Truth under fire.. Part 1 Christian.Apologetics by Robert Fullarton Copyright 2017

Truth under fire.. Part 1   Christian.Apologetics 

by Robert Fullarton

Copyright 2017

These days in the modern world, one looks around the circumference of belief systems and likes to nibble upon each one, enjoying the benefits but ignoring the contradicting believes, or even difficult questions that arise. Its has become a truly “liberal” and “modern” approach to the depths of life. But whatever we see among the scholars and elites of our society, the objective and constructive truth of our forefathers is very much one belief system not to be considered or certainly embraced, because it is the one which is being very cunningly demolished. To often people will be lead by their emotions to ignore the entire process of justice, of what one considers to be evil, and whether evil needs to be eliminated and if so how could it be dealt with. These are metaphysical perils and trials which the ancients have wrestled with over and over again. Truth has not been exterminated by the changing of the times, whether one becomes a modernist or a post-modernist, a vegan or a cannibal, truth remains eternal, despite the many injunctions we have brought against it. Truth is in respect to the many deep questions we ask, which we see in the world today, they corroborate with the deep internal radar we call conscience. We cannot use science against the moral questions of humanity, but rather I believe it supplements the issue, as the ongoing need for not just preservation but elevation of mind, from ignorance to true knowledge, being needed. But knowledge of the truth correlates to knowledge of reality, for he who has not knowledge of the truth will have a foggy and murky view of reality. If men have indeed been called a “fallen creature” then why not consider it to be a truth, as it can be evidently seen, like an ongoing experiment in the social jungle around us. Man’s badness relates to man’s strange desire for something better, despite the social Darwinist’s protestations that the professor makes...

“man is this thing? Who just happens upon this other thing, who happened to come into being one day, but was exterminated another day and really life is just about extinctions in the space of great lengths of time and nothing can really be known or learnt about life, because you see everything you learn makes no sense, and so I understand everything, despite really knowing nothing. But why do I have this preference and this perspective, Yet again I don’t know why, but I do hate that ancient primitive view of there being good and bad, of there being this god who watched me all the time, and made me go to Sunday school, who seemed to be the god of timetables and rule books,  I was told what to do in school, of where the teachers told me that I had to do my homework before Monday morning class commenced and my father really gave me a hard time and told me that if I drank behind the bike shed, that I would be expelled from the church, excommunicated from the school and abandoned by various religious uncles and cast unto the outer reaches of the universe and yes man is a really mean and unkind creature, which I am opposed to, but not why, since I have been conditioned to think so, but cannot agree upon anything being true, other than the meaningless bouncing of atoms in a wide open space in time!”

However the war on objective truth is not just upon metaphysics but concerns the entire spectrum of conservative, traditional and even scientific fact (for instance the changing stance on gender and sexuality and the moral issues of humanity) which represents rather the bent and sway of ideology rather than scientific fact, against proven results and consequences, which are ignored by the supposedly omniscient and omnipotent media, who promote the lies. I can only relate this contagion of untruth to the media manipulation used by the worst dictators of the previous centuries. However the time has come and is really coming when one can call night, day and day night and state blue to be green and green to be blue and murder to be, justifiable and free speech to be a dogmatic crime or taboo. To be honest human power when used wrongly, by the wrong hearts and minds, corrupts absolutely, but also these days tries to destroy the truth in the process. These changes are what Frederich Nietzsche, the German nihilist philosopher predicted where he stated that he wanted a “transvaluation” or re-evaluation of the Christian value system and where he wanted the roots of Christianity to be removed in all traces from society. Of course in time the relativistic and pluralistic society we saw grew in time, and its cannibalising of society and institution only served to bring the house and stage, the mountain atop of man, with the great robustness of Christian society down to a squabbling race of bureaucrats, social deconstructionists, media men and agenda pushers.

Truth concerns the spiritual reality of a spiritual being, whose personality is reflected in the physical being called Jesus Christ, this truth shines into the material world we live in and is seen in the matters of conscience, observed in the forms of excellence in material life which we have beholden, but only understood when such was rightly revealed in proper context, from proper source and understood in proportion to God, measure by measure, the conundrums of reality, that make sense through a revelation. To understand the personality and character of God, is to understand the eternal nature of what is good, complete, perfect in time, essence and morally sacrosanct in the face of untruths. If men choose one idea over another what makes him think such is so and that it is a universal truth, let him examine his own belief system and weigh it up in time and that too is why I believe in God, because I believe it all to be true, this has been a journey, and this has been a rough road to walk, but why walk it, because it is worth it, because it is true. I believe to be so.

Even in difficult times, a man can write, a man can live, men will speak the truth and be punished as they were in the days before our comfortable democracies. Telling the truth has once again come with a prison sentence. These chilling times, come with a passive hatred, a chilly wasteland contains the anger beneath the layers of media based propaganda, hoping once again to rise from the layers of their insincerity.

It is easy to adopt a fashion or a fad, it is easy when a man believes in nothing, because he risks nothing, his reputation can be an insincere facade. However, what is true, is worth defending against the critics for all that is good and sacred, at all times, testing its validity and quality. Step out and risk your reputation and legacy, what have men to do or say? The world of men is so easily damnable and flawed that it is obvious. Who can take man seriously? It is easy to jump into the path of the moving tide and not to go against the aggressive waves of violent atavistic mob rule.

The Crocodile Part 6 Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

The Crocodile

Part 6

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

The flaming candle of the dawn burned through the threads of the iron coloured sky, what was real and unreal? In this fermenting of colour bursting forth from the sky, over every hamlet, farm, steeple and rooftop, over the cobbled canvass of Gustavia, the town crier called at dawn, to rouse the people to work, it was an old tradition, it was dead, it meant nothing in the cobwebbed hearts of the populace, he cried like an omen for the times, he cried while the people slept in their complacency as the age old signs of collapse were a possibility for the avalanche that would demolish Gustavian society! But it needed one final tumult for the facade to fall through!

The wart faced brewers, the coopers, the butchers unloading their cuts of pork, with brandished knives set up business on the market square, with fire wood burning, the revelry of the people danced around the fire, like a fermented madness, they rejoiced, knowing not what nor why they did so, and the mayor rubbed his hands together at the sound of such an occasion, for his sole benefit!

Meanwhile Blomquist feeling cheated and incensed with rage over the Mayor’s capture of his “prized pet crocodile” wondered to himself in a haze that afternoon at his postmaster’s office, whether the experiment had been terminated and cut short or whether he might dare ask the mayor for a sum in cash, for having “trained and tamed the beast and made him into a first class gentleman.” The bounty was tremendous, as the crocodile was bought and paid for from Milkmaster Hummel and had been bought in turn by the zoologist Jan Steiner. Blomquist sat in pensive mood, until he decided, resolutely that the time had come for a visit to be made to Jan Steiner, the quiet, almost reclusive Zoologist, whom few ever saw. Steiner lived out near the river at the edge of the forest, conducting research, his life was one of deep communication with animals, and one could say that he cared more for the animal kingdom than for the world of men. So he sought seclusion on the edge of the forest, to be in mind, soul and body separated from the nucleus of the people of Gustavia.

