Sensitivity

Recently in an internet forum I was losing my mind trying to explain how the concept of sensitivity is one of the most misused emotional tools of humanity. Seeing how the internet forum is hardly a place for cogent discourse it inspired me to begin posting again here.

So these drunks, drug addicts, and general emotional weaklings who have allowed themselves to be beaten down into submission by the big bad world were talking about walls, and shells, and forgiveness and how sensitive they all were and how so very insensitive other can be. Like the great Ella Fitzgerald sang so beautifully, "cry me a river."

My contention is that all human beings are sensitive. Certainly some are more sensitive than others and in fact, I would even conjecture that should there be an accurate method of measuring this trait, that it would fall along a normal curve . . . 'bell curve' . . . for the mathematically challenged.

The throng, refers to sensitivity in the weak, feminine way when the so called sensitve person gets offended for something insignificant. The throng also refers to sensitivity in a benevolent almost saintly way when used to take their own feelings into account by the same person during a vulnerable moment. This is fine . . . this sensitivity should really be called empathy which is much more accurate but I guess, "You're so unempathetic!" doesn't really roll off the tongue.

The sensitivity I would like to talk about is more like an instrument. Like how photographic film is sensitive to light or like how speakers are sensitive to frequency. In humans this is all the senses combined. For example, vision. Some people have bifocals and some just naturally have high power binoculars in comparison. So if you took all the five senses and added them together you would have the sum total of your sensitivity. Now I think in practise this would be something similar to intuition but I like to think of it as a pure abstraction. Perhaps that is a topic for a completely different article.

This conceptualization of one's own sensitivity is very productive for personal development. First of all, it does away with pop psychology bullshit and even most professional psychology bullshit. Second of all it makes you realize that your feelings or intuitions are your own and only your own and have a value. Not just any value either: the only value you need. Reconciling this value with the values you see around you are certainly difficult but at the very least it they are your own. It does away with insecurity and self doubt because if you develop this idea of trusting your sensitivities, that is, trusting what you feel, then you can quickly come to the realization that there is a lot of work you need to do and things you need to learn in order to create the proper structure for who you are in this world.

Good Luck!

Road and Path

I knew I had to find a ride to Battambang but there didn’t seem to be an organized means of getting one. I was expecting at least some hawkers if not some sort of taxi stand arrangement. One of the guys from the van was negotiating a ride with a pickup truck. I thought I should do the same.

Travelers crossing the border from Thailand into Cambodia are generally on their way to Siem Reap and the ruins of Angkor Wat. The road in between is legendary. I heard all the stories beforehand but I couldn’t help but think, ‘How bad could it be?’ Firstly, the use of the word road is very generous. Trail would be more accurate. A small pothole on this road is comparable to a backyard swimming pool; a large one to a small fishing pond. This is, of course, when you can distinguish between the ‘road’ and the rice patties at all.

Daylight was beginning to wan as we pulled into town. The sunlight peaking through the clouds illuminated the omnipresent dust in the air casting a sparkling veil over the old colonial streets and the rugged faces staring back at me.

The vistas around Battambang were stunning; there were little islands of tropical suburbia; small enclaves of Robinson Crusoe style houses high up on stilts were surrounded with children playing and the elders supervising or playing pool on weathered outdoor tables. We stopped at one of these oases for gas. The children tugged at my clothes repeating, “Money! Money!” They were even trying to get into my pockets.

The gas station was a table filled with old Coke bottles. I was shocked when my driver gave the attendant some notes, pulled the cord and plastic from the top of one of the bottles, and poured it into the gas tank of the moto. We waved goodbye to the children and continued on the dirt road.

“Only two years ago,” he started, “one of the locals was killed on this hill by a mine,” he trailed off with a chuckle. I wasn’t going to take any chances on his sense of humour so I was careful where I put my feet. I found it strange how after a short time I soon forgot the imminent death possibly centimetres from my toes and was nimbly exploring the beautiful temple.

My driver led me into the monastery and began to explain that this was where the prisoners were kept before they were executed. He pointed out some stains on the walls and the floor but didn’t say much else in his usual tone. The glassless windows lined the long wall letting in thick light focused into elongated trapezoids on the floor. A young monk entered just as the driver was explaining that women and children were also kept here. I watched the neophyte in his bright orange robes as he kneeled with his back to the wall at the far end of the room. He was staring right through me. His face was so blank that I began to create a face for him and as I stared the monk turned into a mirror. I saw myself. I picked up my chin from off the floor and exited the prison in a daze.

We continued down a dusty path. My mind was still racing from the illusion when I experienced a mental earthquake as I caught a phrase of the driver’s monologue.

“. . . led down this path to the caves.”

I didn’t break stride but a chill went though me on that very hot, sticky, Cambodian July day. After briefly coming to terms with how lucky I was, I was again fearful for my life.

*

The pace slowed and I could feel the sweat begin to caramelize my skin. My filthy, torn pants hung loosely around my atrophied hips. The ground was tearing at my bloodied feet. I remembered telling my students that they should stand up for what they believe in.

A rifle butt cracked my ribs. I went down to one knee as the guard screamed to move faster. The man behind me attempted to help me up and his nose was broken. The pain would have been more severe if my body wasn’t already numb. After so much beating and torture your body thinks broken ribs are sprained ankles. I stood and continued.

The scenery was beautiful as I approached my fate. We used to run up this hill when we were children and take carrots from the monks’ garden. I told those same children before I was captured that they should stand up for what they believe in. That is probably why I am here. When she left I should have gone too.

My gaze returned to the path in time to see the upper rim to the sinkhole. My mother always warned me to be careful up here. I looked to the guard as the rifle butt was already on its way into my skull.

*

The driver continued, “They didn’t want to waste bullets so they just beat them and threw them in.” Our group was now staring down into the hole. Some people took pictures. My camera remained in my pocket. The images already developed in my mind where enough to appease my future nostalgia for horror.

I could only picture myself falling down, never landing, dissolving into the black. Someone nudged me and the tour continued down to the base of the cave. From above the cave looked bottomless but here everything was clearly lit. The floor of the cave was as immaculate as a floor of a cave could be, unlike the infamous Killing Fields where shards of clothing and human teeth still litter the area. Sitting in the center of the cavern was a large steel cage that looked like something you might have your dog sleep in at night. It was painted red and full of bones and skulls. There was a latch and a small lock in the upper centre where the cage opened from the top and just under it was a small bronze plaque in memorial of the victims.

*

I was still alive at the bottom of the cave. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t feel it anymore. My broken body was oozing blood over the others beneath me. I hit a sharp rock on the fall from twenty metres above that broke my arm. Unable to move, barely able to breath, my last sight as life left me was the blinding sun shining through from the skylight above.

Pan's Labyrinth

If you haven't seen this movie you should. The first reason is that it is a great movie and the most important reason is that it is an excellent test of the composition of your soul.

Although completely unscientific, the amount you cry at the end of this film is directly proportional to the amount of spirit you possess.

1 - holding back tears - some soul but not sure why: read some more books.
2 - unable to hold back tears - above average soul: keep on keepin' on.
3 - cry with funny noises - unbearable reality: go get a bottle of wine with your loved one.
4 - silent shocked tears - yes, you have that much soul: accept it.
5 - cascade of perpetual mourning and laughter - good times ain't it ;-)


If you do not cry at the end of this movie: you have no soul.