for a good example of what the internet can be used for and how difficult is is to establish veracity and identity in an e-mail click on the link below:
Urban Legends Reference Pages: Love (The Bryan Winter of our Discontent)
i got a bit distracted today when a friend of mine mailed me a petition to sign, and i went and checked it out. i know this person's enthusiasm and passion, but i also have been using the internet professionally ever since it was created and before there were these little charms of convenience called browsers and mail programs. i am aware that not all that shines is gold. i did the due diligence bit and checked out what was behind that petition, a quick query at trendmicro reveled the petition to be an hoax. i informed my friend. then i went to urban legends just for a quick look, if there is such thing, got distracted and discovered the story of Bryan Winter, one of those whose veracity has not been established.
this is really old stuff, but then so is the bible, the kaaba, and the pyramids, still, they all have stood the test of time in one way or another. the issue is one that is core to my blogging, the demarcation of that fine dividing line between private and public, and the distinction between fact and fiction. in civil society we have the so called personality rights to deal with some of these issues when it comes to privacy, and these ought to be taught in elementary school in all nations with a civil society. in terms of intellectual property, there is also much which one ought to know, and most of those that need to know, do know, still the internet makes publishing accessible to anybody, not just those in the traditional publishing world. with the tools available today on the internet, anybody with a connection to the web is a potential publisher. on this subject i will be writing at length elsewhere, and because of issues of privacy, it will not even be linked to this blog.
i first became aware that not all people can distinguish between fiction and fact this summer during the issuing controversy and polemic over Dan Brown's "the da Vinci code" when i experienced at least one cold fact loving neurosurgeon totally engrossed in the story and me looking at him with big eyes.
in conclusion, two of the great challenges of the open source movement are veracity, and identity which will be needing some innovation in both the way they are established, but also in the way that we think about them.
Tuesday, 30 November 2004
Monday, 29 November 2004
a letter to a friend
dearest!
i have been very absent from all, especially from this earth. if have not responded to your mails and messages is because there was nowhere where i could begin. i do not understand the process which i am going through these days, it is, at best, very odd.
i have tried calling you on a couple of occasions, either you are not home, or you are busy.
and then, if there is a name to the process that i am going through, it is surrender, but surrender at a level like i have not known before, nor that i could imagine. somehow it is as though my life is disappearing and i exist somewhere and somehow just serving the muses that pass through me. they write, i am just the instrument. i read the stuff that i write, and i wonder how i could write something like that. sometimes it flows, it is then quiet, and it feels like a drug. on a good day i do not know if i am going insane, totally insane, and ready for the clinic or if actually i am fulfilling my life's dream. frankly i do not even care to know which one, it does not make a difference as far i am concerned. this feels like drugs, or what i imagine that being on drugs is like.
there are no crazy and wild adventures in my life, although there are surprises almost each day.
i have my moments when i wish i was more of a functioning machine, and much less the possessed poet that i feel like i am turning... it is good to feel, to have feelings, to be sensitive, but then i have my days, when it all seems much too much... and i could do with a bit more numbness. wide awake at 3 am, has all of a sudden a totally different new meaning. i am ready to curse all arts, all muses, all inspiration. i am ready to curse it and i am ready to embrace it fully, with all of me. what ever me is, it wants to surrender. i am tired of fighting, i am tired of surrendering, i give up, i got to write. if i don't, i am deader than dead.
i think i embarked on this journey about 12 years ago, although i did not realise it then. yesterday, per chance, i sat next to somebody who remembered me from that time. all i remember of the time when i returned to berne after ithaca is one word that has rang inside my head ever since. if there is one word that has lead my life since then, it is that one. why is it that when i have questions about myself, the universe turns around, and it gives me the answers? yesterday was insignificant, and yesterday chanced my perception of what i thought was real. clearly i do not have a clue. i have been here before, and each time i return to this point, it is revelation time, like i had never been here before. for years i struggle, i fight, except that i never quite know what it is, i have a vague idea of the journey, still there is no goal, it is the journey that is important or so it seems.
right now, even my body tells me that all is changing. sometimes i wish that this body and this mind would divorce and give each other a truce, but they seem to not be that far. i am the spectator in this life of mind and body experiencing what being human could be about. i feel that i do not exist, that my will has no consequence, and that somehow, it is those ephemeral dreams that propel me, not automatically, not routinely, but effortlessly. i never thought that this would happen. i do not know what it is. perhaps this is sheer madness. and madness i welcome in this life.
love,
yours to eternity and back again
i have been very absent from all, especially from this earth. if have not responded to your mails and messages is because there was nowhere where i could begin. i do not understand the process which i am going through these days, it is, at best, very odd.
i have tried calling you on a couple of occasions, either you are not home, or you are busy.
and then, if there is a name to the process that i am going through, it is surrender, but surrender at a level like i have not known before, nor that i could imagine. somehow it is as though my life is disappearing and i exist somewhere and somehow just serving the muses that pass through me. they write, i am just the instrument. i read the stuff that i write, and i wonder how i could write something like that. sometimes it flows, it is then quiet, and it feels like a drug. on a good day i do not know if i am going insane, totally insane, and ready for the clinic or if actually i am fulfilling my life's dream. frankly i do not even care to know which one, it does not make a difference as far i am concerned. this feels like drugs, or what i imagine that being on drugs is like.
there are no crazy and wild adventures in my life, although there are surprises almost each day.
i have my moments when i wish i was more of a functioning machine, and much less the possessed poet that i feel like i am turning... it is good to feel, to have feelings, to be sensitive, but then i have my days, when it all seems much too much... and i could do with a bit more numbness. wide awake at 3 am, has all of a sudden a totally different new meaning. i am ready to curse all arts, all muses, all inspiration. i am ready to curse it and i am ready to embrace it fully, with all of me. what ever me is, it wants to surrender. i am tired of fighting, i am tired of surrendering, i give up, i got to write. if i don't, i am deader than dead.
i think i embarked on this journey about 12 years ago, although i did not realise it then. yesterday, per chance, i sat next to somebody who remembered me from that time. all i remember of the time when i returned to berne after ithaca is one word that has rang inside my head ever since. if there is one word that has lead my life since then, it is that one. why is it that when i have questions about myself, the universe turns around, and it gives me the answers? yesterday was insignificant, and yesterday chanced my perception of what i thought was real. clearly i do not have a clue. i have been here before, and each time i return to this point, it is revelation time, like i had never been here before. for years i struggle, i fight, except that i never quite know what it is, i have a vague idea of the journey, still there is no goal, it is the journey that is important or so it seems.
right now, even my body tells me that all is changing. sometimes i wish that this body and this mind would divorce and give each other a truce, but they seem to not be that far. i am the spectator in this life of mind and body experiencing what being human could be about. i feel that i do not exist, that my will has no consequence, and that somehow, it is those ephemeral dreams that propel me, not automatically, not routinely, but effortlessly. i never thought that this would happen. i do not know what it is. perhaps this is sheer madness. and madness i welcome in this life.
love,
yours to eternity and back again
when do i know?
when do i know that i have had enough?
when will i ever learn to keep my mouth shut or my typing fingers still? i am always a bit like the cat that has to leave the tail hanging out, unsure, undecided, hesitating. sometimes i really wish i was not this way, and other times i just wish i would get to know myself in a rush, but i am slow, even in getting to know myself. no, you do not have a chance, you never did. this is all about intellectual intercourse and sexual discourse. no, it is not the other way around. when i first realized that i could one day come to this point, i thought that i would not be able to bear it, to be in the presence of that which is so unknown to me.
form, it is about form. it is about trial and error. today i am up a wall, a wall that i do not like, do not appreciate and i am ready to turn it all around, once more. one more time, not for old time sake, just for my own sake. once more, again, now.
when my sister died, i hated every bit of it. i hated that she was dead, i hated that i was alive, i hated that i was writing, i hated that she would never learn to. that feeling never left me, it is still here, it is perhaps the only thought that still makes the tears roll down my face: they are rolling. i want to be mad, and i want to scream, and what do i do? i know why people go to the Himalayas or other mountains, or i imagine that they seek that piece of repast from the torture of the mind, that illusion that we call peace eludes me every and each day. or does it?
there are days, when i say, fuck it all. all of it, the peace keepers, the paratroopers, the legal aids, the famished, the living, the dead. just fuck it all, suicide is pink and it is the ultimate choice. if i do not fear death, can i fear anything or anybody? mace in my eyes, a kick here or there, a lesion, blood, pain... it is all bearable, until it becomes unbearable, and then? then there is no heaven, there is no earth. there you are, newly dead, past moribund, the product of your parents procreation insanity, lifeless. no more guilt, no more pain. they live, you die, there is no guilt, there is no pain. there was not even a big bang either.