Jan Steiner was experimenting on the spawn of reptiles, when Blomquist found him completely immersed in his studies. From the eggs of his “exotic collection” came forth a host of freakish creatures, from where the teeth of a host of crocodiles burst forth from their eggs, like the offspring of hell, they possessed a menacing intelligence almost something beyond the comprehension of the common Gustavian. Oozing liquid irrupted out of the cracked eggs, like jelly as the remaining host came forth like reptilian “hoodlums” or vandals, these baby terrors burst forth out of the crates, and ran the gauntlet out of Steiner’s grasp. Steiner tried to clutch one, but every baby crocodile, simply bit his fingers, clutching each finger, with ten baby reptiles, until Steiner spun round, flapped his hands, and tossed the creatures into the confines of his laboratory.

“You little monsters!” Shouted Steiner in full fury, as the creatures scurried out of Steiner’s sight and made a run for the front door, where they squeezed out through the cracks in the wood. The reptilian jailbirds unbeknown to Steiner had made their way into the centre of the town, where the smell of roast pork and marinated chickens wafted out during the annual celebrations from Gustavia’s town square. The people celebrated in merriment by the statue “of the religion of human rights” bowing to the statue as they offered up portions of chicken.

“It is easier for the camel to pass through the needle than for man to tame the crocodile!” Contemplated Blomquist in retrospect who in sheer surprise and depression stood at the door of Steiner’s humble abode. The conclusion and the realisation had long been overdue and Steiner too knew that his tampering and experimentations were akin to something from the fantasies of a mad scientist. The social experiments were soon to prove to be a colossal failure!

The Crocodile Part 5, Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

                               The Crocodile Part 5, Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

                                              

                                                                     IV

Minister Daschund and his beloved Beagles were out walking on a Sunday morning stroll through the arches of the old weaver’s quarter when the sight of a large, fierce crocodile had been spotted “sunbathing” on Lady Forrester’s tin roof shed. The enormous tail protruded outward, the tough leathery, armoured like skin glowed in the gleaming light and the intrigued neighbours began to gather creating a kerfuffle. As the wealthy denizens of Gustavia gathered round the spectacle, some discussed how one should “kill such a creature” and others on how “one should see him as a greatly misunderstood victim of human hysteria and fantasy.” Ultimately however, life was “too comfortable” and the plethora of luxury could “not be disturbed.”  So many simply gazed and gossiped but did nothing, in hope that somebody else would do confront the strange beast.

Peace had made them lazy, this animal was a war like creature whose ancient nature, and instincts made killing a necessity, it was all about the feeding of an insatiable appetite that devoured the slow witted, that devoured the complacency of a sleeping society and a people unwilling to accept the facts for what they were! Peace, their peace would be devoured up too, unless they recognised all that they lacked and how such emptiness was to break, like a bulging barrel, swollen, exploding, with the contents of its noxious poison.

Meanwhile the plump, pompous, self-serving Burgmaster Krauss, spoke to a cautious crowd of chicken farmers, concerned elderly ladies of the Gustavian Tea society, the Musket appreciation society (who fired their muskets and accidently blew in the windows of the local bakery. Such was their clumsy aim!) boys of the Leibnitz Gymnasium and the old bachelors Brewers Lane.

Krauss despite being as blind as a bat, had been declared the Burgmaster, because of the “great service and honour” his father had brought before him in his days as the town’s mayor. But the mayor had often mistaken his guests at Homely Hall when wandering blindly through the vast confines of the manor, with pet spaniels, his touch and senselessness were beyond all patience. Nothing in the world made Krauss happier than the touch and call of his pet Spaniels that led him often in the wrong direction (including the one time when they led him over the edge and into the river, the mayor had to be retrieved by the deputy mayor and his assistants with a fisherman’s net! Krauss could see the shadows of men and just about distinguish between man and beast! Yet the old “sophisticated ladies” of Gustavia swooned and swayed, “oohed” and “aahed” at the sight of the mayor with tear filled handkerchiefs waving and “cooeeing” the blind mayor from his course, from stepping on the right pavement stone and stumbling into the arms of his “adoring” ladies.

Krauss did not know what a crocodile was, he had never seen a crocodile before, and never even been to the Zoological scientist Jan Steiner’s exhibits in Lotharville. His days of opening farmer’s markets, kissing pretty maidens and shaking old ladies hands, had come to its end, as he had to deal with the hysteria and confusion of a people whose pressing demand was a front for their own emptiness of meaning and purpose.

The local “village idiot” Rumpledaen smoch Outen was throwing his pfennigs into the fountain making a wish.

“Lord make me into a strong man, so men will respect me. Why must I be an invalid? What purpose have I to live for, when I like Cinderella am left behind so the others can attend the ballroom events. Am I to wait and let others live their life, while I lie down until I disappear? I am seen and yet at the same time I remain unseen. I am invisible to their eyes, they throw their coins, and day upon day they wear their great coats, but their most precious item is the mask they wear and will not lose, the day the mask comes off is the day their world ends, coming spinning down from the sky to the dust below!”

Rumpledean was the one man in Gustavia, in the midst of the trades people, the silent workers and the unknown faces of the crowd who protested against making the crocodile the mascot of Gustavia, to be presented at every grand official opening, for the farmers market, at the pageants of beautiful maidens and the opening of the brand new shipyard, the crocodile would be the grand marshal of each parade, the feted hero of the hour, the pet of the people, the aspiring creature to be beyond what God made it be. Or so they thought! When all the crowds cheered at the sight of the mayor and the quiet creature on the wooden podium, through the hurricane of the moment, the pomp of the “hurrahs” the crocodile was hungry and food was his one and only concern, if indeed he had any at all.

Battles Of Luzhinsky- Extract 7

Battles of Luzhinsky- Extract 7
-by Robert Fullarton.

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2017

On the 7th of October Von Goetze’s 2nd cavalry division were called up for the assault at Párkány in the Ottoman principality of Hungary. A disastrous Polish cavalry assault that day, occurred, due to the fact that the troops had been caught unawares to the Ottoman forces who lay in advance for an isolated Polish assault. The cavalry charge was cut to shreds for the greater part, as many men were caught in the cross fire of the Janissaries, the Turkish Guns and the Sipahi units which routed them, until the Polish command regrouped and rallied to the main body of the Imperial forces. Sobieski, led his next assault to the right flank of the Ottoman forces, alongside the sweeping charges of the German forces to his left and centre.

