Michael Scott Hand

Category: Mondays

• 18102021

  Posted at 8:53 am by Michael, on October 18, 2021

  It’s powerful to think that seeing the world from above necessitates some fundamental change in the psyche of those who see it.

  They call it the Overview Effect and many astronauts speak of it: the sudden realisation that this vulnerable, sunlit blue sphere hanging in the void is of unique and supreme importance.

  In this moment of overwhelming clarity all war seems pointless and the importance of protecting the natural world becomes self-evident.

  (These are realisations, by the way, that are possible to reach without a journey into low-Earth orbit)

  Visiting “space” is also said to have appreciable positive impacts on mental health. Not unlike the use of hallucinogens to activate a “higher state of consciousness”, floating–very literally–in a “higher state” above the Earth has been reported to produce a pronounced reduction in the symptoms of stress, anxiety and depression.

  And yet, as passenger crafts begin to shoot up through the atmosphere and allow more and more people this unique experience–this unique view–I do not feel the hope this is supposed to engender.

  For as the earth becomes a glinting jewel in the light of the sun; and as that light is reflected in the heart of the onlooker (who is good), I fear the void that surrounds our planet is likewise mirrored in the hearts of humanity.

  In that void, pure nihilism, a nothingness that reaches to infinity. An emptiness of rocks. A different sort of clarity.

  And the Earth itself, suspended against that backdrop of black velvet, becomes the only thing of value–the only thing left to “be attained”.

  The gem is not without its flaws, but look at the way it shimmers. It is the only one in existence, the only one ever found. And it is for all of us. It is all of us. It is mother and father and everything we cling to.

  All memories, all histories, all creatures and creations, all blessings and curses and victories and mysteries, all comes from this sphere, this singular, spinning gemstone.

  What a treasure to behold. To witness. To comprehend these ideas–even in part–is in essence what the Overview Effect is about.

  And it belongs to all of us.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 11102021

  Posted at 8:27 am by Michael, on October 11, 2021

  Good Morning Michael,
  Who are you?
  Can you tell us a little something about the things that you do?

  What’s your story about?
  What type of things do you write?
  Are you familiar with deception as a fictive device?

  Gigantic rents in the sky,
  A speck of sand in your eye,
  I’m like a creature that has wings and yet refuses to fly.

  Well that’s nice,
  But what do you know about current publishing trends?
  Do you start work on a sequel as soon as one story ends?

  I’m like a murder scene played backwards until nobody dies,
  Gotta keep this shit tight,
  Like a CD track at night,
  Played in a car with engine idling that’s stopped at traffic lights.

  Well you’re certainly creative, so there’s no problem there,
  But you’ve still given us no reason for the reader to care…

  Oh, I am nothing to you,
  But you are something to me,
  For I dwell in a space too far for even Hubble to see,
  And your existence is the stars that light up my night sky,
  Without the stars I’d be alone and have no reason to try.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 04102021

  Posted at 9:05 am by Michael, on October 4, 2021

  There is a window in a small room.

  You can’t see through the window because the light from the doorway is reflecting from it.

  As you step inside the small room and close the door behind you the path of the light is cut off and the window grows dark as the reflection dies.

  Now, in the darkness of the window you can see something but you cannot tell what. It is like… a flurry of shapes. Is it snowing outside?

  Are you cold?

  It is dark inside the small room and there is a window on the far wall that you still can’t see through except for indiscernible shapes that tumble through the darkness like static on a television set.

  You haven’t forgotten the light of the corridor behind you. The door isn’t locked. You can open it if you want, turning that window into a mirror that reflects the light. You can forget about the window altogether. You can leave the small room.

  Not today. Not today.

  You take a step towards the window. Nothing becomes any clearer. Looking at the window is like looking into a tumble-dryer. Maybe it is snowing.

  Are you cold?

  You are halfway between the door and the window. The corridor behind you is light. A small line of that light is still visible beneath the door. You can turn back if you want. You can forget about this small room and the window (you can’t).

  Another step is all it will take (the room is small, after all). Another step and you’ll be able to look through the window.