one day i sat on a hill overlooking the atlantic, gomera it was, you do remember? you remember the blue of the sky, you remember the smell of the waves, the taste of the air. far on the horizon, the sky kissed the ocean, my ocean, and i kissed death. we made a pact: earth, wind and fire would be ours. you were so very preoccupied with all your machinations, how could you even have dreamt up that i had seen you. lies, all lies. once. just once, stop and experience. just once, stop. once.
nos mensonges, a nous, les mensonges du plaisir, de l'infini.
once more, i turn in desperation, that desperation that i have learned to hide, that desperation that does not know fear, that desperation that fights and kills. who are you being when you are there naked and bare? are you then really naked, or is your skin just exposed? who are you being when you ask me to tell you? who are you being when you tell me of little monsters and wonderful sights? who are you being when you think that i believe any of it? who are you being when you try to justify? once upon a time, you shall never know. for the truth is, that time is past and gone, freshly dead, like a whisper of a desire that was never born.
dare being poetic, do you? do you dare give form to the raw material of your intellect? do you dare using that mind of yours, that curse of mine? dare, just dare, once. once dare to trabble out of there, to ignore the feelings, to surrender to the pain inside your being. venture out from the ringing inside your cranium, dare, just dare going past it, once, twice. dare and die! twice.
not once, not once upon a time, twice.
i am there, where i dreaded to be for ignorance of never having been here, i arrived, and i had not believed i had started the journey. how could it be? how could you leave me alone on this journey? it was your journey, you swore it to me. you swore alliance, allegiance, and eternal misery, but swear you did. or were you just cursing my very existence? i believed in that dream that i thought we could carve out of the jails of mental leprosy. you, me and him. twice, once, now. i am here, the sun is setting, the sky, the ocean, the blue: once.
tears, fire, earth, and the taste of the waves. remember freedom? remember the freedom of waking up and not knowing anything, no time, no place, nothing, no language, no words, no remembrances. no memory of the memories, no existence of the existences, once... just once, freshly arrived, terribly accidented, dismembered, disembodied.
when do i know?
when will i ever learn to keep my mouth shut or my typing fingers still? i am always a bit like the cat that has to leave the tail hanging out, unsure, undecided, hesitating. sometimes i really wish i was not this way, and other times i just wish i would get to know myself in a rush, but i am slow, even in getting to know myself. no, you do not have a chance, you never did. this is all about intellectual intercourse and sexual discourse. no, it is not the other way around. when i first realized that i could one day come to this point, i thought that i would not be able to bear it, to be in the presence of that which is so unknown to me.
form, it is about form. it is about trial and error. today i am up a wall, a wall that i do not like, do not appreciate and i am ready to turn it all around, once more. one more time, not for old time sake, just for my own sake. once more, again, now.
when my sister died, i hated every bit of it. i hated that she was dead, i hated that i was alive, i hated that i was writing, i hated that she would never learn to. that feeling never left me, it is still here, it is perhaps the only thought that still makes the tears roll down my face: they are rolling. i want to be mad, and i want to scream, and what do i do? i know why people go to the Himalayas or other mountains, or i imagine that they seek that piece of repast from the torture of the mind, that illusion that we call peace eludes me every and each day. or does it?
there are days, when i say, fuck it all. all of it, the peace keepers, the paratroopers, the legal aids, the famished, the living, the dead. just fuck it all, suicide is pink and it is the ultimate choice. if i do not fear death, can i fear anything or anybody? mace in my eyes, a kick here or there, a lesion, blood, pain... it is all bearable, until it becomes unbearable, and then? then there is no heaven, there is no earth. there you are, newly dead, past moribund, the product of your parents procreation insanity, lifeless. no more guilt, no more pain. they live, you die, there is no guilt, there is no pain. there was not even a big bang either.
one day i sat on a hill overlooking the atlantic, gomera it was, you do remember? you remember the blue of the sky, you remember the smell of the waves, the taste of the air. far on the horizon, the sky kissed the ocean, my ocean, and i kissed death. we made a pact: earth, wind and fire would be ours. you were so very preoccupied with all your machinations, how could you even have dreamt up that i had seen you. lies, all lies. once. just once, stop and experience. just once, stop. once.
nos mensonges, a nous, les mensonges du plaisir, de l'infini.
once more, i turn in desperation, that desperation that i have learned to hide, that desperation that does not know fear, that desperation that fights and kills. who are you being when you are there naked and bare? are you then really naked, or is your skin just exposed? who are you being when you ask me to tell you? who are you being when you tell me of little monsters and wonderful sights? who are you being when you think that i believe any of it? who are you being when you try to justify? once upon a time, you shall never know. for the truth is, that time is past and gone, freshly dead, like a whisper of a desire that was never born.
dare being poetic, do you? do you dare give form to the raw material of your intellect? do you dare using that mind of yours, that curse of mine? dare, just dare, once. once dare to trabble out of there, to ignore the feelings, to surrender to the pain inside your being. venture out from the ringing inside your cranium, dare, just dare going past it, once, twice. dare and die! twice.
not once, not once upon a time, twice.
i am there, where i dreaded to be for ignorance of never having been here, i arrived, and i had not believed i had started the journey. how could it be? how could you leave me alone on this journey? it was your journey, you swore it to me. you swore alliance, allegiance, and eternal misery, but swear you did. or were you just cursing my very existence? i believed in that dream that i thought we could carve out of the jails of mental leprosy. you, me and him. twice, once, now. i am here, the sun is setting, the sky, the ocean, the blue: once.
tears, fire, earth, and the taste of the waves. remember freedom? remember the freedom of waking up and not knowing anything, no time, no place, nothing, no language, no words, no remembrances. no memory of the memories, no existence of the existences, once... just once, freshly arrived, terribly accidented, dismembered, disembodied.
when do i know?
living on the edge
last night i had a few great dialogues with this historian whom i had not seen for a couple of years. the last time that i had talked to him was on the phone and neither of us was in that good of a shape. life was handing us new challenges, the kind that academia does not prepare you for. he has an affinity for the portuguese language, and i have been slow in discovering my fascination for history.
politically he may well be from the same side of town as i am, but we are, or so it seems to me, or else he is pulling my leg, from different neighborhoods. i am one known for arguing the virtues of a united federalist europe including switzerland, he is one of those whose mind i have yet to penetrate, he likes the status quo. for me the european union is a peace project, for him... well, i am not sure what it is. be it as it may, i asked him to join me at the election night celebration of our party.
dialogue is fun, i really enjoyed our exchange.
politically he may well be from the same side of town as i am, but we are, or so it seems to me, or else he is pulling my leg, from different neighborhoods. i am one known for arguing the virtues of a united federalist europe including switzerland, he is one of those whose mind i have yet to penetrate, he likes the status quo. for me the european union is a peace project, for him... well, i am not sure what it is. be it as it may, i asked him to join me at the election night celebration of our party.
dialogue is fun, i really enjoyed our exchange.
the morning after
thanks for the vote. thanks for the attention.
my thinking went along the lines:
1. the party asked me, and i am willing to serve the community, there is a lot of work to do anyhow even if in this city all seems to work more or less well, with the possible exception that the taxes are too high, the traffic is a mess, and the school system needs some serious innovation.
2. in accepting to be on the list and electable, i made peace with the consequences. if people want me to represent them, i will do it gladly, happily, and to the best of my abilities.
3. campaigning is for attention whores, who are interested in the position, the bright lights, the social status, but who have little to offer otherwise. my vanity would have me not want to be an attention whore... and perhaps i am one anyhow. aren't all bloggers just attention whores?
4. i did not think that i had a chance of being elected, 3rd on the substitute list is better than anything i dreamt of. i got myself prepared for being last, so as to not suffer the disappointment of shattered unrealistic expectations, and i would have been delighted with 3rd from the bottom. this last line of thought tells you how much my own thinking can misguide me.
5. to say that i did not campaign at all is also not correct. when people asked me about it, i told them what my thinking on the matter was. i did engage in a few interesting and very encouraging discussions with people whose opinion i value. their encouragement was however seen in my book as a sign of them being courteous and kind towards me, not a sign that i had a chance of being elected.
6. take it one step at a time.
in conclusion this has been a rather interesting learning experience. among the many lessons learned or revisited are:
1. believe in yourself,if you don't... who will? others will, but you will disappoint them and yourself if you don't.
2. be yourself, it works, it communicates, it wins.
3. there is much that i have to learn about marketing, public relations and what campaigning means.
4. my own thinking is not always the best guide.
5. back to work!
6. sometimes i am right, and i really wish i was not. sometimes i am wrong, and i am rather glad that i was wrong. this election belongs to the latter category.
my thinking went along the lines:
1. the party asked me, and i am willing to serve the community, there is a lot of work to do anyhow even if in this city all seems to work more or less well, with the possible exception that the taxes are too high, the traffic is a mess, and the school system needs some serious innovation.
2. in accepting to be on the list and electable, i made peace with the consequences. if people want me to represent them, i will do it gladly, happily, and to the best of my abilities.