Luzhinsky, Lieutenant Kaminski, Captain Marwel and Colonel Von Goetze found themselves once again in the thick of the fighting, canons fired ablaze, the cauldron of the iron machine of war emptied out unto the town, the hinterlands and the positions of the Ottoman army and their Hungarian allies.

Luzhinsky jerked his horse, pulling it by the reins, swinging his sabre into the necks of his foe again and again, until there came a sword fight between actively matched foes. Eyes were bulging, focus given face to face in extreme rage. Luzhinsky fired his pistol point blank into the face of opponent, who had been furious with failing to overturn Luzhinsky from his horse.

A second opponent drew a pistol and fired a shot that just fell short of Luzhinksy’s left ear lobe. Luzhinsky returned the favour with a blow against his quick witted opponent, puncturing his silken garb, which seeped with blood, from the fatal wound to his breast. The heat of the action rested on several battalions, one of which was Luzhinski’s own subordinates under Colonel Von Goetze, all busily engaged, like mongoose in a pit of cobras, tooth and nail, blood and savagery, until the order to regroup sounded out. Their Ottoman counterparts retreated further into the folds and shadows of the countryside, until the firing ceased, the canvass had ceased to move with the colours of various armies and divisions.

All this was part of the alliance forces and their plan to push to Ottoman forces back, even past Hungary, with a Habsburg strategy to conquer territory from the wounded giant that had its back in retreat to the forces of Europe who finally had the confidence to believe they could beat the Turk and throw off the Ottoman yoke of cruelty. Innovations in technology and reform in the European armies had led to these victories which were to become part and parcel of the cultural dominance of the western nations.

-When men were out at war, riding forth from the lines of the cavalry or marching in step with infantry divisions there was a silence, between the great breadth of the conflict and the clashes of the opposing forces, Luzhinsky began to find himself more immersed in the army life, the civilian life was boring to him, he hated being stationed at the local garrisons, at the Austrian frontier with Poland, waiting to be called by his new commanding officer, he hated the childish games of fellow officers, their gambling, their drinking, their dueling, their lack of interest in the serious and deeper matters of life, their worship of sex, or money, or alcohol for that matter. These men were noted for being juveniles in the midst of a more wizened generation. Had suffering made the previous generation a more philosophical and spiritual party to this life? Those who had endured and survived the thirty years war had nearly lost everything, the present generation of wealthy folk lived off the backs of their servants and this too disturbed Luzhinsky for what he had seen in life. He was so sensitive or sensible in the matters of the world that he quickly realised that he did not fit in and that he had lost his so-called "friends" like a wolf that moults in the coming of the summer sun. The sheer physique of Luzhinsky, matched with his sharp intellect made him a match for any officer, and none dared to torment him, though they did sense the difference that had been born between their hedonism and his growing sense of awareness.

That following year with the revelation given on the death of Colonel Von Goetze to the troops of the old 2nd division, whom had succumbed to his wound from a Turkish bullet at the battle of Párkány and whose blood had been infected through the long exposure of the wound, this had devastated Luzhinsky like the death of a second father, one who had taken him under his paternal wing. The old officer lay, in full uniform, draped in both Saxon flag and the red and white emblem of the Polish eagle resting on the breast of his fine cut garb.His face was turning a waxen yellow, his eyes closed in peaceful resolution in the black night. this was the finality of his earthly end, while the soldiers stood over him, with burning torches, stooped, curious, devoted, tearful and sombre. There stood Luzhinsky Prostrated with grief.

Battles of Luzhinsky- Extract 8- Robert Fullarton- Copyright 2016

Battles of Luzhinsky- Extract 8
-Robert Fullarton

Taken from the Diary of Luzhinksy 1685

So we waited by the wayside of the changing continent, my peers and I. Training continued, we maneuvered at the local garrisons, learning the arts of governing the lives of soldiers, making decisions through skirmishes and various drills. But I had made my requests to the Austrian Landwehr to be commissioned as a Captain under the ascendancy of the 12th Cavalry division. Colonel Von Goetze had written his recommendations, signed and sealed as if it were his parting gift to my ambitions as an officer. Although I was a foreigner, now camped with the Austrian Heavy cavalry, I was received with warmth, when I proved myself in action, with my abilities to duel and box, my sheer physical prowess impressed them and made the local men look like boys by comparison. Though we were stationed outside the city of Graz, the borders of Hungary- being in close proximity- were always the hinterlands of our war games, where the Turkish curtains needed to be parted back and we had further plans to smoke the foxes out from their dens in haste.

I stayed in Graz lodging with a young family, who in humility offered me meals and boards by the recommendations of the local Garrison commander. Word went round too that I had taken part in the relief- though in a very minor way- of the capital and warm greetings went to all who had taken part in the infamous victory of that hour! Warm presents of food and hot drinks, alcohol and sweet delicacies were given to me by the boundless gifts of my hosts. I had stabled my horse on their local stud farm, where they specifically bred horses for the Royal family’s estates. The conquests of Hungary and the push to the cities of Buda and Pest are the newfound battle zones between a temporary peace and a lasting war between the Occidental and the Asiatic. In peacetime-or the time between one’s central participation in battle- there is the tedium of army life, the invitations to dinner, the formal occasions, the pursuits of a soldier’s bachelordom followed by more boredom. I am awaiting a new assignment, along with the announcement of my new commanding officer.

One day in a tavern in Graz, the Black Crow, I overheard the conversations of several officers, some from the 2nd Styrian Guards, one from the 10th Carinthian Artillery battalion and with wayward mercenaries standing over like specters in the shadows, over these uniformed gamblers.

The first man participating the conversation was called Maximilian, who was a dark haired mustachioed gentleman who bore the appearance of a buccaneer and a drinker, the second man known as Louis the “long” wore a green overcoat, with fine linen bandages wrapped around his chest, no doubt to cover a wound from a recent engagement, with hair like straw, he listened, with eyes fixed to the buccaneer with avid attention. The third main participant to the conversation had the eyes of a madman, bore a pallid complexion-looked dead as it was to begin with- I thought he was dead at first and that he was a corpse of a veteran, abandoned on the tavern stool, until he suddenly came to life and spoke in favor of the first man’s position.

“You see gentlemen, this wager of making money off the war, it has a sort of Frenchman’s criminality to it. Only a Frenchman could be such a scoundrel, as to place bets on the progress of the war, through subterfuge, through looting, through manipulation and going beyond the ordinary conduct of a soldiers’ duty. Frenchmen make money off war, don’t they? Or make war through money was’nt that what Richelieu did with the Swedes?”
The buccaneer had since folded his hand and called it a day with regards to the cards, and now gave the “living corpse” his full attention.

