War Games

I was probably about three years old when, from the back seat of the car, I bawled inconsolably at the sight of a traffic warden at my mother's window. She had temporarily parked on a double yellow line to allow her own mother easier access to the post office. But the hysterics of her youngest son must have worried her more. From somewhere, he had garnered a disproportionate fear of the "Brown Man", as unfortunately dressed 1980's traffic wardens were known in my family. My wariness of uniformed men was further fuelled by my brother when he told me his friend's Dad was a Garda, and that I would be shot if I showed up at their house. These fearsome moments are probably the foundations from which I developed a lifelong fascination with expressions of authority. Before long, I was obsessed with what I considered to be the epitome of masculinity: soldiers, armies, battlefields and war. 

However this proved not to be the nurturing of some perfect warrior. Any "action" I've seen in my twenty-seven years has been extremely limited and more crucially, fictitious. In later childhood, I would often lobby friends for a good old game of "Air Raid Attack". On the rare occasion they obliged, they would find themselves sheltering beneath trees, waiting for me to give the "all clear". This calamity would rarely last more than ten minutes; I never did get the chance to figure out what happened next. 

At other times, my illusions were complimented by more appropriate surroundings. During one school trip, my classmates and I did battle in Laser World- a dodgy simulation of some futuristic war-zone formerly located in Tramore. Scant recollections suggest I enjoyed the skirmish, without feeling I was the difference between victory and defeat. On the bus home, statistics being passed around on a piece of paper confirmed the suspicion that I had failed to hit any targets. This I digested in silence, while less combat inclined classmates celebrated jubilantly.

But my comrades weren't always so tactless, at least initially. On his return from the holiday of a lifetime in Canada, a good friend was delighted to present me with a Super Soaker XP 85. I thanked him profusely, anticipating future glories in the common water fight of balmy summer evenings. Unfortunately, the weapon had been damaged somewhere on the Atlantic convoy, leaving its triple projectile struggling to meet even quarter of the advertised distance. This, coupled with a leaking tank, made me an easy and amusing target for the water-balloon brandishing enemy. 

More successful sorties occurred in the rarity of snowball fights. One of my most cherished memories is teaming up with another friend against our older brothers in the white Christmas holidays of 1997. I can't remember how exactly it unfolded, only that I felt less solitary in playing the part I loved most.

Another account of wintry "combat" comes from my oldest brother. In the big freeze of the early 1980's, he was enjoying a snowy day off school when he spotted a famous Kilkenny hurler delivering fuel to a neighbour. Awestruck, but determined to interact, he gathered a ball of snow and playfully threatened to strike his off-season hero. But it turned out not to be so jovial a scene. The hurler, unimpressed, harshly dispelled my spectacled brother's cheer with the words "Throw that snowball at me and I'll break your fucking glasses!".

In recent years, I've noticed my preoccupation with combat become more "mature". In the cosy confines of western existence, war is not a phenomenon I am privy to. But that same precondition permits me to try and understand conflict's intricacies from a safe distance. With great interest, I watch unfolding chaos in Middle-East and flirtations with nuclear holocaust on the Korean peninsula. I should point out that this is not some exercise in sadism; rather, I like to think of it as a realistic engagement with the ways of the world.  

But there is also evidence to suggest that this fascination is not such a studious hobby, that I'm still just a child who thinks war is cool. Why else would I pass the amount of time I do amassing huge armies in Command & Conquer, watching and re-watching seminal scenes from my favourite war films, or even writing laboured blog entries trying to figure it all out?!

This militaristic fetish probably feeds off my romantic attachment to justice, order and the idea of a common purpose. Actually, I think I am more enamoured with the discipline militarism inspires than the barbarity of its logical conclusion. This isn't such a bad thing; organisational tendencies are amongst the things I admire most in people. They are especially laudable in the pursuit of collective benefit, individual responsibility, and the notion that we might receive from society what we put in. 

There is, of course, a huge difference between such civic responsibility and an unwavering loyalty to authority. But both extremes may emanate from the same source: a desire to equalise the inherent isolation of existence in a chaotic world with a sense of indomitable fellowship. The difficulty comes in trying to maintain a balance between the two, and ensuring that we don't opt for a dangerous road paved with the best intentions. 

