“Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see, and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.” – Stephen Hawking
“When you reach for the stars, you are reaching for the farthest thing out there. When you reach deep into yourself, it is the same thing, but in the opposite direction. If you reach in both directions, you will have spanned the universe. ” – Vera Nazarian
This month we explore what it means to be a member of the universe. We are one part of a larger whole, a resident of a vast world beyond ourselves, but we belong here just as much as anyone else.
Writers and artists this month convey the large human and natural worlds in which we find ourselves, and how we integrate that reality into our lives.
Fabio Sassi’s technicolor images meld together artifacts of modern life: product names, advertising, and technology.
Terry Tierney, in an interview on his recently published historical novel Lucky Ride, describes how his characters’ lives intersect with both the specific history of the 1960s and broader human experiences. He draws on road trips as both reality and metaphor, looking at how travel and a change of scene helps when we attempt to make sense of our lives.
Michael Robinson writes of the spiritual redemption he finds through Easter and his Christian faith.
Umar Yogiza evokes the shadows of death and grief (as well as the title of our publication) in his poetry, which explores the dislocation of personal and public loss. J.J. Campbell evokes disillusionment on a smaller, yet still personally relevant scale, with faith, with romance, and with his own body. Peter Cherches explores mortality and the limits of our creative imaginations with whimsy.
Susie Gharib contributes poems of imagination. Her speakers indulge the worried speculations of a creative mind and highlight their determination to carve out the independence to maintain that state.
Cortney Bledsoe writes of shaky mental health and grief and the various stratagems by which we keep ourselves alive. Mark Young evokes our confinement within the mystery of our existence, where different forms of knowledge are our means of escape.
“The goal oflife is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.” – Joseph Campbell
Mahbub’s poetic speakers highlight how they are connected to the broader natural universe. We all experience birth and death, we all are physical creatures.
Chimezie Ihekuna’s essay urges humanity to work together with nature to improve overall health as a means of addressing pandemics.
“Kindness keeps the universe fastened into place.” – Maureen Joyce Connolly
Poet, musician, and DJ Ike Boat describes his project to feed homeless children in Ghana.
Abdulloh Abdumominov writes of the seasons, creative writing, family – all aspects of life that can be preserved and celebrated when we have international peace.
J.K. Durick’s speakers speculate into the lives of others: an elderly woman who dies while on a walk, tornado survivors on the news, Chekhov characters, aware of the limits of their imaginations.
Santiago Burdon’s visual poem depicts a woman worn down and bled dry by the harshness of city life. Mike Zone’s anti-hero Roadrunner character takes on real evil: coyotes perpetrating human trafficking in the desert.
Steven Hill’s consciousness expands at night until he grows to encompass many voices beyond his own: Ukrainians, Chinese forced labor survivors, Rohingyas, Black people experiencing racism in the United States.
We hope that this issue will broaden readers’ points of view to encompass the worlds around them. Thank you very much for reading and for opening up to the wider world within our international publication.
Thingin’
Thing one says to thing two, “Let me tell you a thing or two.”
Thing two says, “Do tell.”
Thing one tells. “Two things were thinging when the phone rang.”
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” thing two asks.
Thing one ignores thing two and continues telling. “Thing one picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’”
“Thing,” the voice on the line said, “let me tell you a thing or two.”
“‘Do tell,’ said thing one,” thing one says.
The voice continued. “‘The voice continued,’ thing one said,” thing one says.
“What did the voice say?” thing two asks.
“I can’t say,” thing one says.
The voice continued.
Thing one continues.
Thing two tunes out.
Thing one signs off.
The voice continues.
“Do tell.”
If Only
It, to all appearances. It could be mistaken for. Warm to the touch. Just the other day. Hard to find these days. Only when nothing else. It was, she remembered. Could it be? Hard to find in these parts. She remembered, back in college. How long had it? If you touched it with the tip of your tongue, you could taste it. But that was. If only. If only.
Planned Obsolescence
There once was a thing that could foresee its own obsolescence. A seer, this thing, a foreseer. They say humans are the only creatures that are conscious of their own inevitable death, but what about things? And are they even correct, those who say that among all earth’s creatures, only humans are aware of their own mortality?
People have consciousness, but things? I can foresee my own mortality, I guess you could say my own obsolescence. When we speak of “planned obsolescence” we’re speaking of things, not people, yet surely we can apply the term to people, wouldn’t you say? We, the people, are aware of our own planned obsolescence.