3. campaigning is for attention whores, who are interested in the position, the bright lights, the social status, but who have little to offer otherwise. my vanity would have me not want to be an attention whore... and perhaps i am one anyhow. aren't all bloggers just attention whores?
4. i did not think that i had a chance of being elected, 3rd on the substitute list is better than anything i dreamt of. i got myself prepared for being last, so as to not suffer the disappointment of shattered unrealistic expectations, and i would have been delighted with 3rd from the bottom. this last line of thought tells you how much my own thinking can misguide me.
5. to say that i did not campaign at all is also not correct. when people asked me about it, i told them what my thinking on the matter was. i did engage in a few interesting and very encouraging discussions with people whose opinion i value. their encouragement was however seen in my book as a sign of them being courteous and kind towards me, not a sign that i had a chance of being elected.
6. take it one step at a time.
in conclusion this has been a rather interesting learning experience. among the many lessons learned or revisited are:
1. believe in yourself,if you don't... who will? others will, but you will disappoint them and yourself if you don't.
2. be yourself, it works, it communicates, it wins.
3. there is much that i have to learn about marketing, public relations and what campaigning means.
4. my own thinking is not always the best guide.
5. back to work!
6. sometimes i am right, and i really wish i was not. sometimes i am wrong, and i am rather glad that i was wrong. this election belongs to the latter category.
Sunday, 28 November 2004
the election results are in
i am stunned!
i did not lift a finger. on a list of 19, i came in 8th place. this list won 5 seats in the city parliament, one more than 4 years ago, one of them was elected to the city council, meaning that the one on 6th place will take her place.
i am trying to recover from the fact that people actually voted for me. thanks to all of those who did!
post scriptum: i did go to city hall this evening to find out what the results are, and because i thought it might be fun to watch and take pictures. for clarity, this was not the same event about which i ranted on the previous posting.
i did not lift a finger. on a list of 19, i came in 8th place. this list won 5 seats in the city parliament, one more than 4 years ago, one of them was elected to the city council, meaning that the one on 6th place will take her place.
i am trying to recover from the fact that people actually voted for me. thanks to all of those who did!
post scriptum: i did go to city hall this evening to find out what the results are, and because i thought it might be fun to watch and take pictures. for clarity, this was not the same event about which i ranted on the previous posting.
voting and being here: in spite of all my best intentions and desires
the story of not being a victim, and being happy.
you, the family, friends and fools who know me, you are those that have touched my skin at one time or another, you know that i would rather be in quarteira right now. in spite of all my desires, i chose to be here, in berne, right now.
the votes are cast, and i hope i have no surprises by the time this evening is over, and that my life will not have another major change in it, like being elected to the city parliament. nothing against being in the city parliament, but somehow, although i accepted to be nominated by my party, an election would bring a major breakdown in my life. i do have a good relationship to breakdowns, after all, i do like to fix what is not working.
this morning i went to cast my own ballot: the 3 federal issues were fairly important, stem cell research being one of them. afterwards i walked down to the matte, as i often do to access what i call "my beach" by the aare. half-way down i heard this older lady with her tiny dog, she must have been well over 70, asking in a rather panicky voice where the "wasserwerkegasse 2" was. the people passing by her totally ignored her. i was on the other side of the street, and crossed to her side. she was somehow disoriented, i told her that she was close, about 200 meters from where she wanted to be, and in which direction to go. i was walking in the same direction, she slowly, and surely found her way. she never said thank you, but then, she was rather frightened that she had lost her way. judging from her accent, she was a local. this is berne.
i sit here writing this and realize that i have passed up on my party's invitation to be at a local restaurant wooing the sirens of national television. since my last tv appearance i have come to realize that the only thing that surpasses my lack of desire to have one, is my lack of desire to be in it. christmas is approaching, and i am getting more and more like the scrooge on all issues.
recently, about one month ago, i ended up hugging one fellow whom, about three years ago i would have rather stung unconscientious, a former colleague. how we got to be in each other's arms is in itself quite a bit of a story, one could also call it serendipity. he comes to mind right now for several reasons reasons: one, although i had serious differences of opinion with the colleague, he and i have been able to appreciate those differences and grow past them; secondly, somebody else with the same first name as he, often got all confused as to what the nature of my conflict with his name sake thus creating a total mess of what could have been something beautiful. projections can be very powerful, but if you can not distinguish what is projection and what is not, just throw in the towel, you lost. you can not win, until you concede that you have lost.
it could be that, for all the powers that be, my middle name is "blank canvas." often, i end up being that screen where a lot of unclaimed projections get thrown at. i can not control what others do or not do, but i do have some control on how fast i can move out of the way, and in what direction i redirect those projection energies thrown at me. this morning there was this smiling face of that clown, also known as a man with a few vices, looking at me. it was impersonal. he is in new york now, but his self-portrait is again on my desk since thursday, and i did go to my desk first thing on getting up this morning for some reason that is already forgotten, like good reasons ought to be. nobody can make me fall on my nose faster than this man with a few vices, but then... that is another story. still the reminder of that ease, kindness, and mercilessness that all are so his, so authentic, and so inspiring, is still being written. yes, writing the reminder of ease, kindness and mercilessness is another way of expressing the quest for authenticity.
in thinking of my choice to be here, writing to my friends, in a rather impersonal, albeit very direct and immediate way, rather than to be in a hip place, read, neoclassical boring, with lots of self proclaimed super cool people flirting with tv cameras, i am reminded of those wonderful accusations that the doctor just wants to be in the middle of the spotlight. well, the accuser has come to recant his accusation, and the doctor -- that is me -- does not like incoherent bright lights, she used to work with lasers!
form, she said form. i am looking into form.
you, the family, friends and fools who know me, you are those that have touched my skin at one time or another, you know that i would rather be in quarteira right now. in spite of all my desires, i chose to be here, in berne, right now.
the votes are cast, and i hope i have no surprises by the time this evening is over, and that my life will not have another major change in it, like being elected to the city parliament. nothing against being in the city parliament, but somehow, although i accepted to be nominated by my party, an election would bring a major breakdown in my life. i do have a good relationship to breakdowns, after all, i do like to fix what is not working.
this morning i went to cast my own ballot: the 3 federal issues were fairly important, stem cell research being one of them. afterwards i walked down to the matte, as i often do to access what i call "my beach" by the aare. half-way down i heard this older lady with her tiny dog, she must have been well over 70, asking in a rather panicky voice where the "wasserwerkegasse 2" was. the people passing by her totally ignored her. i was on the other side of the street, and crossed to her side. she was somehow disoriented, i told her that she was close, about 200 meters from where she wanted to be, and in which direction to go. i was walking in the same direction, she slowly, and surely found her way. she never said thank you, but then, she was rather frightened that she had lost her way. judging from her accent, she was a local. this is berne.
i sit here writing this and realize that i have passed up on my party's invitation to be at a local restaurant wooing the sirens of national television. since my last tv appearance i have come to realize that the only thing that surpasses my lack of desire to have one, is my lack of desire to be in it. christmas is approaching, and i am getting more and more like the scrooge on all issues.
recently, about one month ago, i ended up hugging one fellow whom, about three years ago i would have rather stung unconscientious, a former colleague. how we got to be in each other's arms is in itself quite a bit of a story, one could also call it serendipity. he comes to mind right now for several reasons reasons: one, although i had serious differences of opinion with the colleague, he and i have been able to appreciate those differences and grow past them; secondly, somebody else with the same first name as he, often got all confused as to what the nature of my conflict with his name sake thus creating a total mess of what could have been something beautiful. projections can be very powerful, but if you can not distinguish what is projection and what is not, just throw in the towel, you lost. you can not win, until you concede that you have lost.
it could be that, for all the powers that be, my middle name is "blank canvas." often, i end up being that screen where a lot of unclaimed projections get thrown at. i can not control what others do or not do, but i do have some control on how fast i can move out of the way, and in what direction i redirect those projection energies thrown at me. this morning there was this smiling face of that clown, also known as a man with a few vices, looking at me. it was impersonal. he is in new york now, but his self-portrait is again on my desk since thursday, and i did go to my desk first thing on getting up this morning for some reason that is already forgotten, like good reasons ought to be. nobody can make me fall on my nose faster than this man with a few vices, but then... that is another story. still the reminder of that ease, kindness, and mercilessness that all are so his, so authentic, and so inspiring, is still being written. yes, writing the reminder of ease, kindness and mercilessness is another way of expressing the quest for authenticity.
in thinking of my choice to be here, writing to my friends, in a rather impersonal, albeit very direct and immediate way, rather than to be in a hip place, read, neoclassical boring, with lots of self proclaimed super cool people flirting with tv cameras, i am reminded of those wonderful accusations that the doctor just wants to be in the middle of the spotlight. well, the accuser has come to recant his accusation, and the doctor -- that is me -- does not like incoherent bright lights, she used to work with lasers!
form, she said form. i am looking into form.