Accordingly, I am forever grateful that my childish tendencies occur in circumstances not fertile enough for war. Imagine, for example, that I happened to exist on the streets of a European city during August 1914. In Munich I might have found a kindred spirit in a short Austrian man with a toothbrush moustache, equally enthusiastic to get himself into a uniform and give his life some meaning. In this light, I consider it a privilege to search hopelessly for a raison d'etre in less lethal environments.  

And that's the bottom line...

Finding the will to write has been something of a chore lately. In fact, finishing this short piece has taken far longer than it should have. Anything it seems, is preferable to reading, reviewing and editing. I've never been a prolific writer, but there have been more productive periods in my speculative career. Recently though, I seem more concerned with not “getting it wrong” than working on “getting it right”. The result is routine inaction that I like to veil with words like “apathy”, implying that I'm too busy “not giving a fuck” to bother with aspiration. But in truth, I feel something more sinister lurking beneath the surface.

I think it was Richard Linklater's animated drama Waking Life that introduced to me the sentiment, amongst many others, that laziness and fear are one in the same. It was something I didn't really understand at the time, but it did make me consider subsequent bouts of idleness in a new light. How does a human being, the most destructive of all God's creatures, end up settling for slumber?

Perhaps it's the combination of thoughts and feelings we label as anxiety that most induces an idle state of mind. Our reactions to anxiousness, dynamic as they are, normally yield the same conundrum. Do I attempt to move forward? Even though success is not guaranteed. Or do I withdraw to safety? Tasting neither victory or defeat.

But what exactly is it that we are so anxious about? If so many of us choose stagnation over moving forward, the consequences of trying must indeed be terrible. It does, of course, summon the spectre of failure. And yet, in objective terms, failure is nothing to get hung up about. Common phrases like “Better luck next time” indicate our understanding that the difference between success and failure is often minimal, and that it is certainly no excuse for giving up.

Subjectively however, failure can be an altogether more viscous animal. It might, for example, flood the mind with negativity and self-loathing, the source of which is a fundamental and regressive belief about who we are and how we should live. In a nutshell, this “bottom line” can be exemplified by a phrase like “I am flawed, hopeless and bound to fail”, or words to that effect. Such literal expressions are probably rare. This, after all, is the kind of thing we'd rather not talk about. Instead, we may experience the sentiment through feelings of vacancy and depression.

It's probably inevitable that circumstances will eventually necessitate confronting the “bottom line”. And when they do, we often find ourselves woefully unprepared. Under duress, with nowhere to run, we undertake the impossible challenge of defying it completely. We want to achieve perfection, to leave the darker side of ourselves with nothing to chew on. Unfortunately, it is infinitely more likely that a frenzied assault on our negative self-concept will capitulate against robust doubts and fears. Thereafter, we tend not to be so bold. Our suspicions are confirmed. We cannot.

The problem seems one of perspective. Logic and reason are not things we readily apply to our shortcomings. In their place, we may succumb to the biased thinking and observations of a self-critical mind. The domineering bottom line feeds from prejudiced conclusions and blights a common truth, that trial and error is central to progress. We are being inconsistent, lying to ourselves, and hopelessly bearing the consequences.

The miserable habits I refer to relate to basic concepts of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. And it may lighten the tone to mention that they are far from irreversible. But for an entry that I hope will spurn a period of greater activity, they seemed the most pertinent thing to acknowledge.  

On The Run: Postcript

It's hard to find things to write about. Especially at this time of year. So it was a pleasant surprise when a friend directed me to an article in this week's Kilkenny People that offered an alternative account of my recent liberating of two Americans from the round tower at St. Canice's Cathedral. As a result, I have been made aware of some new information that makes the previous entry even more fascinating than it already is. No!

Lovers locked into the round tower can be found on page five of the main section. It tells the story of Chris Mahrer and Brita Thomas' ascent of the tower last month. Chris used reddit.com to post his own account and send his and Brita's thanks to the unnamed jogger who rescued them from a night trapped in the millennium-old building. The Kilkenny People became aware of the post and put the printed word out via some very fine writing by Sam Matthews. It wasn't long before Kilkenny's media machine managed to track down the unnamed jogger's attention. And so, the circle is complete.