As for the thing that could foresee its own obsolescence, I am that thing, writing this thing.
The Book I Imagine
I’m imagining a book I’d like to write. I imagine a shape. Shapes. I can almost hear the loud parts, and the quiet ones. I imagine pages, more than I’ve ever written before. Tension and release. Hot and cold. I imagine what it would be like to read the book I’m imagining, sometimes gripping, sometimes confusing. Elusive. Slippery. A laugh here and there. A sky full of unfamiliar constellations. But no plot. No characters. Those I can’t imagine. There are limits.
The Blend
I had forgotten how delicious this coffee was. I don’t know what compelled me to buy this particular blend again after so long. Monday used to be a sad thing, back to work. Retirement fixed that. I love Marvin, but that mischievous cur chewed up my reading glasses, and now I can’t get on with that book I was reading, Survival for Dummies. Yeah, the coffee’s great; I haven’t had this blend in years, used to be my personal custom blend, three-quarters Kenya Double-A and a quarter French Roast Mexican Altura. Delicious. We used to drink it together, she and I. I haven’t had it since she left.
Peter Cherches has published five collections of fiction and creative nonfiction since 2013, most recently Masks: Stories from a Pandemic. Called “one of the innovators of the short short story” by Publishers Weekly, he’s also a jazz singer and lyricist. He’s a native of Brooklyn, New York.
Devotion of Faith
There was a purpose for the Stations of the Cross.
Good Friday night he carried a cross on his back.
A night of darkness when he was crucified alone.
Easter Sunday recognition of life given for me.
God's affection to reunite my soul lost to him
Jesus' deliverance for my soul suffering alone
Faith restored a soul which lived in misery.
Fear of death was conquered by Jesus’ death
Life eternal to live among the stars of heaven.
At the Witching Hour
My witching hour is not past one, or two, or three.
It could be any time of the night or day.
On a dark, moonlit, or sunny stage,
my contemplation unlatches a gate
through which each ghost or demon parades.
He that denied the visionary type of dream
little knew how we remain in our sleep awake
and commune with the dead, the living,
the little, and the great.
At the witching hour, I bandaged the injured arm of a friend
who lived on a different continent.
I saw the wave that galloped and gaped
to swallow the coasts of distant states,
and I prayed
in churches whose locations remain vague,
simply because they’re not replicas
of what my subconscious portrayed
of past events.
Lady Penrhyn“In a very ugly and sensible age, the arts borrow, not from life, but from each other,” Oscar Wilde.
I stand before Lady Penrhyn, the convict ship
and think of Turner and Stevie Smith,
of Joan transported into a sheet
on a no-return, perennial trip.
What would I find on Wainewright’s board?
Did he leave behind a poet’s scrolls,
some portraits he hid from the world,
or the poison he wore in his ring?
Would I find his victims’ ghosts,
or innocence appealing to a misguided mob
who loves to chew on human flaws
since slander has always been the mode
with which uniqueness is destroyed?
[Inspired by Thomas Griffiths Wainewright’s painting Lady Penrhyn, Stevie Smith’s poem “Deeply Morbid”, and Oscar Wilde’s essay “Pen, Pencil, and Poison”.]
Benighted
They have terrorized the marrow of your eyes,
so you stream music to ward off the evil at my side,
your warning that no savior will arrive,
and we’ll perish, as we lived, quite wide apart.
Your firmly-closed lips
can never reproduce that characteristic smile,
which has made you immortalized
in a child’s mind.
The pallor of your face is the shroud
that will obscure the sun and every star
from my sight
for as long as I am alive.
I view your picture,
the electronic guide.
It will bear no fingerprints,
no scent,
or a trail into the past,
just another mirage
in a life that was benighted from the very start.
Abominate
I know now why the placid sea
brings into my eyes a wealth of tears:
that untainted blueness
is now what I cannot attain.
They have tarnished my heart
with unremitting enmity.
Their implacable hatred
has seeped into my brain
and forgiveness is no longer
my salient trait,
for now I abominate
their abhorrent names.
Weird
I admit that I have earned the epithet weird
for taking my little dog for a stroll three times a day –
a dog I adopted and snatched from a cage,
whose nose had borne the brunt of the penal cane –
when I should have been smoking the hubble-bubble with friends,
complaining about the vapidity of everything,
or rather flirting with a man who spits on the street
a hundred and sixty-eight times a week!