“So says you! I’m not French, I’m a Tyrolean mountain man, however I have followed the latest scientific developments of Paris with enthusiasm and I believe that more money could be made off the French, we would be milking the richest cows in all of Europe!”
“Why are we talking about cows?” Added the man with the straw like mane.

“Cows”, replied the living corpse “are easily frightened by an initial scare, all we have to do is make a loud bang and then we will make the robbery, but the fanciest cows, I mean the one’s that are most adored and looked after make the richest cream, the finest cheese and yogurt, I must admit!”

The Bucanner became enraged with his two conversationalists and slammed his right fist down on the table in the little courtyard.
“What in the name of God’s mercy are you talking about! I never mentioned stealing cattle! I don’t care about Bovine philosophy or the lives of French cows, I’m talking about a possible future war with France, and how much money we could possibly make both legally and illegally, both as officers and from the houses of the French leadership, should it all go well. Turkey is the bounty of the Habsburgs, whose fleshy layers and bones will be cut in time, but France is the fat and proud Cockerel waiting to be taken! In the meantime we can organise the transfer of certain persons to the Styrian Guards to be ready for an immediate engagement into Hungary!”

“All this talk of Turkey and Cockerel is making me Hungry” said a lone voice in the background of the shadowy mob of Mercenaries.
These men knew me, were familiar with my men and were even unperturbed by my presence and my knowledge of their unlawful acts, they even enquired as to whether or not I would like to help them, as a strongman in the operation.

It seemed to me as if these men had turned into brigands and wandered from one occupation in life to another, and as if soldiering were only a front to the dishonest and wicked nature that they harboured within them.

Battles of Luzhinsky -Extract 6- by Robert Fullarton Copyright Robert Fullarton

Battles of Luzhinsky

-Extract 6

by Robert Fullarton

Copyright Robert Fullarton

The fires of the soldiers were ablaze in the deep darkness of the night, alight amid a hypnotic atmosphere of life, energy, noise and celebration, with the smell of roast pork wafting through the air. The soldiers began to improvise their own songs to the “routing of the sons of Osman” from the gates of Vienna.

“Ahh exhileration!” Declared Colonel Von Goetze in sheer rapturous delight at the company of his Saxon compatriots who shook hands, bantered, exchanged schnapps, artefacts from the caravans of the Ottoman command. These moustachioed soldiers in elegant cavalier garb, were like boys again in the moment of an amicable celebration that went right through the night, but of course some men went beyond the limit of their own self control, and went recklessly drunk, duelled, some fell into the ditches of the Burg Bastion and were subsequently hospitalised. The drunken disorderly behaviour resulted in men being imprisoned for assaulting local peasants and for having looted the local taverns, robbed the proprietor of both his clothes and his alcohol, some were caught with a whip running wildly after the bare naked proprietor who fled the scene through the side streets off Stephansdome.

Luzhinsky Penned a poem that night in his own Makeshift tent, alone, with a single candle aglow he wrote...

At the Blue lit hour

Came the signal

The charging of the snow white steed

With speed through the forest

To the confluence of the Christian peoples

Then from the plains

Came the Leopards bold and fierce,

Our heavy hearts were feather light

At the lifting of the siege

With the emptying of the firmaments

Raining forth as joy

Across the land

Light upon the living and the dead

And tonight

The living are most certainly animated

In laughter

In company of brothers

From nations estranged

But brought together in the greatest peril

Forever to sail into the unknown once more!

Luzhinsky then wrote an entry into his diary, and a contemplative message came out from underneath his youthful pretensions.

I ran away from home because I did not to be bred for a specific life. I wanted to determine my own existence, in the ways of the army. I learned how to box, to sword fight, I read the work of Arrian, Homer and Cicero, but I did not find these thrills to be enough. I refused to remain stationed at the barracks in Warsaw. We drilled and marched, we crawled through mud, for six months, I went from being a dreamer and adventurer to being a hardened and devout soldier- devout that is the duties of the soldiers call! In the barracks friendships are formed upon a superficial level, but experience in combat- like what I experienced today!- cements new names and faces into a brotherhood, which every life recalls in different ways, these impressions are unforgettable, every man seeks what is greater than himself, but can he put the feelings into words which have stirred and made him risk so much? I have of late began to pray and of late been shaken to the core of this experience called war. Existence is indeed flung upon the individual soul, and it is his burden to run, at full unflinching speed into the light of the creator, do we not do this when we ride at full capacity into the musket and the arrows of the enemy?

Battles of Luzhinsky -Extract 3- Robert Fullarton copyright 2016

Battles of Luzhinsky

-Extract 3- Robert Fullarton copyright 2016

The Polish army was on edge, waiting for the call to move, camped out underneath the stars, the sounds of the horses naying beside the makeshift stables, the laughter of drunken officers could be heard, but the patriotic talk of the soldiers of all rank and file was the prevailing wind that went through the army, as a seemingly unshakeable force, like one on the brink or cusp of a cataclysm.

Many men had sore calf muscles, after a day of solid marching; others felt the saddle and of the horses had left them sore! They rested in the fields, some sleeping in tents, those of lower rank and file slept on blankets in the dew of the wet grass. The luggage and weaponry of the mobile army were sprawled out on the grass.
Several officers conversed beside a fire, roasting chicken, drinking thimble sized shots of strong plum brandy.

“The Germans are coming from the north” said one officer who sat beside the inviting odour of the chicken which was being seasoned with spices.

“Yes, I heard but who will get there first for the fight?” Said the elegant moustachioed officer that sat beside the conversant. Who had left his royal red uniform to hang and dry near the heat that rose from the radiating fire.
“Dont forget to take the food off! Check on it, turn the chicken over!”
Stressed the first officer, as he interrupted the conversation.
“I wont forget Sebastian!”
“This coalition of Leopold and Sobieski’s is going to secure our borders as well. If we can give the Turks a sound beating then we stand to extend our influence and even leave Hungary and Transylvania open for negotiation. The territories of the Hungarian rebels will be annexed too!”
“No you fools!” Said a hotheaded young officer who now joined in with the other two officers in their fireside discussion.
“Do you really think Leopold will let a rival take his prize? The house of Habsburg is a beast only wounded but not defeated. They will take their neighbour’s land, but we will be forgotten, mark my words!”

“You mean if we let them. The Holy League has given us the strongest hand in the political deck”, said the first officer in response.

