends. They decide to broaden their horizons by travelling further afield than ever before and to expand their minds by reading and in cultural pursuits. Their aim at self aggrandisement shows little regard for spirituality, for the environment or for lesser creatures. If resolute enough they will become different, but not necessarily better, individuals. However, in January 2018, I’ll declare an intention to stop, or, at least curb, my swearing!