I admit that for you I must be very weird,
for befriending my inanimate books,
abandoning a species who chews on news
that specializes in slander and ridicule,
that reduces the living to hilarious cartoons.
Better be a weirdo,
the object of your churning tongues
than an empty-headed parrot
with a polluted mouth.
Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK
MOK - Cooked With You & Radio Maxx 105.1 FM
MOK is simple abbreviation or acronym for the Maxx Orange Kitchen is the charitable initiative made possible by kind courtesy leadership and management of the Orange Broadcasting Brand - OBB, thus Radio Maxx 105.1 FM in Takoradi at the heart of the Western Region, Ghana.(West Africa). According to authentic information available, it’s been fifteen (15) solid years of making this event worthy course to the young masses as a means of continuously feeding the less-privileged kids on the street of Takoradi in the south-western part of Ghana.
Factually, before making this out-door program successful there’s often Audio-Promo, Live Presenter Mention (LPM) and Announcement to the general public on Radio Maxx 105.1 FM to ensure donations of food items of all kinds such as bags of rice, chicken, soft drinks, canned or tin products, bottled as well as sachet mineral water and other edibles which go through cooking process then sharing to street kids in the city of Takoradi, Western Region, Ghana. It certain, some comes from the sister city of Sekondi and its environs to participate as well.
MOK 2022 took place on the street of Liberation Road, close to Market Circle which is under re-construction in Takoradi. In the early hours of Easter Monday, 18th April,2022 - chairs, tables, canopy and public address sound system to ensure music playing as well as live monitoring of on-air programs by the organized media company, Radio Maxx 105.1 FM became available at the street-venue of MOK. There’s loading and off-loading of food items donated by some cherished listeners of Radio Maxx 105.1 FM, precisely from the station’s premises located at Essikafo-Ambentem No.2, close to Bethel Methodist Church in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana.(West Africa).
It’s comely to catch glimpse of key voluntary support by the members of Mike Foundation as a youth-dominated Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) through their respectable cooperation to ensure success of the Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK 2022. Certainly, some volunteers were chosen through directive and decision of the radio station’s CEO, Sir Maxwell Okyere Ahenkorah, an expatriate of the United States of America.
MOK 2022 experienced unusual down-pour, thus intermittent drizzles and heavy rainy moments. Well, regardless of the boisterous nature of windy conditions, it didn’t change the general atmosphere or it never stopped the event or attendees of both young and old folks to enjoy delicious cooked rice, stew and chicken as well fried fishes, meats and soft drinks served on the street blocked with barricades i.e.(Liberation Road) in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana, West Africa. Interestingly, although the main purpose of Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK is to feed kids of all walks of live on the street. It’s realized many adults couldn’t cope with the fact that only kids had to fill their bellies on such a festive season of Easter to their satisfactory merit.
Hahaha, LOL! - Hunger is there for old too! As I over-heard one woman say that emphatically to my ready-to-hear ears. Well, with respect to the target, it’s meant to feed over Five Thousand (5000) street kids in the Sekondi/Takoradi metropolis, Western Region of Ghana, West Africa. On mind visual recollection and reflection, when boisterous winds set-in it’s all hands on deck to hold canopies firm on ground to ensure stability and non-disastrous atmosphere as electrical equipments also needy safety to avoid accidental occurrence of fire out-break at the scene.
MOK 2022, had the following industrious leaders and staff-body of Radio Maxx 105.1 FM playing vital roles at the out-door venue on Liberation Road in Takoradi, Ghana. Indeed, the mastermind CEO as well the Boss, Sir Maxwell Okyere Ahenkorah, being quite instrumental in bringing the cooked rice, stew, fried chicken, fishes, meats and take-away packs to the street-venue. Better-still, he also did very well during collection of donation and compilation of the donor’s and sponsors details as well as particulars. Also, he being part of the packing of food items at his office and other rooms of the radio station is quite memorable and shows the quality of a leader, leading by example in terms of event organizing.
More-so, next to give a worthy mention is the General Manager of Radio Maxx 105.1 FM, popularly known as Mantse, a church leader Reverend Alexander Nii Sackey, host of early morning devotional program dubbed Maxx Morning Bells - MMB. Indeed, this man has been so committed to the Orange Broadcasting Brand - OBB since its early years as well as movement from different geographical locations within its catchment areas of Takoradi and beyond.