“They’re weak for now but when renewed they will threaten our own borders too in good time! The Habsburgs”
On went the discussion into the night over the fire, youth discussing war, the possibilities of the future, the throwing off of the Ottoman yoke meant the liberation of new lands, but
Luzhinsky meanwhile, sat in his officer’s quarters, he prayed, drank a cup of wine and then conversed with a semi-circle of officers around the open fire. The sleep would be abruptly interrupted for the entire army, men slept in exhaustion after a day’s marching, but with spirits high and with the strength of numbers, the men were ready for the beckon call of the command to rise again when needed. Sobieski himself had been seen earlier that day in the distance, a royal cavalcade of horses passed, with the battery of the army being wheeled through, with men singing out in the mild September air. They passed like flame and steel to the fringes of the Wienner Wald.

With the cracks of dawn breaking through, the Polish army awoke from a brief interrupted rest. The standards were raised, steeds mounted, speed recovered and momentum gained. This was an army that did not want to slacken in its pace as time was a necessity to “smash into the Turkish right flank.”

It just so happened that at 4am that very morning the army of Charles of Lorraine engaged with the Turkish positions of the left flank, whose scouts had spotted the arrival of the Imperial forces from the north west. Troops from Baden, Saxony, Bavaria and Venice marched came with the Golden Imperial banners and the various colours of the nation states and kingdoms whose men marched from far and wide, thus pitched in battle.

Battles of Luzhinsky -Extract 2- copyright Robert Fullarton 2016

Battles of Luzhinsky

-Extract 2- copyright Robert Fullarton 2016

Luzhinsky was only twenty years old at the time, having finished his training as a cadet, he was now a lieutenant in the 2nd Polish Cavalry brigade. The mercenaries from Saxony, Lithuania and Bavaria marched alongside musketeers, infantry men armed with pikes (in reminiscence of a Greek phalanx of Hoplite soldiers) and pistols, with devotion and ferocity against the Turk.

Luzhinsky looked up to Colonel Von Goetze who rode beside him on his horse, that strode forth, in red and white garments, with a drooping black moustache, a felt hat, whose cape flew in the wind. The colonel was a Saxon who was sent from the Electors’ office to train the troops at Warsaw’s Royal Military Academy. The tactician was a moral man, in the midst of war, he had a conscience and a name for being a professional, a strategic man, a cartographer, a man of elegance and efficiency in the moment of action.

“Things are tight for the Viennese right now. It is rather a great weakness in their rule which has left their country wide open for an invasion!”

Said Von Goetze to Luzhinsky as he rode beside him as if he were his adjutant, but Luzhinsky was indeed being groomed for such a position and indeed the close proximity of their common desires had made Luzhinsky into the hungry protégé to the tactician.

“That is so sir”, said Luzhinsky merely listening, while hanging on his words with interest.

“Yes, large scattered armies, lack of central control, unity in the Habsburg domain. There are too many squabblers in the nobility, that have been chasing rebels in Bohemia and made it their business for the ruination of the northern kingdoms. So they have savagely blinded themselves, this former Samson of strength made the rivers of the nations flow with blood. It was a nightmare which ended in the deaths of my parents and the sacking of my town by Wallenstein’s murderous rogues.”

“Well sir! Why do you now come to the aid of the Habsburgs?”

“Interesting that you should ask that question, Arnold. You see I serve the Polish army, and King Sobieski himself. I have made my living from my tutorials and my field work. King Sobieski has a treaty with Leopold of Austria, for the defence of Vienna and now they have been under attack for at least four days. With the call for action and the cry for help it seems all has been apparently forgiven and forgotten between the northern Kingdoms and the Imperial south, which is greatly controlled by the Habsburgs of Austria. I am pious in my faith and devout in my duty, I execute it with great precision, I’ve spent my life travelling through much of Europe and now at this stage in my life I fear the further expansion of the Ottoman foe, so I have decided not resign my position. I represent Poland to a certain extent, but I am always a Saxon, whose homestead was burnt when I was an adolescent and these ashes rose to become my armour and I am now a different man entirely.”

“Interesting. I do not blame you for feeling such sentiments. It must pain you to remember the past and the shame of the Imperials on the Northern rebels. But I want to ask you how the armies should mobilise? What is the strategy of the generals? So far, as you know it to be?”

“Well siege resistance requires the security of all passages, a solid defence of all positions means destroying enemy sappers, there must not be a chink in the chain of defences! If the Turks are held at the walls of Vienna then the Polish and Imperial armies will have room to manoeuvre! Their focus is on holding out until the relief arrives. It is the initial phase, our brothers from Baden, Saxony and Bavaria have sent messengers and scouts to us to inform the Polish command on the movement of their armies from the west.”

“What is the second phase sir?”

“Direct contact with the enemy upon a point of weakness in their lines, to breach those lines and create a haemorrhage of men, make them desert and spread the fear among their hearts. We will fight piece by piece with the Sipahi, and hand to hand with the Janissaries, but we need plenty of open ground to charge. With the swift waves of the cavalry we have to hit them on their right flank and catch them unawares. The Janissaries are good fighters, they are however a horrific foe to fall into the arms of. It will be like dogs in a ditch, that unfortunately is the diplomacy of men in such moments!”

“Well their reputation precedes them sir and it is one of death and slavery! I saw the Hussars march forward this morning at first light and I have to tell you that I knew then and there that I wanted to join them! Is there any soldier more like unto an archangel? In action they are said to be like eagles hunting hares! Their ornate steel plated armour, their mounted feathers and fearless disposition have given them a name as truly brilliant warriors and I have to be like them!”

“Well if that is what you truly want then I will have a word with Colonel Kaminsky and give him a character reference on your behalf and have you sent for training at the nearest garrison. Just get yourself promoted to captain, I will help you reach the maturation of your military aspirations. Now first let’s s focus on tomorrow’s fight, rest, march and smash their positions into splinters!”

The colonel laughed and dismounted from his horse, giving orders and joking with the officers at his side, Luzhinsky in his rigorous youth was staring on candidly as the army settled down into the dark environs of the countryside. Thousands of men in multi-faceted appearance, the raising of tents, the roasting of pork, the rising charcoals unto the dark seascape matched with the noise of a boisterous men together in the fields made a great impression on Luzhinsky as if this were the great adventure of his time.

Luzhinsky's Battles Extract 1- Copyright Robert fullarton 2016

Luzhinsky's Battles

Extract 1- Copyright Robert fullarton 2016

In a log cabin at the fringes of Gustavia there dwelt a man called Arnold “Iron leg” Luzhinsky, who was a retired, wounded, weary, former colonel and mercenary for the Austrian cavalry divisions, though he was thoroughly a Polish patriot in body and soul. His ancestors were of mixed, Polish, English and Saxon blood. His right leg had been shot through with an iron ball the “size of a fist” or so the story goes while fighting the Turkish army at the battle of Zenta. 