Saturday, 27 November 2004
Friday, 26 November 2004
life: being an animal
Yahoo! News - Lifestyle Photos - AFP:
Saut, a male white rhinoceros, his female Najin and their four- year-old calf Fatu stands by at the Dvur Kralove zoo, East Bohemia. The zoo is the only place in the world where they have managed to breed the endangered species in captivity(AFP/File/Libor Tasler)
Saut, a male white rhinoceros, his female Najin and their four- year-old calf Fatu stands by at the Dvur Kralove zoo, East Bohemia. The zoo is the only place in the world where they have managed to breed the endangered species in captivity(AFP/File/Libor Tasler)
for english language news junkies: some good "how to, and what to" reads
Guardian Unlimited | The Guardian:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/webfeeds
New York Times
BBC News
(this is not an exhaustive list, but it is a start)
http://www.guardian.co.uk/webfeeds
New York Times
BBC News
(this is not an exhaustive list, but it is a start)
Thursday, 25 November 2004
oh hum!
yes, i am tired of repeating the old clichés.
once a door opens, then it closes, it may never open again, and then it may.
who cares?
i do not.
i care about preciously little
i care about nothing
i don't even know what zen is
sometimes i have the illusion of being alive
other times i imagine that i am dead
who cares?
who could possibly care?
nobody cares.
it is good that is so.
absolutely good.
once a door opens, then it closes, it may never open again, and then it may.
who cares?
i do not.
i care about preciously little
i care about nothing
i don't even know what zen is
sometimes i have the illusion of being alive
other times i imagine that i am dead
who cares?
who could possibly care?
nobody cares.
it is good that is so.
absolutely good.
reinventing myself along the way, deriving inspiration from the bowels of earth, fire and air
my new "icon" and "guru"
the vulture: any of various large raptorial birds of temperate and tropical regions that are related to the hawks, eagles, and falcons but have weaker claws and the head usually naked, that subsist chiefly or entirely on carrion, and that constitute the families Aegypiidae and Cathartidae and include some of the largest birds of flight.
(citation: "vulture." Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged. Merriam-Webster, 2002. http://unabridged.merriam-webster.com (25 Nov. 2004))
the vulture: any of various large raptorial birds of temperate and tropical regions that are related to the hawks, eagles, and falcons but have weaker claws and the head usually naked, that subsist chiefly or entirely on carrion, and that constitute the families Aegypiidae and Cathartidae and include some of the largest birds of flight.
(citation: "vulture." Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged. Merriam-Webster, 2002. http://unabridged.merriam-webster.com (25 Nov. 2004))
Wednesday, 24 November 2004
Tuesday, 23 November 2004
good news
1. the PowerBook is back: new display that no longer creaks like the door in an old haunted house, and the OS did crash and was beyond repair, the HD was fine.
2. denial is the first step towards recovery. one thing is to say "no" another is to decline an invitation.
3. there is no fact or fiction, there is only reality. the truth is the illusion.
4. writing with the old pc was not as bad as i had imagined it. it does have one feature that the mac does not have: the cover opens up 180 degrees, so, i can write fully reclined and like a lazy bum when laying down in bed.
4. it is always great to get a few encouraging words from my play-writer friend wrestling them words between NYC and Paris.
5. why the fuck did you ever get the idea that it was about you? why do you think that anybody cares about your feelings? (one can pretend, the other can believe)
6. if the shoe fits wear it!
7. i wish i was there with you in Mumbai.
2. denial is the first step towards recovery. one thing is to say "no" another is to decline an invitation.
3. there is no fact or fiction, there is only reality. the truth is the illusion.
4. writing with the old pc was not as bad as i had imagined it. it does have one feature that the mac does not have: the cover opens up 180 degrees, so, i can write fully reclined and like a lazy bum when laying down in bed.
4. it is always great to get a few encouraging words from my play-writer friend wrestling them words between NYC and Paris.
5. why the fuck did you ever get the idea that it was about you? why do you think that anybody cares about your feelings? (one can pretend, the other can believe)
6. if the shoe fits wear it!
7. i wish i was there with you in Mumbai.
Monday, 22 November 2004
horse riding in march: my feelings are the shit that i manage and am responsible for
found this old posting on my buzznet while cleaning up the mess on the pc notebook:
monday, 15 march 2004 / berne
another perfect day on this side of paradise.
ecstasy is on one day having it all: work, sun, sex, sauna and sleep.
got up at 5 in the morning, the default value motivated by a meeting with "la pavoni" and a café au soya, something that sounds worse than it tastes. my morning coffee is one vice i refuse to give up. shower, zazen, and a deadline to meet in the service of the economy.
perfect! start the day doing what i like doing and get the work done before lunch. meet with " my banker." home for lunch and some office work. a meeting got moved from yesterday to today. while walking to my meeting and realizing that instead of my mobile i had put the digital camera in my pocket i was faced to having to turn on the camera to find out the time, and in a day like today, the first spring like day of the year, i could not have made a better mistake. a perfect view of the alps did present itself from the terrace of parliament, and i having some time to spare, had the perfect excuse to test the camera and its optics.
walking back from the sauna this evening there was a scene that somehow also belongs to this piece of paradise: the drug dealing downtown berne. a young woman with a face disfigured by lesions and looking rather pale and desperate, muttering to herself. she would have run right into me, had i not been walking alert. a few meters further down i see her again, this time trying to talk to a black man, pleading to him even, and he being rather cool and non reactive. this is a common scene in the streets of the swiss capital, a young white drug addict trying to get some stuff from a dealer. nothing special in the scene, it happens anywhere where there misery, suffering and fear, it happens in chicago, in los angeles, in new york, in kabul, in cairo. it happens. the drug addict is not always white, here he or she often is, and the dealer is not always black, here he or she often is. so you tell me who is slave to whom, and you tell me how we have gotten here?
yes. it was another perfect day on this side of paradise. on checking my email, i got signs of life from that one reality of mine wanting to be a dream.
"to think of you is to indulge in all the freedom in sensual existence. to think of you is to feel at peace and quietly adored in an ocean of existence and possibility, it is to be without need, serene, existing and not existing simultaneously. it is to taste loneliness fully, indulge in the ecstasy of solitude."
monday, 15 march 2004 / berne
another perfect day on this side of paradise.
ecstasy is on one day having it all: work, sun, sex, sauna and sleep.
got up at 5 in the morning, the default value motivated by a meeting with "la pavoni" and a café au soya, something that sounds worse than it tastes. my morning coffee is one vice i refuse to give up. shower, zazen, and a deadline to meet in the service of the economy.
perfect! start the day doing what i like doing and get the work done before lunch. meet with " my banker." home for lunch and some office work. a meeting got moved from yesterday to today. while walking to my meeting and realizing that instead of my mobile i had put the digital camera in my pocket i was faced to having to turn on the camera to find out the time, and in a day like today, the first spring like day of the year, i could not have made a better mistake. a perfect view of the alps did present itself from the terrace of parliament, and i having some time to spare, had the perfect excuse to test the camera and its optics.
walking back from the sauna this evening there was a scene that somehow also belongs to this piece of paradise: the drug dealing downtown berne. a young woman with a face disfigured by lesions and looking rather pale and desperate, muttering to herself. she would have run right into me, had i not been walking alert. a few meters further down i see her again, this time trying to talk to a black man, pleading to him even, and he being rather cool and non reactive. this is a common scene in the streets of the swiss capital, a young white drug addict trying to get some stuff from a dealer. nothing special in the scene, it happens anywhere where there misery, suffering and fear, it happens in chicago, in los angeles, in new york, in kabul, in cairo. it happens. the drug addict is not always white, here he or she often is, and the dealer is not always black, here he or she often is. so you tell me who is slave to whom, and you tell me how we have gotten here?
yes. it was another perfect day on this side of paradise. on checking my email, i got signs of life from that one reality of mine wanting to be a dream.
"to think of you is to indulge in all the freedom in sensual existence. to think of you is to feel at peace and quietly adored in an ocean of existence and possibility, it is to be without need, serene, existing and not existing simultaneously. it is to taste loneliness fully, indulge in the ecstasy of solitude."
alone with my horse
he: darling, talk dirty to me!
she: the kitchen sink, the clothes hamper, the pig pen...
*
he: i think i told you...
she: you think that you think?
*
dialogue is something that does not come easily to me.
*
but frankly, what do you think of somebody who takes one whole year to figure out who is a jerk and who is not?
but things are much improved, it used to take me two years!
