I am most worried about my future. And my future is not left much enough for me to be fancy-free and footless any longer.
I am worried about how long I will keep the things I want to stay as long as possible. Or will I ever? If I vocalize what I like, it seems to disappear into the ether. Call it an illusion or hallucination even, but it’s only valid. If it is true, when will it end? Why is it always that my simplest wish is considered luxurious vanity? For example, I am worried about how long I will last at my present job. Will I survive another year here where people lose their jobs at the whims and caprice of the Big, middle, and small bosses?
Especially to a person like me who is not gregarious about those I don’t feel comfortable with or relate to, surviving in such a work environment is uncertain, threatening the safety and security of my life.
Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
Scene from The Sylvanians
I should have gone to bed after a long day at the doctor’s office and a trip to the pharmacy to pick up my medication. But today’s prompt question is too inviting to decline.
I used to write weekly episodes of “The Sylvanians” with the pictures I took to illustrate each episode before my brother left us for his life abroad with all the yokes of filial duties thrown at me. I still have the Sylvanian figures and the miniature items used as pictorial illustrations for my episodic writing. By the way, the German Romantic composer Wagner, also Hitler’s favorite composer epitomizing the greatness of the Germanic/Aryan race, used to wear costumes or grand wardrobes as a visual aid to provoke his musical muse.
The stories evolve around Sally
But that was the time when my mother did not need medical/psychological attention daily. That was when I used to work in a boutique law firm with no office politics among staff. Now that I work with and among people who are as philistine as the inhabitants of Earth after the end of the world, my energy is nearly exhausted at the end of a day’s work. Yes, I must gird up the loins of my spirit to push myself to take pen to paper. Still, I am neither a zealous would-be writer who wants to wow the world, nor am I a demimonde of the intellectual elite nor a fabulous amateur writer who wants to exhibit a perfect command of English.
Ad Astra (2019) and The MArtian (2015) from L to R
I know a thing about loneliness: willing and unwilling. It is lovely when it is mixed with white noise, like the sounds of raindrops or bells tolling afar. But too long quiet becoming dead silence unwanted is dreadful and miserable, as if I were forcibly cut off from the rest of humanity. That’s what happened to the spacemen on Neptune in Ad Astra (2019 film) or Mars in The Martian (2015 film) in their fated space odysseys.
Fall from heaven and the man in search of life
Ad Astra shows Major Roy McBride (played by Brad Pitt) is a cinematic version of Classical Greek drama. Roy is a hero because he has conquered his fear of not being true to his sensitive nature. It is also an epic tale of man’s voyage to the end of the world in the sense that he reaches his ideation of dream in truth. One of the most memorable scenes is when Roy falls from the ladders of the International Space Station’s spacecraft to the Earth, a spectacular rendering of the Fall of Man from high to low. Still, it also means an escape from darkness to light, which the Blue Marble symbolizes.
Left Alone On Mars
If Ad Astra is sentimental, the Martian is jovial in approaching a man in solitude. Mark Watney (played by Matt Damon) is a resourceful botanist who makes the possible out of the impossible. His brilliant mind, blended with his adorable wit tipped in cheerful disposition, propels him to survive on Mars and never surrender to hopelessness. Watching Mark growing potatoes on Mars and telling jokes to the camera to cheer him up reminds me of Horace Walpole’s following quote: “This world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” Charlie Chaplin adapted thus: “Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.”
Miss Universe
Man in space seems romanticly adventurous and mysteriously atmospheric. Still, it is a metaphor for being alone, the existential distress with no sense of direction in life with no one to speak to but the sound of silence that echoes loneliness aloud. Yet, those moments of darkness will pass if you let them go away with the will to live. Indeed, Matt Watney is brilliant in figuring out how to live in such an adverse environment, but he would perish soon without his will to live. So is Ron, who could have been lost in space had he given up to disappointment. They are Nietzschean superheroes who have whys to live and thus huddle through any hows. Also, nothing is more beautiful than Earth, sparkling like a gorgeous blue marble. Therefore, there is no point in war, conflict, or any unrest among ourselves because we are all family in Humankind in the universe.
Have you ever felt that no matter how hard you tried not to make the same mistakes, you would turn a full circle as if trapped in a labyrinth? If you have, then you are not alone, and you are not uniquely flawed. Put it bluntly, you are not a loser and will never be.