To be precise, he helped to convey soft drinks, bottled and sachet water from the station’s premises to the street-venue, aside breaking of ice blocks to freeze the drinks in the refrigerators meant for the Maxx Orange Kitchen (MOK 2022). Amongst other things, he also supervised the happenings and made reasonable decisions in the absence of the CEO Sir Maxwell Okyere Ahenkorah, when the going got tough on the street-venue of event. The on-air presenter of the mid-morning show Maxx Metro Mix (MMM) as well marketing executive, Sir Harold Ewusi also contributed well to and fro in relation to the needed items and other equipments at the station’s premises and street-venue. The likes of DJ Asabir, DJ Mike G and Ebo Smith were also solid to ensure music playing and sound technical assistance on the street-venue. Of course, it’s scene of all hands on deck so Ayatullah Abass (Kendrick) on-air presenter of Maxx Over-Drive (MOD) fame also did well as he later went to do presentation on the radio.
Some female staff were seen round including Bettina Sweetie Doie, as she also did well with the serving, loading and off-loading of food items, alongside the technician Sir Sylvester and Angel…… It’s obvious Sir Philip Ampofo, who’s hosted me and promoted Synchronized Chaos Magazine a couple of times as Anchor of the Joy 99.7 FM - Super Morning Show (SMS) also contributed directly and indirectly to bring about ultimate success of the Maxx Orange Kitchen (MOK 2022).
Also, not forgetting Sir Henry Aggrey (MC Clenzy), and Mr.Gabi Ampiah of Sunday Evening Gospel Train, they all did brilliantly well behind the scenes as well as ensuring LPM of the donations made possible by audience of the Orange Broadcasting Brand - OBB, Radio Maxx 105.1 FM (Magic Music Station - MMS). Notwithstanding, some members of staff were not present at the street-venue of the event but they also contributed effectively to this year’s Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK.
MOK 2022 had contribution of items and donation of cash from the following companies and benevolent individuals: Akroma Plaza Hotel, TICO, Raybow International Hotel, Ghana Water Company Limited, Jomra Electricals, One King Mineral Water, Philnock Enterprise, Voltic Cool Pack, Agwils Enterprise (Inchaban), 1st Gate Supermarket (Kojokrom), Elok Jewelry, Nana Yaw Pinto, Eagle Nest, National Investment Bank - NIB, Zenith Bank, First Samuel Enterprise, Red Run Pizza, Sally’s Akwaaba Boutique, Mr. Godfred Teledzi, Miss Chima Obi, Aniyak Guest House, NPP Loyals, Ghana Police Service, Sekondi-Takoradi Metropolitan Assembly - STMA, Maa Anita (EcoBank) and all anonymous donors.
However, not forgetting generous heart of another VIP media figure, Mr.Kwame Adu-Mantey - CEO of Focus 1 Media, he also donated tremendously to support such a worthy course of Maxx Orange Kitchen (MOK 2022).
Well, as a writer of this Arti-Blog what I also did was new English audio-promo for the Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK as part of on-air publicity apart from the creative poetic piece which stated MOK in the last stanza, dubbed Two Decades Of Orange Enjoyment #2DOE. It’s a means to promote the MOK 2022 as well s 20th Anniversary Celebration slated to take-place on 5th November, 2022. Better-still, physically I also assisted during loading and off-loading of donor’s products t the station’s premises and street-venue of MOK respectively. More-so, airing of the processes and procedures to donate on Sunday Evening program Gospel Train as a Guest-Panelist, thus it’s also effective to the glory of God and humanity. Nevertheless, the rains which occurred might have associated with divinity as a means of our Creator’s showers of blessings upon us being conscious generous care-givers in the society of poverty-stricken people.
As Maxx Orange Kitchen - MOK is annual charitable event to kids on the street, and then you’re welcome to partner with us via Call or WhatsApp the following Numbers: +233207174878, +233243445144, and +233243734791
Thanks for taking time to read.
Name: Ike Boat
Email: ikeboatofficial@gmail.com
Call/WhatsApp: +233 267117700, +233 552477676
Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/ikeboatofficial1
Country: Ghana, West Africa.
Doing the Work
My therapist thinks being
polite is the same as faith,
a habit, worn long enough—
like a crate-trained soul—I smile.