His right leg had been amputated and in its place there was an impressive, almost ornate iron leg, which had been handcrafted by a silversmith in the back streets of Prague. Neither light nor sound was extinguished for ten hours of fine labour, by a silversmith and an artisan. This was to be the perfect “memorial” of a war wound that acted as a reminder of how far he had come in these violent wars that shaped the power system of the Balkans. The features of a cavalry officer, the lance, the sabre, the shield and emblem were intricately shaped upon the iron leg, where the calf bore the symbol of the Habsburg eagle, with gold dust for the royal crown and in remembrance of his loyal days of service.

Luzhinsky towered above most men at a stature of 6 ft 5, with a fine mane of steel grey hair, he bore a faint resemblance of his former self, his tremendous sense of daring, adventure, athletic tone and presence had diminished in time. This was indeed Luzhinsky late autumn in life, where he had increased in weight and had become a fretful and insular in his isolated home.

In those days every village, every man, woman and child gave pledges of allegiance to the powers of the region, whether it was the king of the Habsburgs, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Doge of Venice or the Sultan of the Ottoman realm. A quiet simplicity could exist at times in the humdrum routines of the peasant with their rural and humble existence, however by the borders of the realm, fear and war fever could be stirred up to the advantage of the nobles, with militias formed, mercenaries banding from far and wide into the ranks of every army.

Luzhinsky had fled the family home to fight for the Polish armies commanded by King Jan III Sobieski for the urgent defence of Vienna. It was 1683, a turning point, the high water mark for Ottoman expansion and control over the Balkans and their plans to press further into the continent. Luzhinsky’s patriot zeal for Poland was welcomed in an army which possessed a good fighting spirit flying high in the marching columns of the soldiers. Steel plated Hussars, heavy cavalry divisions, rode beside the light cavalry, who wore fine Cavalier like costumes and gave command over the pike baring infantry men that marched ahead of them. Their were ball-bearing musketeers, men toiling over the movement of the cannons lugging them in near exhaustion over the hills. Speed was to be achieved for the sake of the defence and the treaty between the Polish crown and the Habsburg crown, honour was at stake here, but each man wanted glory as well, for the men too well that the armies of central Europe would be converging on the planes of Vienna, it was a matter of timing, hearsay of the German and Italian armies had to be clarified as a pincer movement and for the flanking of the enemy positions had to be achieved.

Onwards galloped the Hussars in check and in pace with the units of the light cavalry. The sun rose in the dark lands of southern Poland, and the Hussars, armoured and fierce as they were in their resolve were like unto angles on the last day of the Earth. The sky seemed to burn at the edges of the landscape, whose banners and colours blew in the breeze by the bearers of the army.

Existentialism and Christianity pt 4- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

Existentialism and Christianity pt 4- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014


Nature has in itself the fabric and the frailty for suffering. The animals positioned in the environment are part and parcel of a viscous, deadly and ultimately tragic cycle of predation and cessation from life. By the appearance of things...this existence is but the war of all animals and the delicate continuity of a fragile nature bound in vague causalities with remote paths from the origin of their source.

Great beauty dwells in timely buds and boughs with a season of glory, but just a season as all appears to reach a tragic end and certainly many see mankind as a sort of Shakespearian tragedy in itself.

By what we see and partially-feel at times- we can relate ourselves to the Tolstoy quote "Man must work for his existence" and we can apply it to every part of our life in practice. But to what end do we truly labour...are we working for a mere bread job? For paltry appearances with society? The ends of a man's life are the working goal which supersede his mundane, secondary goals...the mere appearance of things will flesh out and the reality will be revealed to each individual to make a collective whole. But what goal and order supercedes the minor points with a major plot?

 Suffering must concede to a goal that is greater than the suffering. The life of suffering must concede to a life that is one in glory. But what is the principle from which one transports oneself from suffering to glory? Where is the magnificent ladder that reached unto the impossible...from one nature -that is perishing in time- to one that is timeless, worth the toil and earth shattering labour? What is truth and who is truth...can he be a person..? a principle that walks and talks as a reality bound in flesh?

Existentialism and Christianity pt 3 Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

Existentialism and Christianity pt 3

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

The centrality of suffering to human life was the thought in the motive of Dostoyevsky’s greatest fiction. The existentialist piece the notes from the underground expounding the sorrow, the bestial undercurrent of self loathing, wrath and resentment that perpetuates the world of the anonymous Russian official. The autobiographical writings the House of the dead, giving western audiences the honesty of long hidden Russian horror on the Tzarist labour camps. Too real was the suffering of Dostoyevsky- the man who had been wrongly accused on false, trumped up charges of conspiracy against the state, suffered the ambiguity and the terror of a mock execution, that was only called off at the last penultimate minute. The etchings of inner man are written in what Nietzsche would later coin the term, “written in blood”, to mean the honesty, the acute level of suffering that is accurately portrayed and defined in the work of art. The confinement of men- can be seen by some to be a confinement of human existence, for the worst part in penal servitude- goes deeper than the obvious chastisements and misdemeanours of state against the individual.

Camus himself calls life absurd, he tries to understand the hapless methodology of individual man against the external powers that derail and destroy him. He puts the gauntlet in the context of the myth of Sisyphus, man struggles against the abrasive forces that oppose him in health, freedom and happiness. In this context man is pushing the condemnatory boulder up the cliff –to reach the point of physical and spiritual rest- in great anguish and extreme fatigue and finds the boulder comes back hence from where it came from and the struggling man must once again give, heave and shift the burden and the punishment up the hill, where his condemnation continues until the “final curtain”. Life is declared to be absurd –almost a black comedy of the sickest humour for which Beckett perceived in a great malaise of heart- the struggle takes all our effort to control and it costs us our youth, our energy, our happiness, our expectations cost us dearly and in the end as Camus stated there is the absurd. The truth that war will always be war in the nature of human affairs, and human nature is aggressive and confrontational –the dialectics of peace and war, only concludes with there being war some may say! Man will play God until the end, when weapons are rivalled for far superior devices, until anatomical and nuclear destruction becomes inevitable.

Camus has further developed his postulation on the absurd in the book the rebel completed in 1952, written as a historical treatise on the nature of human rebellion and revolution, focusing on and giving attention to both the Russian and French revolutions to paint the dangers of human ideology and the very broad, perspective or changing definition of what man calls “freedom”, a word so often espoused as the misused shibboleth of the twentieth century. Camus posits at the heart of his argument that “man must rebel to exist”, his confirmations have come to the conclusion that all men cannot defeat the conditions of birth and life –the absurd- all men are born to great suffering and harassment, some are the persecutors while others are the persecuted, all men face mock trials and men face their natural executioner, they ultimately die in the effort to live.