*
i have all the compassion for women, or men, who get involved with abusive people. abusive, seems to come in many forms, from the physically abusive to the verbally abusive. sometimes i think physical abuse is easier to heal, the body heals quickly, the body is resilient, the spirit is fragile, the psyche is vulnerable. not absolutely so, but somehow so.
i belong to that category of slow people, who have to experience it down to the marrow of their bones before they have learnt it. i can not read signs, i do not understand meta messages, i need it spelled out in black on white.
sometimes my ego comes to my rescue, in this cryptic case, it certainly did. had my ego not gotten a hold of the fragility of my being, it would be in pieces by now. it was my ego and an harley-davidson that somehow saved me from the abyss.
*
alone at last, and he is here. he, the muse, the one that indulged in returning the mutual caresses of the ego. he simply said: you should not kill the ego, you should learn to mount it, like you learn to mount an horse.
*
the story started for me when i was sixteen, it was Strasbourg. remember Rebecca?
-Rebecca does not remember, Oona holds her hand tenderly. Two sisters, one life.
she: the kitchen sink, the clothes hamper, the pig pen...
*
he: i think i told you...
she: you think that you think?
*
dialogue is something that does not come easily to me.
*
but frankly, what do you think of somebody who takes one whole year to figure out who is a jerk and who is not?
but things are much improved, it used to take me two years!
*
i have all the compassion for women, or men, who get involved with abusive people. abusive, seems to come in many forms, from the physically abusive to the verbally abusive. sometimes i think physical abuse is easier to heal, the body heals quickly, the body is resilient, the spirit is fragile, the psyche is vulnerable. not absolutely so, but somehow so.
i belong to that category of slow people, who have to experience it down to the marrow of their bones before they have learnt it. i can not read signs, i do not understand meta messages, i need it spelled out in black on white.
sometimes my ego comes to my rescue, in this cryptic case, it certainly did. had my ego not gotten a hold of the fragility of my being, it would be in pieces by now. it was my ego and an harley-davidson that somehow saved me from the abyss.
*
alone at last, and he is here. he, the muse, the one that indulged in returning the mutual caresses of the ego. he simply said: you should not kill the ego, you should learn to mount it, like you learn to mount an horse.
*
the story started for me when i was sixteen, it was Strasbourg. remember Rebecca?
-Rebecca does not remember, Oona holds her hand tenderly. Two sisters, one life.
the other muscle
the best coaching of the year for me: you hesitate.
the best line overall: he is not my guru, i'm just interested in what i can learn from him.
the best confession: i wanted to go to japan, and i went, although i left my girlfriend back and i was madly in love with her. he did, and spent five years there.
the best line coming from a therapist, after one has poured out one's soul and confided all of one's misery: too bad for you!
the best revelation: there are some fantastic sex scenes in the movie "samsara."
the worst line: there are those who talk about it, and there are those who do it; they are not the same ones.
at this point, i do not know if i am coming, or if i am going. when you feel totally misunderstood, what do you do?
i am inclined to shrug my shoulders, and think of other thoughts. when i am not communicating, i try and try again. i fail, i fail often, and i keep trying.
i keep on practicing until it is down in the marrow of my bones, as deep as it can get, until it becomes a part of me.
what fool! what fool i am, and what good fortune it is to be such a fool!
the best line overall: he is not my guru, i'm just interested in what i can learn from him.
the best confession: i wanted to go to japan, and i went, although i left my girlfriend back and i was madly in love with her. he did, and spent five years there.
the best line coming from a therapist, after one has poured out one's soul and confided all of one's misery: too bad for you!
the best revelation: there are some fantastic sex scenes in the movie "samsara."
the worst line: there are those who talk about it, and there are those who do it; they are not the same ones.
at this point, i do not know if i am coming, or if i am going. when you feel totally misunderstood, what do you do?
i am inclined to shrug my shoulders, and think of other thoughts. when i am not communicating, i try and try again. i fail, i fail often, and i keep trying.
i keep on practicing until it is down in the marrow of my bones, as deep as it can get, until it becomes a part of me.
what fool! what fool i am, and what good fortune it is to be such a fool!
Sunday, 21 November 2004
the other side of me
completing that what was long delayed finally happened today: now i have an epilogue to write and 10 days to complete "SCHEMATA."
i feel totally and absolutely pregnant, and my PowerBook has some hardware problems of the acute variety. it is a breakdown in writing comfort, not a breakdown in writing.
nothing went according to plan this weekend! nothing. i took actions that i thought i would never take. i slept today until noon, something that i have not done in ages. i woke up remembering a dream of being in Jordan. i could also say that i miss living in an arabic country and culture. i want to go spend a month again in egypt, but can not quite figure out when i could do that given all the other commitments... life is so short.
i am in love again!
i feel totally and absolutely pregnant, and my PowerBook has some hardware problems of the acute variety. it is a breakdown in writing comfort, not a breakdown in writing.
nothing went according to plan this weekend! nothing. i took actions that i thought i would never take. i slept today until noon, something that i have not done in ages. i woke up remembering a dream of being in Jordan. i could also say that i miss living in an arabic country and culture. i want to go spend a month again in egypt, but can not quite figure out when i could do that given all the other commitments... life is so short.
i am in love again!
Friday, 19 November 2004
the new "da vinci" syndrome: brown, very brown
ah! i have had enough of all of this "da vinci code" narcotic intoxication!
i read the book this summer, it was both thrilling and disappointing. for the thrill part, it is one of the best examples of a cookbook approach to writing. for the other part, it just does no justice to human intellect, endeavor or critical capacity, to say nothing that it casts women in their traditional patriarchally assigned roles thus created by men with some sort of inferiority complex.
now, it is the movie, of course the movie has to be made. in a society thriving on and in instant gratification, the hollywood version must come immediately, without delay, now. that western intellectualism has devolved to immediate gratification consumerism is the kind of progress that one is well advised to question. that the expression now and here is being given a new meaning comes also as a surprise to me.
i read the book this summer, it was both thrilling and disappointing. for the thrill part, it is one of the best examples of a cookbook approach to writing. for the other part, it just does no justice to human intellect, endeavor or critical capacity, to say nothing that it casts women in their traditional patriarchally assigned roles thus created by men with some sort of inferiority complex.
now, it is the movie, of course the movie has to be made. in a society thriving on and in instant gratification, the hollywood version must come immediately, without delay, now. that western intellectualism has devolved to immediate gratification consumerism is the kind of progress that one is well advised to question. that the expression now and here is being given a new meaning comes also as a surprise to me.
Monday, 15 November 2004
my music
if there is one childhood trauma that i have not yet gotten over, it is music.
i love music.
still, 3 instruments later, i can read sheet music and never remember the name of a composer, group, band or whatever labels one ought to remember.
the internet and music were made for me. i can NOW listen to the radio piped in on my mac and at the same time if i hear something that really catches my ear worms dangling from their recliners, i know i can look up the play list and actually figure out who is playing! this is true genius. now just wait until i figure out a bit more about this open access music business stuff, and all the indie music which, until recently i thought it had something to do with indian music à la bollywood.
right now i am listening to a BBC radio scotland. what else?
i love music.
still, 3 instruments later, i can read sheet music and never remember the name of a composer, group, band or whatever labels one ought to remember.
the internet and music were made for me. i can NOW listen to the radio piped in on my mac and at the same time if i hear something that really catches my ear worms dangling from their recliners, i know i can look up the play list and actually figure out who is playing! this is true genius. now just wait until i figure out a bit more about this open access music business stuff, and all the indie music which, until recently i thought it had something to do with indian music à la bollywood.
right now i am listening to a BBC radio scotland. what else?
Thursday, 11 November 2004
after the movie, after the book
lolita! nabokov is always a sobering experience, reading "lolita" even today in 2004 is still mind boggling. as a writer, i can only dream of ever writing anything even close.
last weekend i watched the DVD of the kubrick film based on the same novel. this week i have picked up the novel itself a few times. i read it cover to cover long ago, now i am just looking into various passages and asking myself what makes this novel so spell binding for me.
my immediate train of actions i nothing i want to confess. i am not confessing either, but i was torn between feeling the need for a warm hug from "my lover" and the urge to send a message to "the man" and to just go out for a run in the forest, and scream out loud and then sing a song, a song i have never sung.
while good old hum, lolita's hum, is possessed with a burning passion in his loins for this distant, average and common twelve year old promiscuous thing, something in the prose connects to both the girl and the woman. it is easy to imagine and be transported within his passion, it is just as easy to feel her need for warmth and total detachment from the mores of the times and culture.
although i would, to one close to me, say that the sex -- with him, not with the lover -- was nothing to write poetry about, that it was average, and even not so good, even then, i heard myself say, and i know i felt it, that for a few seconds how absolute his taste was. once the absolute taste is experienced, i have never needed to return to it. that absolute taste closes some incomplete circle, there is no need to return. this is not what has me thinking of him again, no. there is a passion that goes beyond and transcends sexual copulation.
the passion that transcends the animal, the passion that we share, is the passion that has me still wishing i could talk to him. perhaps i can. perhaps i don't dare. he asked me not to contact him ever again, no e-mails, no phone calls, no letters. if i dared, then i would not be respecting his wish. what, where is this engine? what is driving me? and what does lolita have to do with it?