This is how we patronize
each other, her and me
and God. If I promise to jump
at the thunder, He promises
not to burn me from the
ground up. With her, it’s just
cash. She asks
if I have any
friends. I say too many has always
been my problem. That’s not
the right word. What I mean
to say is that when I was younger,
I never woke up alone, but
I never slept, either. Let me
tell you a joke. What does
a gangster cat say? (In an Edward
G. Robinson voice) Meow, see,
meow. My daughter and I made
that up together. Maybe you had
to be there. To put it another way,
if I open my mouth, what do you
think will come out? Dirt daubers
crawling on my tongue, which
is another way of saying writer’s
block, the smell of mud, which
is another way of saying death.
But I paw through the nests,
looking for the sound of my own
voice before I lost the accent,
the mud for my father’s approval.
When I was a boy, and the sickness
took her, my mother would howl
late into the night, me lying
in the dark, listening to the animal
that had gotten in, waiting for it
to find me and feed. I’m not trying
to complain. Lots of my friends
had much harder lives than I
until they died. She asks why
I’m here, and I say I’m buying time.
I’m tired. I’m going to kill myself,
but I can’t today. I have an
appointment. Give me a decade.
Help me find the strength, somehow
to last that long. Not that I’m implying
in any way that it would be your
fault. She nods, and I’m grateful
for her so obviously practiced
sincerity; the last thing I need
is to fling a craving on some
body. Here is a list of ways I’ve
tried to die. Water, wind, a bullet’s
kiss, the things of the world
I’ve swallowed. I’ve got so much
going for me, I can barely stand.
This is why I don’t own a gun.
Do you drink or do drugs? She asks.
That’s a kind of trust exercise
with the world I’m not prepared
to take, I say. The only thing
I remember about my mother’s smell
is urine. Maybe, if I could’ve
saved her, I could forgive myself
for still being alive. But forgiveness
is a myth; eventually, you just
forget to be angry. Let’s not talk
about me anymore. She says,
Okay Here’s an exercise. I want you
to write about your trauma.
When that’s done, I want you
to run as far away from it as you
can. And then have a snack or soothe
yourself in some way. I can hear rain
outside as I type this, working on
its aim. Maybe I’ll order pizza.
***
Some Thoughts on Moonflowers
Skitterings in the night, like
bristly feet and dripping teeth.
I am not butter, I don’t
care what the pamphlets say.
You may not fry anything in me.
Magic lacks melatonin, which
is why it hides from the sun.
Ask anyone who knows.
Shadows. Moving lights.
If all the evil could shut
the fuck up that would be
great. I’m trying to die, here.
My head hurt for days because
I couldn’t afford to keep up
with my meds. Don’t tell me
it’s about anything other than
greed.
It’s always raining somewhere
n mi hart. *tap tap*
Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.
Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.
Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.
When I go on meds, I can’t see anything
inside my head, so I have to write
to have thoughts.
It’s about keeping myself safe because
the squeaky wheel gets evicted.
On a scale of one to ten tell me how
Capitalism is treating you today.
The first two don’t count.
These nights when I’m waiting to be
recycled, I think about the warmth
of your body in my arms
and remember there was a time
however brief
I didn’t feel alone.
haha no take backs.
***
Mary Oliver
I’m supposed to tell you a story
to make you forget how sad it is
you’re going to die without having
enjoyed most of your life. Well, okay.
Nature is a good start, like how these
little gray birds roll in the dust on
a path outside my apartment, avoiding
the broken glass, stray cats. They do
it because their bodies make too much
oil, which is good for helping them be
aerodynamic, but not when it’s too much.
This is a metaphor for how adaptations
often overwhelm our lives. But it’s also
about birds, so Mary Oliver can eat it.
But not really, because she’s really good,
if you’re the kind of person who can
afford a garden. I still need a joke, though.
They’re hard, especially in poetry, which
is supposed to be too pretentious to laugh
at itself. Here’s one my daughter is working
on:
Knock knock.
(Who’s there.)
Doorbell repairperson.
(Doorbell repairperson who?)
Ding dong.
She’s still working on it. She’s eight.
Don’t be so fucking judgmental.
***
Remember the Lightning and Her Sister Darla
Back then, the world existed in 4 minute slices,
radio friendly, and capable of being shined
with the right spit. We never listened to
the words because we trusted the censors, not
realizing they were dying like the rest of us.
Pastries tasted like sugar, and funny colors
didn’t matter in a beverage. This morning,
I dumped out my leftover intentions in
the parking lot so I could recycle the cup. Maybe
a flower was trying to grow from that concrete.