Why not consider to yourself the thought and then consider it as truth...that man is not the lawgiver, nor the maker of principles...he is not even the arbiter but the fallen creature who in every residence of his dwelling shows his nature to be what it is...and as such..chaos reigns in a world of criminals and corruption but where does the source of purity lie outside the contagion? Where is the blinding light that touches the hearts of men and keeps them...in order...beauty and...meaning...it must be an order consisting in truth...but one which originated from outside man...and has since come to man...as the lost news of salvation for the congregations of the lost. The existentialist wines but the Christian talks of real pragmatic hope.

Extract...from The Aerodome Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

Extract...from The Aerodome
Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

No men suffered hangovers in the new world- for they were not permitted in the face of individual duty- no drugs were pushed, the arts had been slowly eradicated –removed emphatically from the cultural agenda of the Aerodome- and who honestly wanted to listen to the scores of Beethoven? Who honestly wanted to see a painting by Degas? Who wanted to read the sonnets of Shakespeare? All these little bits of tattered paper, all these paintings that once hung on the high fancy walls of a Parisian art museum or these notes that once were played to avid ears, all these papers had been cremated within the ruined walls of a city that lay demolished seven times over. All the grand pianos had been smashed, piece-by-piece, destroyed in time, no ears heard these long extinct embraces, these celebrations of melody and romanticism, the relevance had gone, the pianos only played in the dying memories of a few old men in the Aerodome and they too did not invoke the past, for fear of breaching the Civil codes. Likewise Shakespeare’s words had burned with the old world and were lost in memory too, that faded like water strewn paper to the tide.

But man’s consciousness can often unearth the past through discovery and sometimes they crave to know and seek. Such instances and incentives can permit rediscovery of a lost thought or word by a genius of the past. The natural world permits knowledge but the emotions are veiled by robotics of a sterile humanity!

Existentialism and Christianity....an extract Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

Existentialism and Christianity....an extract
Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

The narrator and the central character of Dostoyevsky’s Dream of a ridiculous man is laughed at and mocked by those around him for his proclamations of loving one’s enemies in the midst of a cynical and predatory society, which is based on instincts for lust, power and wealth. The “ridiculous man” is moved by something greater than himself –outside his own torment for suicide- we have his profound vision of a perfect civilization, uncorrupted and bound in the law and the order of love with an original harmony and order that came hence before socialism, nihilism, anarchism and the brotherhoods and doctrines which Dostoyevsky himself condemned as “demonic”, retrogressive and totally harmful to the frail core of society and its values. Dostoyevsky’s canon of literature can be seen as a defence for structures of belief and meaning, towers of existent truths, that surpass the philosophical mix of man’s centennial change in belief systems. Themes cover redemption and salvation -seen with the transformation of Rashkolnikov the murderer in Crime and punishment- the condemnation of man made ideals in anarchism and nihilism –showing the fundamentally dangerous notions of false utopias- come to bear their nature in a Shakespearian mass murder of the characters in the novel Devils.
What is the standard that the ridiculous man reaches out for or practices? What does he believe, in contrast and opposition to the nature and livelihood of the murderers found in Devils?
The ridiculous man loves his enemies, denies his own self after having an encounter with an impoverished street child and a powerful hallucinogenic vision of a far flung paradise in space and time. The man comes to promulgate the message that has been “preached a billion times before” and that is to love one’s enemies as oneself, he renounces his maddened desire for self-destruction and instead reaches out for something greater than himself…in return he finds joy, like it were the first day in the new creation.

On Victor Frankl- Taken from the philosophy of mental health Copyright Robert Fullarton 2009

 On Victor Frankl-  Taken from the philosophy of mental health

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2009

Viktor Frankl, survived the monstrosities of Theresienstadt and Auschwitz, was made a mere dehumanising number, left to bury the dead and to work to his extinction.  He was also left to starve in the squalor for the human will to hate. He indeed contemplated the force by which humans can act and perpetrate when they focus their tiny little minds on the narrow thoughts of hatred. The greater potential to love is rid, the sight of nature is banished, as the concrete constructs, walls, watchtowers, the grey prosaic sculptures built by human hands for the hideousness of human civilisation went up when hatred is actively at work for the destruction of other peoples. Creativity is banished, individuals become mere numbers, humans burn in the furnaces that belch the charred remains of entire families into the air, that is the setting for Frankl’s greatest test, his long drawn moment for self revelation, for courage and determination. He simply wanted to live, had accepted the fact the possibility of immanent death and yet he surrendered to the memories of his beloved wife, his days as a psychologist before the war and his observations from camp life and how one had to adopt or simply die to the camp routine. 

Perhaps it is true that when life seems close to us, it is clear that it is waiting to be shattered or driven from us, all the same the irony is known to us, the invidious acceptance, is the warmest embrace as childhood memories, coming flooding back and feelings of love and gratitude come into being, we have a worthy perspective that all the petty products, accessories and possessions for which we showed our malice and insatiable lust for, have been removed, we have been cleansed of sloth and pride and now we are content to merely live for the basic reasons of wonderment and happiness. In such cases an individual becomes a child and the arrogance of the ego is humbled forever more.  His story is one of accepting fate, a story of how he had through his own mind, to readjust himself, to set goals on a daily basis –however small or mighty they may be and how he stated that he wanted to find meaning, even in these bleakest moments, to find meaning and reason for survival. Despite the acknowledgement Frankl made, that both his wife and parents had been murdered, while was still incarcerated, he still affirmed to life, to the notion of surviving the most horrific experiences one can possibly experience, he still sought meaning and sought for hope in any way possible.

Frankl was one of the blessed one’s, truly blessed indeed, his camp was liberated in 1945 by the advancing American army in Germany. He kept his head down, he laboured and he examined his own experiences and his own life. His greatness as a psychologist came in this case study, and this was the case study of his own existence and the universal sense of human suffering and how one individual can fight, can accept and nourish their mental capacity in a state of turmoil and immediate suffering. The transitory state of pain and suffering can be escaped by a momentary search for the cathartic meaning of self-assertion. Frankl’s meaning came with his psychology,

His power to transcend momentary disorder and his ultimate longing, to tell his story for the inspiration and the courage of others –who may be imprisoned in a state of misery and pain- to overcome their struggle and assert their meaning. 

With the work of Frankl, one sees with an omnipotent awareness, when one has survived the train wreak, ventured past the wilderness of pettiness, to see the grander picture. In such examples human society comes full circle or perhaps it is elongated and it evolves beyond the human notion of strength and weakness. The tiniest of things become luxuries and blessings when one craves to simply live. Then life itself is the art within the process.

 Frankl himself stated that one chooses one's thoughts and that is the foremost freedom and perhaps can be the final and only freedom we have when we are condemned and hated for being ourselves for the unreasonable beliefs of madness and murder -which make all notions of logic go out the window- then we have our thoughts and our beliefs tucked up in our heart, they can come out in moral choices and commitments.