We live in a society – or in an era inclusively – where uniformed measurement of success in status represents who you are regardless of how long a way you have come despite everything, Unlike Ancient Greeks who valued what individuals had endured and achieved as much as they possibly could under the most depraved circumstances, we look at what our eyes see in the face of the mind because of the misguided belief that only the fittest will survive in the Darwinian theory of evolution. Here in the States, people believe those subsisting on welfare are lazy losers because they are uneducated or less educated. But that’s not the case. People with college degrees also find themselves mired in the rut of life, eager to get even a mime-waged job just to get by lest they should be thrown out to the streets. Sometimes educated people live in poverty, not because they are substance abusers or mentally deranged, but because they have different personal reasons that are not to be generalized under specific circumstances. We are all different, and different people have different needs. Didn’t Depeche Mode sing in “People are people?”
Failure discriminates against none, embraces everyone, and we are one in it. The Beckettian philosophy of failure as a championing, not championed juggernaut of doom echoes the Nietzschean credo of what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Try again, fail again, succeed again. Or fail worse. Better worse. Fail worst. Till you get sick of it for good. Throw up for good, ad nauseam. If you are doing it, you are not alone; I am not alone. We are not alone. Don’t forget about it.
The curtain of the night has drawn. Selene has started her nocturnal promenade with a moon mirror carried on her celestial chariot across the starry highway. Then the earth begins to bellow with great silent roars, trees to dance with leaves rustling in the wind as the chariot is racing, owls to call with their wings flapping, and the hounds howl from the end of the horizon in the glimmering light of the distant stars like lamps flickering in the desolate wilderness amid the haunting sound of Pan’s flute yonder. It’s Hecate’s Time, the Wandering Goddess of Night, appearing from the crossroads with her faithful hounds, heralding the staging of their divine mistress.
Hecate has often been associated with all things witchery, magic, and death, not in the least due to modern-day Wicca practice identified heavily with the Greek goddess, but there’s more to her. She is a protector of the wrongfully accused, a goddess of retribution against injustice and impurity, and an advocate for underdogs. Perhaps, that’s why her animal is a dog, not a cat, which betrays a common association of the latter with someone like her. (In fact, Artemis is the only goddess whose animals are a cat because she was once transformed into it when chased by a besotted man.) Her hounds all have names: Kynegetis (Leader of Dogs from the Orphic Hymn), Kyneolygmate (Howling like a dog), Kynokephalos (Dog-headed), Kyon Melaina (Black Dog), Philoskylax (Lover of Dogs), Skylakitin (Lady of the Dogs). Of all the hounds, Kyon Melnia, aka Black Dog, used to be the wife of the last Trojan King Priam named Hekabe, who threw herself into the sea after the collapse of Troy by the Greeks. Hecate took pity on the queen and transformed her into a great black dog that became her familiar. What a manifestation of divine mercy it was.
It is said that dogs and cats see the spirits of the dead, especially at night. If you have heard a dog howling, another howl, then another, and so forth, as if all of them sing in a canine polyphonic coda. When Hecate’s hounds howl, mortal dogs respond to their divine canine entity as the goddess and her entourage pass by. The hounds also bring victuals offered to Hecate to their mistress at a cemetery where she partakes her daily victuals. So if you think it’s just an ancient myth, listen carefully when your dog or any dog within your earshot howls. It’s either it sees a spirit or Hecate and her nine hounds. For me, well, I have a tabby cat named Toro, and he sees it and them but won’t participate in the chorus because he has her mistress at home.
My letter to the editor of BBC Wildlife was printed in this month’s issue. I wrote about my impression of an illegal primate trade in the UK featured on a previous issue, which reminded me of human slavery where lives were treated as expendable chattel.
The story of TikTok tells the marmoset baby monkey who was rescued from a miserable life as a pet in a birdcage abandoned alone. It raised awareness of animal abuse in mental and physical forms as pets at the mercy of whims and caprice of the owners, who regard them as nothing more than live, expendable toys. TikTok was first bought for its exotic beauty and rarity in the illegal animal market, but the owner soon lost interest in the new pet, forsaking due care owed to him. When TikTok was finally rescued, he was in a state of fear and shock, so he was put together with another rescued older marmoset who cared for him like his son. Looking at the two photos, I thought of enslaved people who were sold off like commodities seen from Alex Haley’s heartrending saga of American black family “Roots.” In the story, humans are perceived and treated as nothing more than talking stock, and therefore the most basic unit of society in the form of family is unthinkable for slaves. Mothers and children are forcefully separated, let alone husbands and wives are for mating purposes only to multiply the population. Such comparison is not a stretch of the imagination but a sheer fact of association.
We have come a long way to the progress of the mind regarding human rights and animal rights compared to the past, or we like to think it so. Perhaps it is our animal instinct to dominate what is perceived as controllable. That is why a force of civilization in the form of rules and law is essential to reining in our unruly and crude id in implementing reason as a way to prevent cruelty against lives. But such rationalism should always complement humanism lest we should act on the mechanism of the mind. And let us not forget that those who mistreat animals also do the same to their human brethren.
Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh 
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