In both article and reddit post, Chris sheds new light on the events of that cold December day. He explains that Brita's experience of the tower was tempered by an acute dose of claustrophobia and a fear of heights, something Chris had not previously been aware of. This would explain the intensity of the screams that shook me from my stride as I passed the cathedral. Chris also tells the much happier story of how he, like any wise man, seized on Brita's apparent vulnerability by dropping to one knee and proposing on top of the tower. And of how, after a few moments of compounded vertigo, Brita managed to steady herself and deliver an affirmative response. Yesss!!

I've been in touch with Chris. He said it was strange to read about the event from my point of view. I'm sure it was since the entry also includes references to being chased by wild animals and paranoid delusions about anyone who comes near my house. He also said that he would have bought me a pint if I hadn't been busy running, incurring images of me being drunk in shorts, t-shirt and trainers. Otherwise, he wished me all the best. To which, I reciprocate with many congratulations.

Chris' reddit post-http://cp.reddit.com/r/ireland/comments/15ws3x/thank_you_to_the_jogger_in_kilkenny_who_saved_us/

On The Run

 

Have you been for a run lately? If not, I'm sure someone's told you all about how wonderful a passtime it is. That or you've been kept updated via Facebook of some runner's latest performance. They usually read something like this:

“47.38! Delighted!!! Well done to everyone involved!! Now for that long awaited pint and crisps! :)”

As easy a target as such statements are, I'm going to refrain from poking fun at them. This is because I too like to run. And I understand someone wanting to share their satisfaction at meeting or beating a self-set goal. Even if broadcasting their achievement defies the inherently internal reasons for running in the first place.

For the record, my running career started in 2008 with some light jogging around a nearby green. In the intervening years, I have built up my distance to about 10km. Nothing special.

But I don't run as much as I used to. As with most exercise regimes, the deficit between effort and reward soon becomes a grievance. The problem is either running too hard or not hard enough. Too often, I find myself regretting not giving that little bit more or that little bit less, depending on whether or not I still feel a little restless, or so battered that any other activity is relegated from my day.

Low-frequency running has actually worked out well. The tedium of daily excursions has been replaced by a genuine anticipation of getting out in the elements. By strange coincidence, my runs have become a lot more eventful. 

Earlier this year, I was running in Castlecomer Discovery Park when a representative of the local wildlife (a very large duck) expressed disapproval at my choice of route. It was only after he spread his wings to a four-foot diameter and started to charge at me aggressively that I realised something was wrong. Nearby fishermen had a great time laughing at the sight of a grown man being chased from his preferred route by a duck, who's proud quack I took as some kind of jibe. 

More recently, I put my running to use in the mould of a concerned citizen. I was watching TV at home when, through the corner of my eye, I noticed a hooded figure dart across my front lawn. This was followed by what sounded like the attempted opening of my locked front door. The figure's quick reversal in direction convinced me that he was up to no good. Knowing that going upstairs to get the key would waste valuable seconds, I exited through the back door and ran around my house to give chase. By the time I was out on the road, he had been picked up by a red van. Still running, I gave the van's occupants an ironic wave, as if to warn them off trying anything like that again. But on my way back inside to contact local authorities, I noticed the latest issue of the Golden Pages by my front doorstep. Only then did I realise that the sound of the "burglar" trying to open my door was actually that of the Golden Pages hitting the ground. And that this wasn't a break in; it was a phone book delivery.

Another peculiarity happened just the other day. I was navigating the lanes surrounding St Canice's Cathedral when a dull sound of screaming caused me to stop. After ensuring that it wasn't another dose of acute paranoia, I ran onto Church grounds to investigate. Approaching the entrance, I deduced that the voices were those of young Americans. One male. One female.

"CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?!"

"HELP US!"

The intermittent thudding on a small door signalled that the helpless cries were coming from inside the 9th century round-tower. I ran over to the bottom of the step ladder and announced my arrival.

"Hello?"

Their response was instant. 

"Oh THANK GOD!! HELP US!! WE'RE TRAPPED INSIDE THE TOWER!!"

There was a moment of silence as I digested the news. The parallels with a Hollywood horror were glaring. 

This Christmas...Get ready...For The Dream Holiday...That Became...Their Worst Nightmare...In Ireland's Most Haunted Tower!

Eventually, I told them to "hold tight" while I went looking for help. 

I ran around the grounds a few times before coming across a teenage boy. He looked about sixteen. Disinterested. In everything. 