yes, i would like to be reassured that he is all right. what stupidity of mine has me caring about his well-being?
at some simple rational level it is easy to figure out what happened, a trusted friend of mine did put it to me in rather simple and blunt terms.
if this was about rationality, we would not be here now, me writing, you reading. me reading his writing, and me wishing that he would write more, me wishing that he would throw away his rationalisations and his futile infatuation with the intellectual, me wishing he would follow his dreams and desires, me wishing he would let go of all the stoppers and hindrances. i wish him a world that he feels he has not deserved, i wish him his world that he has dreamed. i am again just trying to pick up the pieces of me, the pieces of me here in my lone journey. i want to be left alone, yet... these feelings keep rudely invading my space. how many more muses am i going to need? why do i refuse to accept his scorn towards my good wishes? why do i feel he must understand and somehow feel deep in the marrow of his bones that those moments of bliss and total intimacy are sacred to me?
why is it that i am so stubborn, and so irreverent towards of surface phenomena and keep on digging deeper and deeper? why must i be able to see the gold, when all the others see the dirt, not even the ore?
there is some repast and return to that wonderful space of emptiness and void when i am reminded of the monk in my life. here i could make a full stop, and on good days that is where i am. the monk is neither a substitute, nor a replacement, nor the alternative, the monk is just the monk, isolated, selfish, detached, integral. today is not one of those days. on a day like today my self disappears and that other motor gets going. the motor is self-less, the motor is not mine, i feel possessed, and i feel free in being possessed. the passion possess me and i feel more than alive and more than dead.
the tabu of sex, and the desire that little girls have for the arms of a loving man. while a child will abstract the sex and in some unreconcilable way obtain that assurance which it seeks, this woman went somehow the same unreconcilable way. that is where we are, without reconciliation, un-reconcilable. oops! i refuse to let fear win, even it it is fear that has me this very moment.
back to the drawing board!
last weekend i watched the DVD of the kubrick film based on the same novel. this week i have picked up the novel itself a few times. i read it cover to cover long ago, now i am just looking into various passages and asking myself what makes this novel so spell binding for me.
my immediate train of actions i nothing i want to confess. i am not confessing either, but i was torn between feeling the need for a warm hug from "my lover" and the urge to send a message to "the man" and to just go out for a run in the forest, and scream out loud and then sing a song, a song i have never sung.
while good old hum, lolita's hum, is possessed with a burning passion in his loins for this distant, average and common twelve year old promiscuous thing, something in the prose connects to both the girl and the woman. it is easy to imagine and be transported within his passion, it is just as easy to feel her need for warmth and total detachment from the mores of the times and culture.
although i would, to one close to me, say that the sex -- with him, not with the lover -- was nothing to write poetry about, that it was average, and even not so good, even then, i heard myself say, and i know i felt it, that for a few seconds how absolute his taste was. once the absolute taste is experienced, i have never needed to return to it. that absolute taste closes some incomplete circle, there is no need to return. this is not what has me thinking of him again, no. there is a passion that goes beyond and transcends sexual copulation.
the passion that transcends the animal, the passion that we share, is the passion that has me still wishing i could talk to him. perhaps i can. perhaps i don't dare. he asked me not to contact him ever again, no e-mails, no phone calls, no letters. if i dared, then i would not be respecting his wish. what, where is this engine? what is driving me? and what does lolita have to do with it?
yes, i would like to be reassured that he is all right. what stupidity of mine has me caring about his well-being?
at some simple rational level it is easy to figure out what happened, a trusted friend of mine did put it to me in rather simple and blunt terms.
if this was about rationality, we would not be here now, me writing, you reading. me reading his writing, and me wishing that he would write more, me wishing that he would throw away his rationalisations and his futile infatuation with the intellectual, me wishing he would follow his dreams and desires, me wishing he would let go of all the stoppers and hindrances. i wish him a world that he feels he has not deserved, i wish him his world that he has dreamed. i am again just trying to pick up the pieces of me, the pieces of me here in my lone journey. i want to be left alone, yet... these feelings keep rudely invading my space. how many more muses am i going to need? why do i refuse to accept his scorn towards my good wishes? why do i feel he must understand and somehow feel deep in the marrow of his bones that those moments of bliss and total intimacy are sacred to me?
why is it that i am so stubborn, and so irreverent towards of surface phenomena and keep on digging deeper and deeper? why must i be able to see the gold, when all the others see the dirt, not even the ore?
there is some repast and return to that wonderful space of emptiness and void when i am reminded of the monk in my life. here i could make a full stop, and on good days that is where i am. the monk is neither a substitute, nor a replacement, nor the alternative, the monk is just the monk, isolated, selfish, detached, integral. today is not one of those days. on a day like today my self disappears and that other motor gets going. the motor is self-less, the motor is not mine, i feel possessed, and i feel free in being possessed. the passion possess me and i feel more than alive and more than dead.
the tabu of sex, and the desire that little girls have for the arms of a loving man. while a child will abstract the sex and in some unreconcilable way obtain that assurance which it seeks, this woman went somehow the same unreconcilable way. that is where we are, without reconciliation, un-reconcilable. oops! i refuse to let fear win, even it it is fear that has me this very moment.
back to the drawing board!
a child is born
where is it, that feeling that all is well, where has it gone to?
the picture on the frame on my desk changes almost every week; and it cycles back to those faces that i have grown accustomed to. those thus framed are people who in some way or other inspire me, people whose life somehow has touched or touches my own insignificance. i am discovering that i like people's faces, looking at them live and looking at them in pictures.
this week it is the picture of a friend who lives in germany, an architect. i have spoken with him twice this year, first it was in january when i was lost in the throws of untangling the mess that "the man" and i had managed to create of a relationship that was nothing but a dichotomy in interpretations. i called him last january because i desperately needed the sound of his voice to remind me of what a good relationship is like, and to reassure me that my memories were not deluding me. he was there, he was exhausted and burned out, and he was there to listen and talk to me, to tell me when he did not understand what i was trying to say, to tell me when he understood, he listened. since then, i have written a book and he has become a father, we talked last night again.
relationships are the web of my life. i am not quite sure that i grasp what i write, i spend a lot of time alone, and i do not go out looking for people to talk to, i am happy doing my work in my solitude. when i go out is because i have work to do and need to meet people outside of my office or because i go to my trainings and these do occur within a social context, with people. when i return home, i am happy to again be home alone. when i have a client and we are in a conversation, i am present to the conversation and what is present, it is as though i did not exist, and that i only exist when i am alone.
within all of this, the conversation last night brought a lot of warmth, rekindled a feeling that all is well, and that life is one great and wondrous adventure. there is nothing missing, i feel connected and part of it all, and i am alone. i think of the last time that we saw each other and felt the warmth of each other's skin in that last kiss in basle about six years ago. then, it was the parting of two people who will for ever love one another and that, in spite of their desires, were able to let each other go, to part, and to remain connected. looking back, there is nothing that i would want to change to what was then and to what is now. no regrets.
a child is born!
the picture on the frame on my desk changes almost every week; and it cycles back to those faces that i have grown accustomed to. those thus framed are people who in some way or other inspire me, people whose life somehow has touched or touches my own insignificance. i am discovering that i like people's faces, looking at them live and looking at them in pictures.
this week it is the picture of a friend who lives in germany, an architect. i have spoken with him twice this year, first it was in january when i was lost in the throws of untangling the mess that "the man" and i had managed to create of a relationship that was nothing but a dichotomy in interpretations. i called him last january because i desperately needed the sound of his voice to remind me of what a good relationship is like, and to reassure me that my memories were not deluding me. he was there, he was exhausted and burned out, and he was there to listen and talk to me, to tell me when he did not understand what i was trying to say, to tell me when he understood, he listened. since then, i have written a book and he has become a father, we talked last night again.
relationships are the web of my life. i am not quite sure that i grasp what i write, i spend a lot of time alone, and i do not go out looking for people to talk to, i am happy doing my work in my solitude. when i go out is because i have work to do and need to meet people outside of my office or because i go to my trainings and these do occur within a social context, with people. when i return home, i am happy to again be home alone. when i have a client and we are in a conversation, i am present to the conversation and what is present, it is as though i did not exist, and that i only exist when i am alone.
within all of this, the conversation last night brought a lot of warmth, rekindled a feeling that all is well, and that life is one great and wondrous adventure. there is nothing missing, i feel connected and part of it all, and i am alone. i think of the last time that we saw each other and felt the warmth of each other's skin in that last kiss in basle about six years ago. then, it was the parting of two people who will for ever love one another and that, in spite of their desires, were able to let each other go, to part, and to remain connected. looking back, there is nothing that i would want to change to what was then and to what is now. no regrets.
a child is born!