  You are standing at the window. You are trying to focus your eyes beyond the pane of glass. Even here it seems some lingering trace of the light from the corridor creates an optical illusion that makes it hard for you to focus; for a moment all you can see in the window is your own shadow.

  Your own shadow filled with a flurry of snowflakes; empty static; crystals.

  Beyond: darkness. And… street lamps.

  The street lamps glow, each one bearing a halo. It is snowing on the street outside. There is nobody in sight. There is nobody here except you. It is quiet.

  Are you cold?

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 27092021

  Posted at 10:20 am by Michael, on September 27, 2021

  Chase it.

  Beneath the waves, a flash of white. Beneath the rails a disturbance in the dirt. Beneath your feet; between the cracks. Step where you may, but do not worry where you step. Do not walk: run.

  Chase it.

  Your quarry is always just ahead. Around the corner, around the corner. Seemingly out of reach, but always leaving a whisper of itself behind, a promise of what you cannot have. But you can.

  Chase it.

  Your philosophy eludes you. That meaning in your life that you have cobbled together from so many breaks and repairs. That faith like a threadbare blanket that keeps you “warm enough”. But the chill pervades, like icy fingers on your spine and this feeling is not fear but excitement; it is the promise that your prey represents. It is the answer you are seeking.

  CHASE IT.

  Do not give up. You are so close now. You have always been so close.

  Your prey, your philosophy, your answer may still evade you. It always slips away, just out of reach.

  Just out of reach. And you will run, or you will sail, or you will ride the rails and you will strain; you will strain.

  Your muscles will hurt and your eyes will grow dry and your eyes will grow wet. And the burning in your muscles will become too much and you’ll be sure you can’t run any more that you can’t lift your legs, and you’ll convince yourself that there’s no point, that your prey will always elude you; that you will never catch your philosophy.

  And maybe you won’t; but that’s not the point. The important bit is to keep running, keep striving, keep seeking, keep trying. The important part is to…

  Chase it.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 20092021

  Posted at 9:10 am by Michael, on September 20, 2021

  The tide raises us like boats and we are held up by the surface of the water, buoyed up beneath the majesty of the night sky and all its lights.

  There, the boats are above everything and the moonlight shimmers on their sails. And the water shows the reflection of the endless darkness and turns it to light that sweeps and shimmers across the waves.

  And the moon and the stars loom so large and so close and the waves roll away to the star-lit horizon such that we might imagine that we could ride them away into the sky.

  This is the ocean and the night and the tide that raises us. This is the moon and the stars that light our way. This is the swelling of the ocean before it ebbs away.

  Sunlight dawns on weary sails, no longer shining in the moonlight. Boats shift and rock upon the morning water, no longer raised up against the sky.

  A gull caws and a rope is thrown. A mop slides across the deck. An anchor is hauled and the wind whips through the sails, filling them with hope.

  The sky is blue and filled with wispy clouds that drift like fleeting memories. The captain stands at the bow and watches the sun rise.

  The sunlight spreads across the water.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 13092021

  Posted at 7:33 am by Michael, on September 13, 2021

  I… sometimes struggle to find the words, to describe the struggle that resides within me. I push back with my psyche against the darkness and a light radiates from somewhere within that is not like any other light.

  And in the light we see the cracks and scars that mark us (scars both literal and more ambiguous), we see the lines of worry around our eyes; lines that mark our love.

  For if you have loved you have worried and if you have been afraid than you have hoped. And so that light that shines and betrays us to the world as broken, rebuilt, worried, afraid, hopeful also shows us to be beautiful.

  Far more precious than ancient antiques, paint flaked and faded, chipped porcelain; we are living, breathing legacies of everything and everyone we’ve loved and our humanity, our fragility, those same feelings that make us ache are those same feelings that make us alive.

  So bear your scars with pride and lift your chin. You do not need to hide the lines around your eyes or the pain within them. Embrace the wholeness of that which makes you feel weak, for that which we mistake as weakness is merely bravery and weariness. And accept that you can be–in fact, that you are–both broken and beautiful.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 06092021

  Posted at 9:05 am by Michael, on September 6, 2021

  The thread passes through the head of the needle and then the needle passes through the weave of the thread; this is what it is to sew.