"Do you work here?" I asked.

"Wha.." he muttered.

"There's some people trapped in the tower!"

"Yeah?" he replied, in what sounded like indifference, but was probably just not up to the drama that my earlier exchanges with the Americans demanded. 

"I'm going to call into the vicar's house" I told him, already breaking into another run. "If you see anyone, let them know!"

My call to the attached house was fruitless. Much to my disappointment. I was kind of hoping for some sort of Dickensian exchange of information, in which I would bestow the news on the Vicar in a cockney accent, before being rewarded with a hot meal later that evening.  

When I ran back to the Cathedral, there was a gardener finishing up some raking. Somehow, he had missed my previous encirclements. He reacted with considerable calm and went to fetch the key. In the meantime, I went to let my American friends know that everything was going to be ok; that they were going to make it home for Christmas after all..

"THANK YOU! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!" they rejoiced. 

Before long, a woman from inside the Cathedral arrived with the key in hand. The beleaguered visitors exited the tower emitting a cacophony of sighs and exclamations of relief. They looked exactly how they sounded. Early twenties, college kids.

Brushing off the woman's apologies, they were bereft of any complaints or indignation. Upon further questioning, they told us their plight had lasted half an hour. They were a lot quieter now, for obvious reasons. It started getting awkward. What more was there to say? Or do? I bade them farewell and ran away home.

The Siren and Me

I can't remember what the dream was exactly, only that it involved mushroom clouds on the horizon and me fleeing frantically to some underground shelter. Imagine then my first impression when I awoke to what sounded like the doomsday siren in the pre-dawn of a November morning. Apparently, its distinctive howl had incurred on my unconscious mind the scenarios that I associate most with it, before finally waking me into what seemed a surreal situation. I waited a few seconds to see if it was just the last sonic embers of my dream. But it wasn't long before I realised I was hearing this notorious sound in full cognition. In Kilkenny. At 4.45am.

If you've never heard the civil defence siren, you really should give it a listen. It is absolutely one of the most unsettling noises you are likely to encounter. Having spent a sizeable amount of my life engrossed in twentieth century history, its eerie bawl evokes in me images of Londoners crowding into tube stations during the Blitz, or sixties-era American school kids ducking and covering in preparation for a Soviet nuclear strike. In fact, just the other day I watched, and posted on Facebook, a video showing the siren in action in Tel Aviv, Israel.

But I've never heard it in little old Kilkenny. Why would I? This isn't exactly Checkpoint Charlie. Surely the Marble City could never be wiped off the map by a wave of atomic fire? Though I do remember my father telling me how his school drilled for the outbreak of World War 3 during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. But he could have been just making that up.

Whatever about that, I've always wondered how useful these sirens would be if Nuclear War actually did happen. Wouldn't they just terrorise people into realising that the human race is about to be annihilated and there's absolutely nothing they can do about it. Let us sleep I say.

Such considerations were redundant as I opened the window to hear the siren wailing across the outside air, where wind and rain only added to the fatalism of it all. Being alone in the house didn't help. There was no way of making myself feel empowered by shaking someone from their sleep whilst screaming hysterically: “It's Here! It's Here!”

Instead, I hurried downstairs to see if any neighbours had stepped outside to investigate. Standing in my driveway, I found the sound almost unbearable. I calculated its general direction and wondered if it was some kind of cataclysmic burglar alarm from the truck yard across the road, like one that would sound only when all the trucks were stolen. Not seeing anyone else around and with no traffic on the road, I went inside to contact Kilkenny Gardaí. As I passed by the television, I wondered if switching to Sky News would yield a graphic proclaiming: “BREAKING NEWS: WORLD ENDING”

There was a definite gaiety in the voice of the female officer that answered my call. It sounded like she was having an enjoyable morning on the switchboard.

“Hello, I'm on the Freshford Road. There's an extremely loud alarm coming from the direction of the truck yard across the road” I said, in the mode of a truly concerned citizen.

“It's actually from the army barracks” she responded cheerily. “We've had hundreds of calls. Someone's set off the civil defence siren and they don't know how to turn it off!”

At this point, I was fairly sure I could hear other Gardaí chuckling at her end of the line.