Tuesday, 9 November 2004
from "SCHEMATA"
"Sometimes it happens... I get into this deep blue funk, the work moves slowly if it moves at all. I feel sorry for myself, and I resent doing so, it spirals to feeling guilty that I feel sorry, and that nothing will ever be the way I dreamt it. All seems wrong, and all seems right at the same time. I withdraw from the world, I want nothing, I want nobody, I do not want to talk, and I do not want to see anybody.
This summer, when someone on learning my profession, tells me that he had lived with a woman of the same profession for six years, I looked at him in awe. My very private thinking in facing such revelation was "no man has ever endured me for so long." who is this man, I asked myself.
This is not how it began, no; it could not begin like that. It began long before that. The first time that I saw him, I had other private thoughts, more along the lines of what an incommensurable macho this man must be, and asked myself how much I could learn from him. Then, a few years went by, and I forgot him. I forgot him until this summer, and I was there where I knew he would be. The rational, the conscientious had forgotten, the other me had not.
Now he is here, and I am confronting myself in all my own pitiful glory and innocence. He is here, and I tell myself that he is more of a challenge than what I can handle. He did not invite himself, he did not invite me, and he is here. I want to deny it, and reality cannot be denied.
Gratitude belongs here."
NOTE: although "schemata" has its own blog, i have not yet put much in it. sometimes, not always, there is reason to my madness.
you, the muse
you are here, now you are on the other shore.
a muse, you!
what on earth happened to the flirt and the monk?
you, the monk.
you, the flirt.
what on earth happened to speaking the unspeakable?
you are not in my heart
you are not in my being
you have landed right smack in the middle of my life, no invitation.
one day, i looked up, you were there: iconoclastic, selfish, human.
how much water flowed under that bridge before then?
silence. pure silence.
i was in the garden by the gingko,
you asked,
i answered.
you are here.
a muse, you!
what on earth happened to the flirt and the monk?
you, the monk.
you, the flirt.
what on earth happened to speaking the unspeakable?
you are not in my heart
you are not in my being
you have landed right smack in the middle of my life, no invitation.
one day, i looked up, you were there: iconoclastic, selfish, human.
how much water flowed under that bridge before then?
silence. pure silence.
i was in the garden by the gingko,
you asked,
i answered.
you are here.
denial
My fondest and clearest encounter with masks is within the work of James Ensor, a Belgian painter. Some of his paintings portray people in society wearing masks, and what masks!!! It is one of the strongest, bluntest criticisms I have ever seen in the visual arts.
My denial thing is really a state of shock. Right now it is just a rather strong suspicion that what has been making me so tired for the last couple of weeks is an allergy to spelt. Tired is not the only symptom, but... This is boring as hell, but it affects me deeply because it affects my well being rather directly. I spent more than 10 years in denial of my food allergies, finally broke down, realized that all denial got me was a tumor that had to be removed surgically, a lot of discomfort, and finally changed my diet radically by eliminating all the stuff I am allergic to (wheat, eggs, cow's milk, apples, lemons). Since then I regained my vitality and well being, and wondered how on earth I survived all those years with such reduced energy levels, and that the damage was not worse. Finally, finally... I had mastered the art of baking bread with spelt flour... (I am picky about what kind of food I eat in terms of quality and flavour) and in the past few weeks I have eaten more bread (spelt) than I had for quite some time (years). Except that my skin is going nuts, one of the signs of my wheat allergy is that awful itch that has me wanting to get out of my own skin, and the tiredness... It is all back, and so far what I have changed about my diet is only that I have taken in quite a bit more of spelt. Unfortunately spelt is a relative of wheat. An allergy or intolerance to wheat does not mean one to spelt, but it can. This is not gluten intolerance. So I am pissed at my own physiology right now. That, and the fact that this is going to have me go through a battery of tests once more and the long issuing discussions with my physician. I find the information on the internet on this totally disinforming, since from one site to the next there will be a lot of contradiction while each one is trying to ply its own merchandise. I may have to hit the scientific literature myself, and I hate to have to do that. I don't know why... but you get the idea. This phase is called denial and there is one whole lot of anxiety about it. In the back of my mind I ask myself, what next? What else will I not be able to eat next?
Perhaps I could use a good mask right now!
(this ranting above was only meant to ease any possible concern about what it might be that has me in a state of denial, and at the same time i needed to vent it out of my system)
My denial thing is really a state of shock. Right now it is just a rather strong suspicion that what has been making me so tired for the last couple of weeks is an allergy to spelt. Tired is not the only symptom, but... This is boring as hell, but it affects me deeply because it affects my well being rather directly. I spent more than 10 years in denial of my food allergies, finally broke down, realized that all denial got me was a tumor that had to be removed surgically, a lot of discomfort, and finally changed my diet radically by eliminating all the stuff I am allergic to (wheat, eggs, cow's milk, apples, lemons). Since then I regained my vitality and well being, and wondered how on earth I survived all those years with such reduced energy levels, and that the damage was not worse. Finally, finally... I had mastered the art of baking bread with spelt flour... (I am picky about what kind of food I eat in terms of quality and flavour) and in the past few weeks I have eaten more bread (spelt) than I had for quite some time (years). Except that my skin is going nuts, one of the signs of my wheat allergy is that awful itch that has me wanting to get out of my own skin, and the tiredness... It is all back, and so far what I have changed about my diet is only that I have taken in quite a bit more of spelt. Unfortunately spelt is a relative of wheat. An allergy or intolerance to wheat does not mean one to spelt, but it can. This is not gluten intolerance. So I am pissed at my own physiology right now. That, and the fact that this is going to have me go through a battery of tests once more and the long issuing discussions with my physician. I find the information on the internet on this totally disinforming, since from one site to the next there will be a lot of contradiction while each one is trying to ply its own merchandise. I may have to hit the scientific literature myself, and I hate to have to do that. I don't know why... but you get the idea. This phase is called denial and there is one whole lot of anxiety about it. In the back of my mind I ask myself, what next? What else will I not be able to eat next?
Perhaps I could use a good mask right now!
(this ranting above was only meant to ease any possible concern about what it might be that has me in a state of denial, and at the same time i needed to vent it out of my system)
Monday, 8 November 2004
confession
The Anti Akademie:
intutum: 11/08/2004 12:44:53 PM
wowowowow! (i could write a few things about this photo -- i have a particularly intimate relationship to masks)
thanks for the visit. i am barely here, or not here at all. or i have discovered something that i do not at all like, and the first step is: denial.
intutum: 11/08/2004 12:44:53 PM
wowowowow! (i could write a few things about this photo -- i have a particularly intimate relationship to masks)
thanks for the visit. i am barely here, or not here at all. or i have discovered something that i do not at all like, and the first step is: denial.
blah blah blah
it is difficult, not just really hard, to formulate what is going through my mind these days. it would be nice if the mind, being empty, could take the assault of anything going through it. it is not so, and there is a flood, the kind of flood of thoughts bumping into the lack of void that makes for all sorts of derailments in my best intentions possible and unavoidable. to derail is not necessarily a bad thing, it is however a test to one's ability, this one's, to deal with being out of equilibrium. this weekend i touched on "home projects" that have been laying around for years. one of these i finished last night at 2 in the morning, that is this morning, in a drive that i can only call compulsive.
yesterday i was tired by 5 in the afternoon, tired hungry and a bit off centre. i went into town twice for shopping, had lots of errands to run because there was a whole slew of things to get, light bulbs, elastic, thermal underwear, storage containers, and a bit of fresh food. after having this pied-à-terre for over 6 years i have finally installed a light bulb hanging from the ceiling in my office. it took me more than 6 years before i got tired of turning on the switch and nothing happening. there are many ways of interpreting this, one could be that i have lots of patience, another is that i am a master of procrastination, another is that i never intended to put up a chandelier or light bulb in that room, or it could simply be because all was well as it was, and a light bulb is nothing but a luxury. in reality, i have only recently hit the light switch, no reaction problem, and that is since the room was rearranged and the standing light is no longer easily accessible when entering the room.
did have a good weekend: today i went out to take some pic and proceeded to forget my camera in the house. it started to rain during my walk, and i returned home with one very yellow gingko leaf in my hand. the gingkoes are now intensely yellow, i do need to make some fotos of that.
yesterday i was tired by 5 in the afternoon, tired hungry and a bit off centre. i went into town twice for shopping, had lots of errands to run because there was a whole slew of things to get, light bulbs, elastic, thermal underwear, storage containers, and a bit of fresh food. after having this pied-à-terre for over 6 years i have finally installed a light bulb hanging from the ceiling in my office. it took me more than 6 years before i got tired of turning on the switch and nothing happening. there are many ways of interpreting this, one could be that i have lots of patience, another is that i am a master of procrastination, another is that i never intended to put up a chandelier or light bulb in that room, or it could simply be because all was well as it was, and a light bulb is nothing but a luxury. in reality, i have only recently hit the light switch, no reaction problem, and that is since the room was rearranged and the standing light is no longer easily accessible when entering the room.
did have a good weekend: today i went out to take some pic and proceeded to forget my camera in the house. it started to rain during my walk, and i returned home with one very yellow gingko leaf in my hand. the gingkoes are now intensely yellow, i do need to make some fotos of that.