I followed a man to the stairs—give me
the confidence of an old man in shorts
and sandals, black socks worn without irony,
and an overwhelming need to chat with strangers.
I was never that unable to question others’ desire
for my company, and I have mania. Inside,
everything is animal, including my shirt. Every
day, I forget the color of the sky until I sneak
out and ask someone. Most times, they look
from one to the other and shrug. I finally
petitioned to get a screen put up. It flashes “blue
and sometimes gray” from dawn until dusk.
I still ask because I don’t like to believe. Back
then, the sky was always forgetting me. Lightning
asked my name at parties, so it knew who to avoid.
Now, I see it on my morning commute. Ugly
tie and khakis. Sleeveless blouse the wrong
color for its skin. Its sister Darla got married
and divorced a long time ago. She’s back
from the coast, but no one seems to know
which one. Kids and debt. When I catch the last
elevator with the lightning, it’s shaking its head,
shocked at the state of things, like us all.
Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue: https://medium.com/@howtoeven Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.
The Human-Centered Solution To All Problems
Problems abound everywhere. Some have retraceable origins while others remain mysterious. Humanity has been plagued by an array of problems-from birth to death-through the ages. It is amazing how man has been able to fashion ways to live with them throughout time. Harboring problems has become the second nature of man!
In some ways, humans have successfully engineered problems, detrimental to their continued existence and, as a consequence, knowingly and unknowingly, challenging Mother Earth-humanity’s habitat. The consequences are enormous. An instance is the human-known diseases. Spanish Flu, malaria, HIV/AIDS, SARS and so on, to the recent COVID-19 virus have spelt in plain sight man’s knowledge towards destruction, self-deliberate or not.
There are problems transcending the understanding of logic. This is an integral part of man’s reasoning designed to tackle problems (of course, known) through a three-dimensional analysis-the physical length, width and height of concerned situations. For example, the issue of malaria in the light of its height of destruction of human lives, length of time of infliction and magnitude of harm in the lives of people of all ages. Man was able to eventually come up with a cure via proper medical analysis (logic). The use of penicillin as invented by Alexander Fleming set the pace for subsequent medical remedies to the once-upon-a-time pandemic.
However, what happens if logic proves futile in attempt to approach problems that are said to the mysterious? An analogy is the situation of a young individual (X, say). X is healthy and strong. X diets properly, engages in good exercise routines and does regularly go for medical check-up. X is certified ‘healthy’. On a weekday, X decides to take the usual rest, having worked for a couple of hours, Sadly, X refuses to wake up! Despite all efforts to revive X the medical way, it is discovered that X has passed! Any proper (logical) explanation to the sudden demise of X? Of course, man’s logic is conspicuously a failure in that case. To some folks, the saying ‘God gives, and God takes’ would be pronounced and ‘Such is life’ would be heralded by others-all in attempts to console those related to the deceased individual. They simply cannot explain the mystery behind X’s death!
Arguably, man has decided to embrace problems as they come. He is of the belief his advent in the world is faced with problems. Mankind has reasoned, ‘despite attempting to find solutions to lingering (physical) problems, more problems have consequently emerged.’ Humanity seems to realize the more the approaches to curb the ‘levels’ of problems disturbing its existence, the higher the ‘devils’ they pose on its entirety.
What is the way out of the conundrum? Is there a possibly lasting solution to the vicious cycle of problems-the ones that are seen and unseen? Those questions are typically asked by people whose concern for humanity’s plight is paramount. Napoleon Bonaparte once said: ‘Impossible only exist in the dictionary of fools.’ For every problem lies a solution.
The reality of what we have come to embrace exists within the framework of perception. Simply, we see reality or the way things are based on what we are told and that forms our very perception-what would become ‘our reality’. If we chose to change our perception, we change our reality. A change in perception in terms of harmonizing with nature-appreciating the universal elements of water, earth, fire and wind through learning, enhanced by the powers of creativity and imagination is the door-way to finding a benefit-yielding human-centered solution facing all and sundry.
Through that, the man’s body would be free from being in a ‘dis-ease’ state-obviously obliterating ‘disease’-thereby positioning one to savor the health of creatively bringing to attention the wealth of the learnt-about nature’s harmonization. The imagination, over time, of an egalitarian, utopian and El-Dorado society would be a possible depiction of change in perception (again, in terms of harmonizing with nature through appreciating the universal elements). That’s the human-centered solution to all problems!