  The tiller is dragged through the soil and then the seeds are scattered across the field; this is what it is to sow.

  The writer threads words into sentences and plants the seeds of ideas–and so, both sews and sows.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 30082021

  Posted at 9:09 am by Michael, on August 30, 2021

  The man stands before the mountain that mocked the boy.

  The mountain has not changed–but the boy has.

  There’s grey in his hair now; like the cold, far-off glinting of stars.

  There is a certain weariness about the way he stands.

  There is a certain determination in his dark eyes.

  The boy once stood in this imaginary place.

  This no-place except a place to see a mountain.

  And the mountain mocked the boy. And the mountain said:

  “Can you climb the mountain?”

  As though a mountain could talk.

  In the years that have passed the boy/man has not moved an inch.

  He stands in the same spot, he looks at the same mountain.

  But it is different now: the mountain no longer mocks him.

  In his youth the mountain brought him here.

  Now the man brings the mountain to him.

  The mountain is imaginary–he does not need to climb it.

  If he wishes, he may make himself taller than the mountain and merely step over it.

  And so the mountain does not ask:

  “Can you climb the mountain?”

  The boy has outgrown the question.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

• 23082021

  Posted at 9:02 am by Michael, on August 23, 2021

  I do not try to catch my ideas, or else I find they slip through my fingers.

  Like running water–like a wild stream–coursing downwards between the rocks. Churning and turning, leaves bob and tumble along the foaming surface and sand swirls beneath them.

  These are my ideas: this wild stream, this ever-coursing. The movement of the water is chaotic, we cannot predict where each particle ends up and as the stream weaves back and forth between the rocks and the shore, as it bounces and bubbles and foams, it splits up and reforms, splits up and reforms, splits up and reforms.

  One thousand times a second. Who knows, maybe more. The water mingles and mixes and so do my ideas run across and through one another, both the same ideas–the same stream–and different, ever-changing and ever-changed by their passage through this analogy.

  Analogy, no less an allegory, no less a speaking of things hidden from view yet visible to the watcher of the stream who perceives his thoughts rushing downwards, ever-changing, ever-chaotic. And the He that is Me knows it is impossible to collect these ideas, even in a bucket.

  For the water outside of the stream is nothing like the water within. The water outside is stagnant and separate. It contains, perhaps, a hint of the source, but nothing like the memory of being one with the stream. And so the idea, like the water, must be poured back.

  I do not try to catch my ideas, I merely watch them and am aware of them and am aware of the sensation of gravity and momentum that propels them and me forward, down, weaving complex patterns between the rocks. I do not try to catch my ideas and pour them into glasses and say: look what I have imagined, taste the water of my dreams.

  I merely watch the stream and am aware of it and, in turn, from that swirling, ever-downwards chaos, describe the thought-forms I see reflected on the surface. Is that the sun that shines through the trees or the illumination of my intellect?

  There is no such thing as still water.

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• 16082021

  Posted at 9:13 am by Michael, on August 16, 2021

  I am not my aches and pains, though they are part of me. I am not the limitations that life and physics handed down to me. I am not broken, sad or happy, although these are states I swim through like eddies in the ocean.

  I am not the first to feel like this; nor am I the last. I am not the only one who ponders. I am not the only one who seeks. I am not alone, nor am I a fish, nor am I a skeleton; though my bones do ache.

  I am not asleep, I am most definitely awake. This is not some dream state. Or if it is, it is a dream state so inseparable from the illusion of reality that it does not matter.

  I am not quantum uncertainty. I am not Schrödinger’s cat.

  I am not a brick in the wall; I am not a sturdy foundation. I am not the branch that bends in the wind, or the mind that bends on a whim.

  So then, if I am not the bend or the whim or the mind or the branch or the brick; if I am not a cat in a box, or a mathematical theorem, or a skeleton, or an emotion, or pain. If I am truly none of those things then what am I?

  Maybe I am wrong.

  Posted in Mondays | 0 Comments

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