 

Taken from the Philosophy of mental health- Extract Copyright Robert Fullarton 2009

 Taken from the Philosophy of mental health- Extract

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2009

I myself have congregated and associated myself with the older generations and have been treated to the extraordinary insights and moments of self-renewal through conversing with my elders. I have met such people in hospital twice, on different courses, which I have

partook in. The stories are magical, they are my memories of bliss, the only, singularly present light that beams like a vibrant pulse of energy, through a pitch dark moment or period in my life. I have formed friendships with such people, with older generations with whom I found the common denomination between such affable and sociable human beings in their entirety. 

As I have struggled in the past two years since my release from hospital, I have had to familiarize myself with the old world of routine, self discipline, a professional standard and a determinism to work and try things anew. Over so many days I would wake half exhausted, half emotionally wrought, raved by depression, a breathlessness from my anxiety, shooting pains and muscular aches –my psychosomatic illness took leverage over my habits and motives- and all in all dizzy spells were forecast at least several times a week. Throughout many weeks I spent much of my time in bed, trying to convalesce, I grew intrepid through both depression and excitement and there was always a fresh crisis around the corner for me to tackle. I wrote my diary entries to a melancholic flavour of my dissipating mind, with a growing pathos often for the community of those who suffered from similar illnesses and even of those with ASD, whom I have gotten to know in a greater capacity as the years have gone by. I have never taken surveys in my life on different peoples and their particular tastes and associations, but I do remember distinctly the kindnesses from which I have met from some of the most profound people, people who come from all walks of life. 

Their stories –as I mentioned earlier- stay with me, I may unfortunately forget their name, but never their story, and I have met with narcotic addicts, alcoholics, schizophrenics, people termed psychotic, people with behavioural disorders, bipolar disorder, attempted suicides, people who have spent time in padded cells, sufferers of vicious abuse of many kinds and I have met courage and beauty in the stories and the individuals that bore the spirit and the goodness to still feel and give love, despite the very negligence and the ignorance of those who have manhandled them. I also know many other people –my beloved- who suffer not specifically from mental illnesses but from crippling physical conditions –those who have been neglected and left for the hospital bed waiting lists- I have known and still know these people, these names, flesh and blood alike and have come to a contemplative conclusion, they have come to their own conclusions on the mysteries of life, what it brings, what it gives and what it takes alike. 

I have thought it is so wonderful, so lamentable and yet so strange how often it is the healthy and the wealthy who abuse their position vicariously and rather prejudicially, to reap reward, to bask in social notoriety and accumulation and how it is the deprived, the afflicted, the wounded, the troubled men and women of the world who have the resilience and the depth that many cannot know, for the rich never rarely see the other side of the coin, in the world of poverty and desperate need. So too the healthy should not be ignorant of the blessings, the capabilities, the honours and the privileges one bears and possesses when one is in the full prime of one’s life. I am rather pique and rather lost when I see the youth of today –my contemporaries- showing no regard for civil liberty and bodily integrity, no respect for seniors or the responsibilities and the codes of good conduct that bring honour to those who obey them respectively. 

As I said earlier you may laugh today but you will quite possibly weep tomorrow, for anyone who takes their own health for granted and their abilities, by not making the most of their days, by being thankful and grateful, for doing the best they can, when they can, they will be left to their terrible disadvantage and will be forced to learn of the frailties, the costliness, the hardship and the community that can emerge through suffering and through conquering. But I must admit the days bring fresh challenges even for me and I will confess that it can be particularly difficult for to survive a day when we clutching to straws, and the world seems not to understand for its indifference is no illusion but our affirmation to positive change is the difference and we should find comfort and solace in our own ability to problem solve and locate the sources of our abilities.

I have lived through times of political and social unrest, turmoil and recession –every age has their national and supranational crises to bear-, I have listened despondently and wholeheartedly ignored the common rigmarole of the media and yet I have come back around full circle to my own self realisation, time and time again I have to live life at my own pace, the world it seems has gone awry long ago, I cannot find solace in the world or. 

When a man comes to an important juncture or stage in his life and realises that he cannot know everything from his own tastes, desires and fantasies and accepts that often he learns much of the lustre of his own capabilities from his friends –the ones he loves and cares for- life is that much more sentimental and rather luscious with its surprises when one finds support and pleasure from friends on a mutual basis. I myself have found a circle of dependant comrades, intellects that mimic the youthful search for learning and living. I cannot stop praising those men who belong to the minority out there –those who are not absorbed in a corruptive popular culture that relishes in stereotypes and cliques, that acts to endorse and make profit over the uneducated through cheap tricks and kicks- I really find that where there is a certain element of alienation between the sexes which is potently based more on culture and pithily I state it is all fashion trend and business. What have the sexes in common, that the boutiques and the fashion designers have not exploited?

I am basically stating that a good friendship –to say it eerily enough- when it has been given a temperament for openness offers the devotion and the understandings that monogamy can never forge throughout a lifetime, because it is not based on traditional restrictions, gender roles, cliques and culturally implies terms. True freedom is spontaneous, self searching, questioning, defies the shrunken superstitions of each society. I must state that it is a sorry case when we find ourselves surrounded in a city of strangers, for that is what we are –we are not brothers in this land of ours-

without community spirit, without that contemplative power of reasoning in life, the majority will always fill the adhesive roles as labourers and shop keepers that toil and exhaust themselves for cheap pleasure –as the means and ends of their existence- while- and hardly question and wonder on the abstract boundaries that shape their existence. Blessed is he who stops pacing two and fro and roars “Why”!

I tell all and even the hypocrite in myself...to never take anything for granted, for there are two ways of looking at things...its either a blessing or just mere luck, which we can dismiss and dispose of when we want...but in the end the nights are truly blacker than they should be and for me as a Christian it is the crest of the wave that carries me through...the joy of joy's...love of loves...hope of hopes..the fighter in you needs a good coach and a good right hook if he or she is going to fight...for we have to be fighters in order to live and live good...but for me as a Christian, I believe that my own life is a duty for the greater good of my faith to God and that I must look outside myself and be an example of such behaviour, for truth is truth but it must be lived out and learned the hard way, it is not written on paper nor washed away when the majority get tired of its labours and responsibilities. Solzhenitsyn once remarked during his famous Harvard address that "We are all ready to talk about rights but less so about responsibilities." This is prophecy in the making and which we will follow in time as a quagmire of liberalism is ruins the tenets of states, traditions and principles, selfishness is the reality here, responsibilities, duties, loyalties, traditions, graces and good will are in short demand in an age that shops and swaps its dogmas as it goes, but it is a vociferously anti-Christian age and that is why Christians must be prepared to draw the highly visible line in the sand and make a stand against the hell-bent dogmas of the age, that want to water down and question the very kernel and heart of our social virtues to death..and whether you like it or not...most of such come from the very teachings of Christ.