In the list of odd defects in my mental make up, first place belongs today to that mist of panic that descends whenever anyone mentions to me that they’ve read a post on my blog.
Intellectually, I know this is a public blog, on a public site, syndicated to PlanetBohra, my Facebook page and on my Twitter. I do those things because I want to make it easier for people – drum roll – to read my blog.
That knowledge does not explain the reaction I have when people mention my posts in person: I go through a sensation of shock as the internet and ‘real’ worlds collide; I expect some horrendous consequence to be visited on me as an online indiscretion leaks into the real world (If I’ve ever ‘blanked’ after you’ve mentioned a blog post of mine my apologies and at least now you know why).
My experience has never justified my panic. People have been supportive, questioning or interested in taking the dialogue from the internet to real life and nothing ill has ever come of dialogue. Some offer answers, some help me cope, and some bear the unique gift of seeing with a different perspective.
We idealise the mastery of the rational brain over the emotional mind, but things like this make me wonder if truly either master or mastered is in charge. A reaction of panic, when intellect and experience seems to suggest that there is little reason to fear makes me wonder why I react this way.
Writing has always been vital to my essence, first its consumption and later its creation; but in the last three months, I haven’t scribbled a jot that has grasped my inner turmoil and constructed a semblance of order.
This is a votive offering to bring me back towards the right path. The right path emphasises the necessity of gratitude. I thought it fitting to begin with a brief summation of things I’m grateful for in the last few days.
I got out of the office today in time to make it to markaz for the majlis tonight. I’ve been feeling the death of my spiritual side for some time; this has given a boost. For that burst of life I’m grateful.
I enjoyed swapping emails with James yesterday. Its good to know that this experience is the common heritage of all trainees. I don’t save many emails – but I’m saving these. I’m grateful that I have their writer as a friend.
A lot of people ask me about what kind of music I like – and my professed truth is I don’t have any particular preference. Today, during the majlis, I realised otherwise: the music embedded in my life is the madeh of aale-mohammed. That’s what I hum in a lift, those are the ‘songs’ for which I know all the words and these are the words that move my soul. For that burst of self-realisation, and the happiness which it brings I’m grateful.
I’ve been making much more quiet time in the last few days. Moments away from machines, unreachable, are essential to my equilibrium. That equilibrium careened out of balance and I’m finally fighting to restore it. For that endeavour, I’m grateful.
They’re running a criminal background check! You don’t do that unless you’re serious right? I don’t know if that’s necessarily the case – it might be an abundance of caution and merely one step in a long march. I’m grateful that I enjoy the absurdity of celebrating a police investigation.
Methinks the Court of Appeal found itself in a pickle on this one:
2. This hearing, scheduled under s 34A of the High Court Ordinance, is to determine if judges, who are full members (“members”) of the Jockey Club and/or the Cricket Club, should recuse themselves from hearing the appeal.
This is a great point. Kudos to the two barristers who gave it a go.
3. It is fair to point out that a significant percentage of judges of the High Court and above are members of the Jockey Club. If judges, who are members of the Jockey Club, were to recuse themselves from hearing the appeal, it will be difficult to have a panel of judges to hear the appeal, both in the Court of Appeal and if the matter does not end there, in the Court of Final Appeal.
But this won’t affect the court’s conclusion. At all. I mean it would be slightly ironic if there was a certain victim – in this case a rich powerful victim like the Jockey Club, who could never get justice because no senior judge could ever hear the case.
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