Friday, 5 November 2004
the utter violence and irreverence of life itself
as the filtered news from the percy hospital near paris trickle out slowly as to the true condition of one unquestionable and controversial leader, one sarcastic, irreverent, ironic and incorrect observer notes that the man has gone into shock as a result of the outcome of the american presidential election held on tuesday.
Thursday, 4 November 2004
e-tickets and other fuckadelik experiences
1. ok, i love oranges in any form... but that i won the bet with my brother about the outcome of the presidential election, annoys me. granted, i have a very dark sense of humor...
2. trying to book on the web a return trip LAX-BRN or LAX-ZRH for my son is costing me some nerves: either i have the right site and the wrong credit card (drawn on a swiss bank account) or i have the right credit card, but the site will not let me book from LAX, or as with bonus miles on KLM, the ticket gets issued in paper and it can not be sent to the USA by the airline (time for snail mail)??? fuckadelik! i have gotten so used to e-tickets that the thought of a paper ticket is a nightmare!
i ought to be zen about this: on my last trip to the US booked on the portuguese site of KLM and paid with a swiss credit card, got issued an e-ticket. i got to the lisbon airport at some ungodly hour for a 6am flight to amsterdam, and then the check-in clerk discovers that the name on my US passport and the ticket are not the same (i kept my father's name on my US passport, and US regulations require that the names be the same) and this started a process that had 3 clerks working like mad at a computer terminal to get my ticket name to match my passport's name. they had to, for some reason i do not care to understand, go from the e-ticket to a paper ticket and then back to the e-ticket and it seemed that there were about 20'000 code fields that they had to change manually to accomplish this feat. consequence of such exercise was a lot of intercom exchanges between check-in and gate to hold the plane while the "e" paper work was getting done! i have travelled a bit while as a management consultant, but this was the first time the gate had to wait for me, i was the last one on the plane and i got all the dirty looks that the last one does get.
none of this makes any sense, i am going to sleep. in the morning this will look a bit clearer.
2. trying to book on the web a return trip LAX-BRN or LAX-ZRH for my son is costing me some nerves: either i have the right site and the wrong credit card (drawn on a swiss bank account) or i have the right credit card, but the site will not let me book from LAX, or as with bonus miles on KLM, the ticket gets issued in paper and it can not be sent to the USA by the airline (time for snail mail)??? fuckadelik! i have gotten so used to e-tickets that the thought of a paper ticket is a nightmare!
i ought to be zen about this: on my last trip to the US booked on the portuguese site of KLM and paid with a swiss credit card, got issued an e-ticket. i got to the lisbon airport at some ungodly hour for a 6am flight to amsterdam, and then the check-in clerk discovers that the name on my US passport and the ticket are not the same (i kept my father's name on my US passport, and US regulations require that the names be the same) and this started a process that had 3 clerks working like mad at a computer terminal to get my ticket name to match my passport's name. they had to, for some reason i do not care to understand, go from the e-ticket to a paper ticket and then back to the e-ticket and it seemed that there were about 20'000 code fields that they had to change manually to accomplish this feat. consequence of such exercise was a lot of intercom exchanges between check-in and gate to hold the plane while the "e" paper work was getting done! i have travelled a bit while as a management consultant, but this was the first time the gate had to wait for me, i was the last one on the plane and i got all the dirty looks that the last one does get.
none of this makes any sense, i am going to sleep. in the morning this will look a bit clearer.
Wednesday, 3 November 2004
message to my brother via yahoo messenger
intutum: it looks like i might get my oranges!!! (i was really hoping you would get the chocolates) not all hope is lost yet!
and i add: but would kerry really mean anything?
and i add: but would kerry really mean anything?
Tuesday, 2 November 2004
what i want is not worth anything, worse, it does not matter
here i struggle between accounting, SCHEMATA, a working paper chewing the back side of my brains, a few milestones to be carved out of the ether, and then it hits me: what i want is not worth diddly!
here i started yesterday with all noble intentions of following all good advice on building a plot and characters for the novel of the month, the 50'000 words or more of sheer madness, quantity pure, and then it hits me! forget all the advice, what works for others, is not now working for me, either i am not that far, or i am wired a bit differently. then when the pain was almost unbearable one of my muses starts laughing at me in some remote corner of my mind or amentia! he has already been good for more than 40'000 words, and i thought i had chewed on it really well, that my ego had swollen its pride and taken an humble seat at the far left corner of the ring; i need to think again. that may have been what i wanted, it is however not what is happening.
the muse was easy to find, thanks to the laughter and seduction memories of that other one who brought me back to where i wanted to be, i now well know who my muse is in this madness of writing a novel in one month, not him, another, the other is the muse. the muse to me is always the one for whom the story gets told. when writing, the muse is the one listening, actively asking me what i mean and where the thread of the story is. the muse is the one who lets me know what the pace is that keeps its attention. the muse is neutral, not passive, asexual, yet sensuous. this is not how i planned it, this is not what i wanted, it does not matter. it shall be as it is.
here i started yesterday with all noble intentions of following all good advice on building a plot and characters for the novel of the month, the 50'000 words or more of sheer madness, quantity pure, and then it hits me! forget all the advice, what works for others, is not now working for me, either i am not that far, or i am wired a bit differently. then when the pain was almost unbearable one of my muses starts laughing at me in some remote corner of my mind or amentia! he has already been good for more than 40'000 words, and i thought i had chewed on it really well, that my ego had swollen its pride and taken an humble seat at the far left corner of the ring; i need to think again. that may have been what i wanted, it is however not what is happening.
the muse was easy to find, thanks to the laughter and seduction memories of that other one who brought me back to where i wanted to be, i now well know who my muse is in this madness of writing a novel in one month, not him, another, the other is the muse. the muse to me is always the one for whom the story gets told. when writing, the muse is the one listening, actively asking me what i mean and where the thread of the story is. the muse is the one who lets me know what the pace is that keeps its attention. the muse is neutral, not passive, asexual, yet sensuous. this is not how i planned it, this is not what i wanted, it does not matter. it shall be as it is.
Monday, 1 November 2004
not the way i wanted it
all was going well today until about 9 am, then the train got off the tracks. actually much too little went according to plan, i am still feeling short on sleep in spite of sleeping a lot yesterday and napping today. i have a headache and feel... like i am missing movement and sweating!!!
booooooooh duh...
SCHEMATA did not get off to a brilliant start, actually a few words poured out, nothing flowed. breakdown mode is here.
booooooooh duh...
silence
it has been a day of silence. at least apparently so.
last night went to see "the bourne supremacy" with a friend after we went out for a drink in town. all of that after i had done some serious experimentation in the kitchen in making muffins and gugelhopf without the use of either wheat flour, butter, eggs or milk. it was a rather successful round of baking, i now can eat muffins and gugelhopf made with spelt flour, margarine and soya flour and soya milk.
it is pleasantly quiet here -- inside my head -- when it comes to emotions and feelings. what i discovered last week is that i have a new love, my accounting. this discovery came not as almost a shock, it was a shock.
one week ago while in göttingen i spent a lot of sunday sleeping, today was no different. i have been averaging 4 hours of sleep per night, and after one week it seems that my body needs to recuperate.
went for a walk along the aare and took some pics, now loaded on flickr, the fall is rather advanced, the day was a bit gray, and somehow berne has a totally special feel on days like today.
made one great bet with my brother today, one bet that i hope i will lose. if i lose, he gets 1 kilo of swiss chocolates from me, if i win, i get 5 pounds of california oranges from him.
last night went to see "the bourne supremacy" with a friend after we went out for a drink in town. all of that after i had done some serious experimentation in the kitchen in making muffins and gugelhopf without the use of either wheat flour, butter, eggs or milk. it was a rather successful round of baking, i now can eat muffins and gugelhopf made with spelt flour, margarine and soya flour and soya milk.
it is pleasantly quiet here -- inside my head -- when it comes to emotions and feelings. what i discovered last week is that i have a new love, my accounting. this discovery came not as almost a shock, it was a shock.
one week ago while in göttingen i spent a lot of sunday sleeping, today was no different. i have been averaging 4 hours of sleep per night, and after one week it seems that my body needs to recuperate.
went for a walk along the aare and took some pics, now loaded on flickr, the fall is rather advanced, the day was a bit gray, and somehow berne has a totally special feel on days like today.
made one great bet with my brother today, one bet that i hope i will lose. if i lose, he gets 1 kilo of swiss chocolates from me, if i win, i get 5 pounds of california oranges from him.
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