“Ah yes, the civil defence siren” I acknowledged, as if to convey myself as someone who had seen it all before. “I thought for a second we'd started World War 3” I continued, before deducing that I couldn't have been the first funnyman to tell her that joke this morning.

“No, you're safe enough” she reassured me. “Hopefully, they'll get it off soon”. That was that it seemed. 

Then, like all good men in the early twenty-first century, I took to Facebook and Twitter to tell everyone everything! Surprisingly, updates from sleep-deprived Kilkenny folk were minimal. I suppose most people in this town are such good sleepers that even the threat of societal destruction can't wake them. Though I did get a text off my sister, who lives outside town. Funny that she could hear it whilst others I've spoken to, some living within 500m of the base, slept through it soundly. My family must have some innate paranoia about Armageddon. 

After another ten minutes or so, the siren whimpered into silence. It was finally over. Or so I thought. Moments later, it started up again! I wondered what exactly was going on in the barracks that this could happen twice in one night.

“Are they all drunk or something?”

Eventually it stopped for good. And I went back to bed, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would come.

This morning, I began investigating what had caused the siren to go off. I rang the military press office, where another female officer was hell bent on assuring me that I was still alive.

“I'm just curious” I explained, trying to dissuade her clear supposition that I was a nervous wreck who spent too much time reading about doomsday scenarios on the internet.

She told me to email on my questions. So I did. And thankfully, the military press office delivered a prompt response. Here it is:

Dermot,

Almost all military barracks and facilities at home and overseas have some form of audible alarm system. It is either used to indicate a defensive requirement for the post or sometimes to re-call Military Personnel in the locality to the Barracks. Many barracks test these alarms for a few seconds from time to time and at a time of the day so as not to disturb local residents. In the case of Stephens Bks Kilkenny, a technical fault caused the alarm to sound in the early hours of the morning. I understand members of the garrison have been on local media apologising for this inconvenience. 

Regards,

The Military

No need to apologise Military. This is easily the most exciting thing that's happened to me all year! The tale of a nightmare inducing siren on the sleeping people of Kilkenny. Well, on one of them anyway

.

Rua

He'd been a quiet companion, without the liveliness I was told to expect from a red setter. And yet, in those first few days, the absence of a wary scratch on my door each morning was as loud as it was silent. Unmistakably, I was alone.

Bridget's cherished rockery seemed as close to a headstone as I could offer him, as if death would make such a formality any more important to him.

“She wouldn't mind” I thought, despite the scoff with which she had always dismissed the idea of getting a dog. But even she couldn't have ignored Rua's gentle disposition when he sat tactfully with me at her graveside.

 “Do you see this?” I would ask her, “This is what keeps me going.”

How right I was. After a week without him, I had buckled under a tide of nostalgia, if such a word can be toned with regret. The memories were, at first, unremarkable. When returning from mass, I waited in vain to see a ginger silhouette moving erratically through the front door's frosted window. Then came more seminal recollections, like the forlorn expression with which he first looked at me through the shelter cage.

With a heart so heavy, Ciara and Rachel's visit today seemed less than ideal. It began routinely, as Ciara fidgeted with her phone at the kitchen table.

“They're called smart-phones Dad” she explained. “You can go online from anywhere.”

“Really” I replied half-heartedly, hoping to feign some sort of interest.

It didn't matter. She was too busy poking at something else to detect my lack of sincerity. Sometimes I think she'd be better off just sewing the phone to her hand.

Eventually I wandered out to the garden to find Rachel examining the upturned soil by the rockery. I stood for a moment and watched, remembering the accord she and Rua had enjoyed since, as an uncertain toddler, she first patted his long lean head. Then came her inevitable enquiry.

“What's that Grandad?” she asked.

“That's where Rua is” I replied bluntly, forgetting she had but the littlest understanding of life and death.

“Mum said Rua is in heaven” she retorted.

I smiled faintly, thinking it the most diplomatic response.

“I miss Rua” she continued, “It's so boring here now.”

My laboured grin gave way to a genuine chuckle. It was the first time I'd laughed in weeks.

“Rachel” I whispered, “I couldn't agree more.”

Watching Wrestling

Lately, I've been spending considerable time indulging in one of the more outlandish pass-times of my younger years: watching wrestling. What can I say? Partial employment leaves ample time to over analyse things that seem like a complete waste of time. And pouring over old wrestling videos could certainly be qualified as such. Nevertheless, I suspect there may be something more to this nostalgia of nonsense. And at the risk of trying to intellectualise the unintellectual, I'm going to try and explain why.

