It's lonely out there. Well, not really, I don't give a damn really, because I'm quite alright being lonely and with everything going lobsided, there's still a shoulder and a hamster to cry on at home, friends and family. A blog to dump the stuff too. But sometimes you wonder why bother. Why work your head off when nobody really gives a ...

Well, I could go mental about what happened today but it would be wasted effort and for once focussing on what really matters isn't hard. There's a lesson learned. There actually comes a time when you just know what's the right thing to do and what isn't. And you get on with it.

At the weekend, I went to see Pablo Neruda Presente, a very moving documentary about the great poet Pablo Neruda, a true people's poet of Chile. The images brought back so many long buried feelings of the injustices caused by the cold war, almost overwhelming, there I was going through my deep memories, early passions, linking history lessons with news reals, literature with fact. Suddenly, all seemed to make sense and fall into place, everything seemed connected and related, connections established where before I only saw separate incidents. A visit to Auschwitz at the age of 15, news of "disappearances" in the wake of every US supported government in Hispanoamerica, the all penetrating injust distribution of land in the Americas, and of wealth in Europe, the first meeting of the new local AI group in my home town, and 18 years later, more than double the age on, still the same issues, the same problems. Reading Isabel Allende, who provided the narration to the film now, crying at the end of her novel De Amor y de Sombra, a title which very much reflects Pablo Neruda's poetic path. The anger at injustice, whereever they occur, and the unquestionable effort to do something about them, whenever this anger hits again. All the discussion at uni, at work, the arguments at home about the state of the world. And those chilling words sought for in every poem and novel I devoured, my endless thirst for the perfect poetry, the perfect novel, beautiful, striking, true to life, moving, yet transcending our imperfections in a moment of meaningful art:

Preguntare/is por que/ su poesi/a                 And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
no nos habla del suen~o, de las hojas,         speak of dreams and leaves
de los grandes volcanes de su pai/s natal?    and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Venid a ver la sangre por las calles.              Come and see the blood in the streets.
Venid a ver                                                  Come and see
la sangre por las calles                                  the blood in the streets.
venid a ver la sangre                                     Come and see the blood
por las calles!                                               in the streets!

Sorry I went a bit heavy there, but seeing the film, the images of the dead in the streets of Spain's Civil War and Chile's Pinochet dictatorship blended so easily with all the suffering in Somalia, Iraq, Burma, Tibet, the Goya painting of executions in the Napoleonic War, the heaps of hair in Auschwitz. Then the little sign of hope, the strength of the human spirit that will not be silenced: Pablo Neruda, Presente. Dead, but among us, with his ideas, his poetry, his words, his wisdom. It's all we have, but we'll never lose it, no matter what.