For the benefit of readers who haven't experienced the madness of professional wrestling, allow me to provide a brief synopsis. Professional wrestling is a hybrid of athletics and theatrical performance in which any number of wrestlers engage in a contest that is pre-determined. The modern form of professional wrestling, popularised by the American based WWE, is an amalgamation of various forms from all over the world, some of which trace their origins to the 19^th century. Since a boom in the 1980's, professional wrestling has evolved into a storyline driven phenomenon formatted for mass consumption via television.

I started watching wrestling in 1994, just as the WWE (or WWF as it was then known) was gearing up for its annual showpiece, Wrestlemania. In those days wrestling played up to the traditional struggle between “good guys” and “bad guys”. The former were characters with whom the audience had a natural empathy. They played by the rules, promoted wholesome living and were always portrayed as the superior wrestlers. Bad guys were dishonest, manipulative and usually relied on cheating to win. It doesn't take a genius to work out why this format was so successful. On a base level, it reflected the conflict between what life should be and what it actually is.

The main event of Wrestlemania X pitted the 500lb Yokozuna, a sumo wrestler whose waving of the Japanese flag stoked the flames of western xenophobia, against the hero character of Bret “Hitman” Hart. Having been beaten by his rogue brother Owen earlier in the evening, Bret was the perfect underdog. For most of the match, Yokozuna seemed to pound him into oblivion. Watching on, I was desperate for the hero to pull off the “unlikeliest” of victories over the villain. Imagine then my elation when Bret scored the 1-2-3 after Yokozuna, while poising himself for the deadly “banzai drop”, suddenly lost balance and fell from the ropes.

When I look back now, I can't believe how ridiculous this particular stunt looks. Yet Bret's post match celebration, in which he is joined by all his “good guy” friends and a host of invited celebrities is a little more interesting. The exhausted Hitman can barely stand, but with the WWF championship belt over his shoulder, all is right with the world again. I'll leave it to the ambiguities of human emotion to explain why, after eighteen years, something about this scene still appeals to me.

Yet, even at the age of eight, I was well aware that Bret Hart and Yokozuna were actually just actors playing out a convenient illusion. But it didn't matter. The ability of the wrestling audience to temporarily suspend disbelief is without equal. Watch any wrestling match and you will see people of all ages, genders, races and creeds embrace the spectacle with maximum enthusiasm. This really does work.

In fact, a few months after Wrestlemania X, I was so disturbed by the prospect of Bret losing the WWF belt to his "evil" brother that I prayed that it wouldn't happen. Not in a metaphorical sense. I remember actually being at Mass, receiving holy communion and begging God to ensure Bret's eventual victory. If ever there was evidence that the WWF was doing a good job, this was it. Though on that particular incident, they may have had some help from the Catholic Church.

After a year or so, the allure of wrestling started to wane. As it happened, I was so disillusioned after Bret lost the belt to Shawn Michaels, a former “bad guy” who had been positioned as the new hero, that I simply stopped watching. For me, that wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

In my teenage years, I tuned back in and found the WWF had become a much more violent spectacle in which a beer guzzling redneck, Stone Cold Steve Austin, had become the new favourite. This coincided with an era when the WWF enjoyed it's biggest commercial success to date. Consequentially, the wrestling world had become a lot more secure with opening up its workings to fans' long held curiosity.

This led to my viewing of a documentary which followed Bret Hart's last year in the WWF. Wrestling with Shadows still ranks as one of the most interesting films I have ever seen. Whilst mainly dealing with Bret's struggle to keep pace with the WWF's new direction, it also uncovers an even stranger backstage world where the line between fiction and reality becomes remarkably vague.

I haven't had much time for wrestling in the intervening years. Hyper communication via the world wide web has left wrestling's previously guarded secrets exposed for all to see. In turn, it is much harder for fans to abandon the knowledge that it's all just entertainment. 

I could also put my indifference towards the modern WWE down to the fact that in my ever expanding “maturity”, I've simply outgrown the senselessness of it all. But the fact that I've been spending so much time trying to reconnect with a world where right and wrong is so cut and dry seems to suggest otherwise.